And in that moment, a crack formed in their world—
one that neither Shane's loyalty nor Layla's ambition could repair.
Shane felt it before he could explain it.
It wasn't anger.
It wasn't proof.
It was absence.
Layla came home late again.
The clock on the wall ticked past midnight, each second sounding louder than the last. Shane sat on the edge of the couch, tools still scattered on the coffee table from work he hadn't finished. He hadn't moved in hours. Every time the door clicked from the hallway outside, his heart jumped—only to sink again.
When the door finally opened, Layla stepped in quietly, heels in hand, phone pressed to her ear.
"Yes… tomorrow works," she whispered. "Send the revised proposal."
She froze when she saw Shane.
For half a second, something crossed her face—surprise, maybe guilt—but it vanished quickly.
"You're awake," she said, ending the call.
"I was waiting," Shane replied.
Silence stretched between them.
Layla set her bag down carefully, avoiding his eyes. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
Another pause.
She nodded, then walked past him toward the bedroom.
That was it.
No explanation.
No apology.
No I'm sorry I'm late.
Shane's chest tightened.
At work the next day, Shane couldn't focus.
An engine sat open in front of him, but his mind wasn't there. He tightened a bolt too hard, cursed under his breath, and stepped back. His coworker glanced at him.
"You good, man?"
"Yeah," Shane lied.
But he wasn't.
Every sound reminded him of her distance. Every vibration of his phone made him hope—and dread—that it was Layla. When she finally texted, it was short.
Busy today. Don't wait up.
Busy.
That word again.
During lunch, Shane sat alone, staring at grease-stained hands that had always been enough before. He remembered when Layla used to sit beside him on this same bench, laughing, stealing bites of his food, talking about dreams that included us.
Now her dreams had boardrooms.
That evening, Layla faced tension of her own.
At the office, Victor's tone had shifted—sharper, more demanding.
"The investors want faster growth," he said. "Visibility. Public alignment."
Layla frowned. "Public alignment?"
Victor leaned forward. "Appearances matter. You'll attend events with me. Meetings. Dinners."
She hesitated.
"This is part of the deal," he added calmly.
Something in her stomach twisted, but she nodded. "Fine."
When she returned home that night, Shane noticed the way she smelled—different. Expensive. Unfamiliar.
"New perfume?" he asked casually.
She stiffened. "Work."
That answer again.
Dinner was quiet. Too quiet.
Shane finally spoke. "You don't talk to me anymore."
Layla looked up. "That's not true."
"When was the last time you told me what you were really doing?"
She sighed. "Shane, I'm building something. You knew that."
"I knew you," he said softly. "This feels… different."
Her eyes flashed. "Different doesn't mean wrong."
"But it doesn't mean right either."
She stood. "I'm tired."
She walked away again.
That night, Shane didn't sleep.
He replayed every moment, every change. He thought of Victor. Of unanswered calls. Of signed papers he hadn't seen. Doubt wrapped around his heart, slow and suffocating.
The next day, something happened that pushed him further.
A woman stopped by the garage.
Elegant. Confident.
"Is Shane here?" she asked.
"That's me."
She smiled politely. "I work with Layla."
Shane froze. "Work… how?"
"Business development," she said easily. "She's impressive."
Something in her tone made his stomach drop.
That evening, Shane waited.
When Layla finally came home, he didn't sit this time. He stood.
"We need to talk."
She hesitated at the door.
"Now," he said.
She exhaled slowly. "Okay."
But before either of them could speak—
Layla's phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
Victor.
Her hesitation was all Shane needed to see.
And for the first time, he wondered if the crack in their world had already become a fracture.