Chapter 3: The Space Between Us
817 Words
“Miss Hayes.”
Lyra didn’t look up immediately. She was still organizing Dominic’s calendar, fingers moving quickly across the screen, pretending her heart wasn’t beating too fast at the sound of his voice.
“Yes, Mr. Ashford?”
“Come with me.”
She hesitated only a second before standing. “Where are we going?”
“Site visit.”
“When?”
“Now.”
She grabbed her tablet. “You didn’t mention it earlier.”
“I didn’t decide earlier.”
Of course.
The private elevator doors slid shut behind them, sealing them inside a quiet that felt heavier than usual.
Lyra focused on the numbers on the digital panel. Forty-nine. Forty-eight. Forty-seven.
“You’re distracted,” Dominic said.
“I’m working.”
“You haven’t typed anything in thirty seconds.”
She swallowed. “I was thinking.”
“About?”
“Your schedule.”
A lie.
He didn’t call her out on it.
Instead, he asked, “Do I make you uncomfortable?”
The question caught her off guard.
“No,” she said too quickly.
“That was another lie.”
She exhaled slowly. “You don’t make me uncomfortable. You make me… aware.”
His gaze shifted to her reflection in the mirrored wall.
“Of what?”
“Of where I am.”
“And where is that?”
“Too close to you.”
The elevator slowed.
“Step back,” he said.
She did.
Not because she wanted to—but because his voice left no room for disobedience.
“Good,” he said.
The doors opened.
The construction site buzzed with noise—machines humming, voices shouting, steel clanging. It was chaotic and alive, the complete opposite of Dominic’s controlled world.
Lyra followed him closely, helmet secured, heels replaced with flats she kept for emergencies like this.
“You anticipated this,” he said, noticing.
“I like being prepared.”
“You’re always prepared.”
“Someone has to be.”
They stopped near a half-built structure.
“This project matters,” Dominic said. “If it fails, everything else follows.”
Lyra glanced at the workers. “You carry everything alone.”
“That’s leadership.”
“That’s isolation.”
He turned to her sharply. “Be careful.”
“I’m not criticizing.”
“You are.”
“I’m observing.”
“Observation leads to judgment.”
“Only if you let it.”
A beat.
“You don’t let people see you struggle,” she said softly.
“People don’t need to see it.”
“Someone should.”
He stared at her.
“Why do you care?” he asked.
She hesitated.
“Because someone once told me I didn’t need help,” she said. “And they were wrong.”
His expression shifted—just slightly.
“Your past,” he said. “It wasn’t kind.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
She shook her head. “Not today.”
“Another time.”
“Maybe.”
That maybe stayed with him longer than it should have.
It rained on the drive back.
Lyra watched droplets race down the window.
“You don’t like the rain,” she said.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You tense when it starts.”
Silence.
“My father died in the rain,” he said suddenly.
She turned to him slowly.
“I’m sorry.”
“So is everyone.”
“That doesn’t make it less true.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t.”
The car stopped in the underground garage.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
That night, the office was empty.
Too empty.
Lyra was filing documents when Dominic emerged from his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled up.
“You’re still here.”
“So are you.”
“You should go home.”
“So should you.”
He paused.
“Why do you stay?” he asked.
She didn’t pretend this time.
“Because if I don’t, no one notices when you forget to stop.”
That struck something deep.
He stepped closer.
“You shouldn’t notice that.”
“I do.”
“You shouldn’t care.”
“I can’t help it.”
Silence stretched between them—thick, fragile.
“You’re crossing lines,” he said.
“So are you.”
“I’m your employer.”
“And you’re human.”
His jaw tightened.
“Lyra…”
“Yes?”
“If you keep looking at me like that, I will make a mistake.”
Her breath caught. “Then don’t.”
“Step back.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I will.”
He did.
But the distance didn’t help.
Because now they both knew.
The space between them wasn’t empty.
It was charged.
And one day soon—
It would break.
- Writer
