The numbers came in just after three and I felt that quiet little spark of satisfaction settle right under my ribs. All week I had kept the team on a tight leash, the under-25s especially. They push boundaries when they think no one is watching, so I stayed in full strict mode from Monday morning right through to the final check this afternoon. No soft smiles, no casual banter, just clear instructions and the expectation that every figure would land exactly where it should. By the time the spreadsheet refreshed and the totals sat pretty in green, I knew the push had been worth it.
I walked the floor once more before packing up, nodding at the ones who had finally delivered and giving the rest a look that said they still had room to improve. They find me harsh, I know that, and most days I let them. It keeps the work clean and the standards high. Today though, once the last email was sent and the office started emptying, the stern face slipped off like a coat I no longer needed. Outside the building the late August air felt softer than usual, the kind of early evening that makes you slow your steps without meaning to.
The walk home through Hackney was easy. I left the competitive edge at the door of the bank and let the quieter side of me stretch out. By the time I kicked off my shoes and pulled on the softest onesie I own, the pride had settled into something warmer. I made a cup of tea, curled up on the sofa with my feet tucked under me, and let my mind drift the way it always does when the day has gone well.
I thought about the tall dark-haired man I still keep hoping for. Not the random faces from nights out, but the one who will walk through the door after a day like this and simply know. He will see the quiet smile I never show at work and answer it with the sort of soft kiss that starts at the corner of my mouth and stays gentle. He will sit beside me without needing conversation, one arm around my shoulders while the other finds my feet and works the day’s tension out with slow, careful pressure. I can almost feel it now, the warmth of his hands, the steady rhythm of his breathing against my hair, the easy way he would ask about the week without ever pushing for more than I wanted to give.
In the daydream he is patient and affectionate in equal measure. He lets me stay in my soft clothes and bare feet, brings me another cup of tea without being asked, and listens when I talk about the team in that slightly shy way I only use once the front has come down. There is no rush, no performance, just the quiet knowledge that he is there and that I can lean into him without losing the competitive fire that keeps me sharp at the bank. Sometimes the picture includes the two of us walking the canal on a Sunday morning, sometimes it is simply the two of us on this same sofa while the city carries on outside. Always there is that sense of being properly looked after, of someone who will throw me about when the mood is right and then hold me just as tightly when the mood is soft.
I know he is still out there somewhere. The hope feels especially clear on evenings like this, when the work has gone well and the flat is quiet and the light through the window has turned that gentle gold. I finished my tea, stretched my legs out along the cushions, and stayed there a little longer than I needed to, letting the daydream settle around me like a favourite blanket. Tomorrow the strict face will go back on and the under-25s will get the version of me they expect. Tonight though, I get to keep the sweet one, the idealistic one, the girl who still believes the right man is coming and that when he does the numbers will still look good and the evenings will feel even softer than this.
