Lines we Pretend not to see
1186 Words
The office felt different this morning.
Lila noticed it the second she stepped onto the floor. The hum of conversations, the click of heels, the steady rhythm of keyboards. Everything looked the same, yet her nerves were wound so tight it felt like the smallest touch could snap her in two.
And then there was him.
Ethan Blackwood stood behind the glass wall of his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, phone pressed to his ear. He looked calm. Controlled. Untouchable.
Which somehow made it worse.
Lila dropped into her chair, opening her laptop with more force than necessary. She told herself to focus. Numbers. Reports. Deadlines. Anything but the memory of his single-word text. Anything but the way his eyes had lingered on her in the lobby that morning.
She was halfway through an email when his assistant appeared beside her desk.
“The boss wants to see you. Now.”
Her stomach sank.
Inside Ethan’s office, the air felt heavier. He ended his call the moment she stepped in, his gaze lifting slowly, deliberately, like he was taking his time committing her presence to memory.
“Close the door,” he said.
She did.
Silence stretched between them, sharp and uncomfortable.
“You’re late,” he said finally.
“I’m on time,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Eight fifty-eight.”
A corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite annoyance.
“You look distracted.”
Her pulse spiked. “I’m not.”
“Lying doesn’t suit you, Hart.”
She bristled. “You didn’t call me in here to comment on my appearance.”
“No,” he said calmly. “I called you in because the board moved the deadline forward. We present in seventy-two hours.”
Her irritation cooled into focus. “That’s impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible,” he replied. “Just inconvenient.”
She exhaled sharply. “You expect miracles.”
“I expect competence.”
Her eyes flashed. “Then why do you keep pushing me like I’m disposable?”
Something dark crossed his expression. “If you were disposable, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
The words settled between them, heavier than either had intended.
They spent the next hour dissecting strategies, numbers, projections. It should have been simple. Professional. But every time Ethan leaned closer to point at her screen, her body reacted before her mind could stop it. Every brush of his arm felt intentional. Every pause loaded with meaning.
At one point, she looked up to argue a point and found him already watching her.
“Say it,” he murmured.
“Say what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
She swallowed. “You’re impossible.”
His gaze dropped briefly to her lips. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Her breath caught.
She stood abruptly. “If we’re done—”
“We’re not.”
He rose too, closing the distance between them. Not touching. Just close enough for her to feel his presence, solid and unyielding.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said quietly.
“I’ve been working.”
“Liar.”
Her heartbeat thundered. “You don’t get to comment on my personal life.”
His jaw tightened. “No. But I do get to notice when you change.”
She laughed, sharp and defensive. “What is this? A performance review?”
“It’s concern.”
That word startled them both.
Concern.
She stepped back. “We shouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I agree,” he said. “But you’re the one who keeps looking like you’re waiting for something to explode.”
Her voice dropped. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough,” he said softly, “to recognize when you’re running.”
Her hands curled into fists. “You don’t scare me.”
His eyes darkened. “Good. Because if I did, you’d already be gone.”
The moment snapped when his phone rang. The spell broke.
She turned for the door without another word.
By evening, exhaustion had settled deep into her bones. The office lights dimmed as employees filtered out, but she stayed, stubbornly focused on her screen.
She didn’t notice Ethan approach until his reflection appeared beside her.
“You’re still here,” he said.
“So are you.”
He set two coffee cups on her desk. “Peace offering.”
She hesitated, then took one. “Thank you.”
They worked in silence for a while, the tension quieter now but no less present. It was different in the late hours. Softer. More dangerous.
“You didn’t answer my text,” he said eventually.
Her fingers stilled. “I didn’t know what to say.”
“Try the truth.”
She met his gaze. “The truth is… things are complicated.”
“They always are,” he replied. “The question is whether you’re brave enough to face them.”
Her chest tightened. “And if I’m not?”
His voice dropped. “Then this will destroy us both.”
The words followed her home that night.
She lay awake long after midnight, staring at the ceiling, replaying every look, every word. She had wanted control. Distance. Safety.
Instead, she had Ethan Blackwood watching her too closely, seeing too much, standing far too near the line she pretended didn’t exist.
And deep down, she knew.
Whatever this was between them, it was no longer something she could ignore. Lila turned onto her side, phone glowing faintly on the bedside table. She told herself not to check it. Told herself that silence was safer. But her fingers moved anyway.
No new messages.
She exhaled slowly, disappointment mixing with relief. Wanting him to reach out felt like a betrayal of her own rules, yet the absence of his name on her screen left a hollow ache she refused to name.
At work the next day, whispers followed her down the hallway. Nothing obvious. Nothing she could confront. Just glances that lingered a second too long, voices dropping when she passed.
She felt it then. The shift.
Something was changing.
During the afternoon meeting, Ethan barely looked at her. He was all sharp focus and cool authority, his attention locked on the presentation, his expression unreadable. It should have eased her nerves.
It didn’t.
When the meeting ended, she gathered her things quickly, but his voice stopped her.
“Hart. Stay.”
The room emptied, leaving them alone again.
“You’re distracted,” he said.
“So are you,” she replied.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he stepped back, creating distance for the first time. “This ends if it threatens the work.”
Her chest tightened. “Ends?”
“This,” he said quietly, eyes steady on hers. “Whatever we’re pretending isn’t happening.”
She nodded, even though the word scraped something raw inside her. “Good. It should.”
But as she turned to leave, she felt it clearly the lie sitting heavy between them.
Because nothing had ended.
If anything, it had only just begun.
- Writer
