We find new ways to see each other without drawing attention. A "chance" meeting in the building's cafe. Shared elevator rides. Stolen five-minute chats in empty conference rooms. Each encounter crackles with tension, laced with guilt.
One afternoon, she summons me to a secluded balcony near the top floor. When I arrive, she's leaning against the rail, looking out at the city skyline. Her posture is stiff, her fingers tightening on the metal.
"I hate all these secrets," she murmurs. "I hate sneaking around like a criminal."
I step closer, the wind whipping my tie against my chest. "We could end it," I say, though my voice trembles with reluctance.
She turns, eyes blazing. "But what if I don't want to?"
The wind howls, carrying away my reply. Or maybe I have none. The line between us blurs further, desire warring with self-preservation. We're in too deep, a small voice warns. But I brush it aside because the way she looks at me makes my heart thunder in a way I can't resist.