Until My Last Breath

Chapter 4 – Crossing Lines

The office buzzed with the usual midweek chaos—phones ringing, printers whirring, voices tangled in deadlines. Amara was focused on her computer screen, brows furrowed over a report that refused to balance, when a shadow fell across her desk.

“Looks like you’re wrestling with numbers,” Lorenzo said, setting down two steaming cups of coffee.

Amara blinked. “I didn’t ask for—”

“Didn’t have to.” His grin was disarming. “You look like you needed one.”

She hesitated, then wrapped her hands around the warm cup. “Thank you,” she murmured, sipping cautiously. It was exactly the way she liked it—two sugars, no cream. Her eyes narrowed. “How did you—?”

“I pay attention,” Lorenzo said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

That unsettled her. No one—not even Jerome, lately—noticed the small details anymore.

By late afternoon, their manager assigned them to collaborate on a proposal. Amara kept her expression neutral, but inside, a mix of anticipation and dread swirled. She didn’t want to spend extra hours with this man whose presence rattled her balance.

They ended up side by side in the conference room, papers spread across the long table. Lorenzo leaned close, his voice low as he explained an idea. She tried to focus, she really did, but the nearness of him made her pulse race in ways she hadn’t felt in years.

“Amara?” His voice pulled her back. “You were somewhere else.”

She cleared her throat. “Sorry. Just… tired.”

He studied her for a moment, then nodded without pressing. “You carry too much. I can see it.”

The words pierced deeper than she expected. She looked away, unable to answer.

That night, Amara returned home later than usual. Jerome was already in bed, the lamp casting a soft glow across his pale face. He stirred when she entered.

“You’re late,” he said quietly.

“Work ran over. Proposal deadline.” She slipped off her heels.

He nodded, but there was no reproach in his voice—just weariness. He turned his face toward the wall, leaving her with his silence.

Amara sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. The distance between them felt wider than the space of a mattress. She longed to bridge it, to reach for him, to demand he let her in. But her hand stayed frozen in her lap.

Instead, she lay down beside him, her back to his, and closed her eyes.

In the quiet darkness, another face flickered in her thoughts—eyes that noticed, a voice that listened. She hated herself for it, yet couldn’t escape it.