The office looked the same the next morning.
Bright lights. Clean desks. The hum of air conditioning and keyboards filling the space like nothing had happened the night before.
I arrived early.
She was already there.
Her door was open, just like always. She stood behind her desk, reviewing something on her tablet, expression calm and unreadable.
"Good morning," she said without looking up.
"Good morning, ma'am."
Normal.
Too normal.
I took my seat and opened my laptop, forcing my focus onto emails and schedules. The rain from last night felt distant now, like a scene from someone else's life.
At ten sharp, she called for a team meeting.
She led it flawlessly.
Clear instructions. Sharp questions. No wasted words. When our eyes met, it was brief and professional, the kind of glance that meant nothing to anyone else.
But I noticed what she didn't say.
She didn't look at me longer than necessary.She didn't stand near me.She didn't offer a ride home again.
At noon, she passed my desk.
"Send me the updated figures by two," she said.
"Yes, ma'am."
She paused, just for a second.
"Good work yesterday," she added quietly.
Then she walked away.
That one sentence stayed with me longer than it should have.
Later, in the break room, a colleague leaned closer.
"You stayed late with her on Friday, right?" he asked casually. "She's intense."
I kept my tone neutral. "Work was heavy."
He laughed. "I don't know how you do it. I'd be nervous all the time."
I smiled politely and changed the subject.
Inside, something tightened.
By the end of the day, my report was finished. I walked to her office and knocked once.
"Come in."
She was seated this time, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. The image felt more personal than it should have.
I placed the folder on her desk.
"Here's the update."
"Thank you."
Silence settled between us.
She flipped through the pages, then closed the folder.
"You handled yourself well this morning," she said. "That matters."
"I'm just doing my job."
She looked at me then, her expression serious.
"Good," she said. "Let's keep it that way."
There it was.
The boundary. Clear. Firm.
I nodded. "Of course."
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she stood. "You can go."
I turned toward the door.
Behind me, she spoke again—so quietly I almost missed it.
"Last night… was an exception."
I didn't turn around.
"I understand," I said.
And I meant it.
I left the office knowing two things.
Nothing had happened.
And somehow, that made everything more complicated.