Close Quarters
The problem with choosing distance is that the world rarely cooperates.
Two days after the joint pitch, Maya drops a bomb into our Monday morning briefing.
"Blackwood Industries wants a week-long collaboration sprint," she says. "On-site."
My stomach tightens. "On-site… where?"
She grins. "Their private strategy floor. Apparently it's already cleared."
Of course it is.
I don't look surprised. I don't look pleased. I nod like this is just another assignment.
Inside, everything braces.
Blackwood's strategy floor is quieter than the rest of the building. Fewer people. Fewer eyes. Too much space for tension to echo.
Elliot greets the team professionally. No lingering glances. No subtle claims.
Just control.
Until the elevator doors close and it's only the two of us.
The silence hits instantly.
"You didn't object," he says finally.
"I don't run from work," I reply.
A pause. "That wasn't what I meant."
"I know."
The elevator dings.
By day three, the restraint is fraying.
Not in obvious ways. In micro-moments.
The way his gaze lingers half a second too long when I speak.
The way he adjusts his cuff when I disagree with him.
The way he steps in when someone interrupts me—then stops himself.
We're circling something volatile.
It breaks late Thursday night.
Everyone else has gone. The city glows through the windows, distant and indifferent. I'm reviewing slides when Elliot speaks from behind me.
"You're doing this on purpose."
I turn slowly. "Doing what?"
"Pretending this doesn't affect you."
I cross my arms. "You're the one who wanted clean lines."
"I wanted honesty," he says. "This isn't it."
I meet his gaze. "Then ask the right question."
He steps closer. Close enough that the air tightens between us.
"Do you still want me?" he asks quietly.
The question strips away every defense.
"Yes," I say. "But not the way you want."
His jaw flexes. "Explain."
"I don't want leverage. I don't want protection. I don't want to be folded into your world until I disappear."
"I wouldn't—"
"I know," I interrupt. "That's why this is hard."
He exhales, sharp and frustrated. "And what do you want?"
I swallow. "Choice. Every day."
Silence stretches.
Then he nods. "Then choose."
The simplicity of it almost undoes me.
I step closer. "This is a terrible idea."
"Yes," he agrees.
"Work complications. Power imbalance. Consequences."
"All valid."
"And you're still standing here."
"So are you."
Our breaths mingle. The space between us dissolves.
But he doesn't touch me.
Not yet.
That's the restraint.
That's the crack.