After that near miss, we text less frequently, focusing on mundane chatter to maintain plausible deniability. I bury myself in work, ignoring the swirl of speculation. But our carefully placed distance only intensifies the pull between us.
Late one evening, Elena calls. I answer on the third ring, my heart in my throat.
"Are you mad at me?" she asks softly, voice small. The question stuns me.
I sink onto my couch, recalling the swirl of her dress at the bar, the flash of fear in her eyes in that elevator. "No," I say. "I'm scared."
She exhales, a shaky sound. "Me too." A long pause. "But I can't stop, Lucas. Unless you tell me to."
The unspoken pact hangs: neither of us wants to be the first to walk away. Even if it's the only sane option.