Morning came too soon.
The city outside my window looked washed out, drained of color — pale sky, silver rooftops, streets still slick from last night's rain.
My head ached faintly, but not from the champagne. I hadn't drunk enough for that. It was the other kind of hangover — the one that came from thoughts you couldn't shake, moments you couldn't rewind.
I sat on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor.
The rooftop replayed in pieces. Her voice. The air between us. The faint scent of her perfume mixed with city rain. And then—
That moment.
Brief. Accidental. Terribly human.
Her lips — soft, warm, startled — and then gone, as quickly as it happened.
The way she froze, eyes wide, breath caught. The way I stepped back, too fast, too late.
The space between us afterward — silence sharp enough to bleed through thought.
And then she whispered my name, small and uncertain, and I did the worst thing I could've done.
I left.
Just… left.
Didn't speak. Didn't explain. Didn't trust myself to.
Now, with daylight spilling weakly through the blinds, the memory felt both unreal and painfully vivid.
I wanted to believe it hadn't meant anything — that it was a mistake born of exhaustion, confusion, maybe a little too much champagne and the kind of intimacy loneliness builds when it's dark enough.
But the lie didn't stick.
It wasn't just the kiss. It was everything that came before it — every look, every quiet word, every unspoken pull I'd spent months trying to ignore.
And now it was too late.
I'd crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
The office looked the same as always, but something about it felt different — like the walls had shifted while I wasn't looking.
People moved through the halls, voices low, papers shuffling. Normal sounds. Familiar rhythms.
But every step I took felt heavier than it should.
I greeted a few coworkers, forced a smile when necessary. No one seemed to notice the difference. No one ever did.
That was the advantage of being Adrian Blake — you could be falling apart inside and still look perfectly intact.
Her desk was empty when I passed the interns' row.
A strange mixture of relief and disappointment hit me all at once.
I wasn't ready to see her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But the idea of her avoiding me — of her already regretting the moment, or worse, resenting it — settled like a stone in my chest.
I told myself it was for the best.
Distance was safer. Cleaner. Easier to manage.
I'd spent years perfecting the art of distance. I could do it again.
Except now, it felt like trying to breathe through glass.
By midmorning, I'd buried myself in work — spreadsheets, reports, the usual noise that passed for control.
It helped. For a while.
Until the elevator dinged, and her reflection appeared in the glass wall across from me.
She was here.
Her walk was steady, composed. Hair tied neatly back. Not a trace of last night's chaos in her face.
She passed by my door without looking in. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment.
And somehow, that small act — the deliberate normalcy of it — hit harder than the memory of her lips.
She was pretending.
Pretending it hadn't happened.
And I couldn't decide whether to be grateful or ruined by it.
The day dragged. Meetings bled into each other, voices blurred, and still I caught myself listening for her — the sound of her pen tapping, her laugh echoing faintly down the hall, anything that reminded me she was real and not just a ghost trapped in the space between memory and guilt.
But she kept her distance.
During lunch, she sat with a group from marketing, back turned toward my office. I saw her once glance my way, quickly, like checking if I was watching — but I wasn't supposed to notice.
So I didn't.
Or tried not to.
By late afternoon, I could feel my resolve cracking, not the simple cracks I tried to write off — the kind of cracks that could make a mountain fall.
The air in my office felt too still, the kind of stillness that made thoughts louder. I stood, pacing toward the window, watching the city blur under a thin layer of fog.
I'd spent so much of my life building walls — keeping things orderly, manageable, contained.
Emotions were variables I couldn't afford.
And yet, here I was — a man undone by a single mistake, a single moment of proximity.
The irony wasn't lost on me.
A knock broke the silence.
"Mr. Blake?"
Her voice.
Low. Careful.
My pulse stuttered.
"Come in," I said, forcing calm.
The door opened slowly, and there she was.
Holding a file. Hair neatly pinned. Composed.
Every trace of last night gone — or at least hidden well enough to make me question if it had even happened.
"These are the finalized edits for the project proposal," she said. "You asked for them today."
Her voice was steady, but there was something beneath it — the faintest quiver, quickly buried.
I nodded. "Thank you."
She stepped forward, placed the folder on my desk.
For a moment, the air between us thickened — charged with the memory neither of us wanted to acknowledge.
I could smell the faint trace of her perfume again — the same one from the rooftop. It made my chest tighten.
She turned to leave, but my mouth moved before my brain caught up.
"Amara."
She froze.
Didn't turn around. Just… waited.
"Yes, sir?"
The formality hit like a punch.
I hesitated — caught between apology and restraint, between wanting to undo what happened and not knowing how.
In the end, I said the only thing that felt safe.
"Nothing. That'll be all."
A pause. Then: "Of course."
She left.
The door clicked softly shut, leaving behind a silence that felt louder than any argument.
I sat there long after she'd gone, staring at the closed door.
The folder she'd handed me lay unopened on the desk. I couldn't bring myself to touch it.
I'd always believed silence could fix things — that if you ignored something long enough, it would settle into the background and disappear.
But this wasn't silence anymore.
I couldn't explain it — quiet, constant, inescapable.
Every thought, every heartbeat, every breath tangled with the memory of her.
And for the first time in years, I didn't know how to quiet it.
The office emptied as the sun dipped below the skyline, spilling gold across the glass. I didn't leave.
The stillness was easier now — not comfortable, but familiar.
It reminded me of the rooftop, of the way the city had looked from up there — endless and untouchable.
Maybe that was the problem.
I'd spent my life living above everything — untouchable. And then she came along and reminded me what it felt like to feel.
The worst part was that she didn't even mean to.
She didn't know how her presence chipped away at the walls I'd built. How her laughter lingered in empty rooms. How one unintentional kiss could leave my entire world off balance.
I rubbed my temples, letting out a slow breath.
Distance. I needed distance.
I could reassign her to another team. It would be the professional thing to do. Sensible.
But even as I thought it, the idea twisted something deep in my chest.
Because the truth was, I didn't want distance.
I wanted her — her honesty, her quiet strength, the way she looked at me like I wasn't the man the world expected me to be.
And that made everything worse.
Because wanting her was the one thing I couldn't afford.
I stayed until the lights turned off automatically.
By then, the city was fully awake — alive and bright beneath me, indifferent to my mess.
I watched it from the window, my reflection faintly visible against the glass — a man perfectly composed, perfectly contained.
And yet, all I could see in that reflection were the cracks.
The truth I was trying to bury had already taken root.
And no amount of silence could stop it from growing.