Crossing Lines
1069 Words
I don’t sleep. Not really.
I close my eyes. I turn. I try to force stillness into something that resembles rest.
It doesn’t work.
Every time I drift, I’m back in his office.
Too close.
Not touching.
That’s the part that stays with me.
Not what he said. Not even how he said it.
The restraint.
The choice not to close that last inch.
It lingers. Gets under my skin in a way I don’t know how to ignore.
By morning, I’m done pretending I can.
I’m already at my desk when most of the floor filters in. Screen on. File open. Coffee untouched.
Normal. Controlled.
A lie.
I make it twenty minutes before I catch the same mistake in a report twice. Something I could usually do half-asleep.
That’s new.
That’s a problem.
I fix it. Then stare at the screen like it might fix me back.
It doesn’t.
A shadow falls across my desk.
I don’t look up right away.
I already know.
“You’re distracted.”
His voice is quiet. Too close.
I lift my gaze.
Ronan stands at the edge of my desk, sleeves rolled, no jacket, no distance, like last night didn’t end.
Like it just paused.
“I’m working,” I say.
His eyes flick to my screen. Back to me.
“No,” he says evenly. “You’re correcting.”
My jaw tightens. “Is there something you need?”
A beat.
“Yes.”
That shouldn’t land the way it does.
It does.
“Then say it.”
His gaze holds mine a second too long.
Then he turns. “Come with me.”
Not a request.
Of course not.
I don’t move right away. That’s intentional.
“If this is another field trip,” I say, “I’m not interested.”
Something shifts in his posture. Subtle. Controlled.
“You don’t get to decide when this matters,” he says.
I stand anyway.
Because he’s right.
Again.
I hate that.
He doesn’t check if I follow.
Also expected.
I grab nothing this time. No file. No excuse. Just step into it.
The walk across the floor feels different today.
More eyes. Less subtle.
Conversations dip as we pass. No one looks directly, but no one looks away either.
It’s not curiosity anymore.
It’s awareness.
We don’t go to the garage. Don’t go outside.
He leads me into a conference room instead.
Glass walls. Blinds drawn. Controlled.
That should feel safer.
It doesn’t.
The door clicks shut behind us. Too loud.
I turn to face him.
“Explain.”
No pretense. No patience.
Just truth.
His gaze moves over me slowly. Assessing.
“You were watched when you walked out yesterday.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean I was watched? And how do you know that?”
“That’s not the part you should be focused on.”
Of course it isn’t.
“What matters,” he continues, stepping closer, “is that your guard was down.”
I go still.
Confusion tightens into something sharper. “What is up with you half explaining shi—”
He closes the distance.
Too close.
Again.
“You have a dirty mouth,” he murmurs, voice low, almost thoughtful. “And no patience.”
My pulse ticks up. I don’t move.
“I sent someone to follow you,” he says. “As a test.”
A pause.
“You failed.”
His head tilts, something almost like a smirk ghosting his mouth.
I open my mouth.
He lifts a finger and presses it lightly to my lips.
“Shh, Nova.”
The room feels smaller. Tighter.
“In this world,” he says quietly, “you don’t get the luxury of distraction.”
His finger drops, but he doesn’t step back.
“If someone wanted you yesterday,” he continues, “you wouldn’t have seen it coming.”
Something cold settles in my stomach.
“And you think that’s acceptable?” I ask.
“No,” he says simply. “I think it’s dangerous.”
Silence stretches between us.
Then—
“Fix it.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
His gaze hardens, just slightly.
“Right now,” he says. “Walk me through it.”
“Through what?”
“If you were being followed,” he says, voice calm and precise, “what did you miss?”
I hesitate.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“That’s your first mistake,” he says. “You’re thinking about being wrong instead of being better.”
That lands.
Hard.
I push off the wall behind me, forcing space between us.
“Fine,” I say. “If someone was on me, they stayed back. No direct approach. No forced interaction.”
“Good,” he says. “What else?”
I pace once, thinking.
“Timing,” I mutter. “They would have picked a transition point. Parking lot, street crossing, somewhere I would have to slow down.”
His eyes track me, sharp.
“And?”
I stop.
“I didn’t check.”
The words taste like failure.
“No,” he agrees. “You didn’t.”
Silence again.
But this time it feels different.
He steps closer, but not as close as before.
Measured.
“Look at me,” he says.
I do.
“You’re not careless,” he says. “You’re distracted.”
His gaze sharpens.
“And right now, that makes you predictable.”
Something in my chest tightens.
“I’m not predictable.”
“Everyone is,” he replies. “When they want something.”
A beat.
His voice lowers.
“What do you want, Nova?”
The question hits harder than it should.
Because I don’t have a clean answer.
Because he already knows that.
My jaw sets. “That’s not relevant.”
A flicker of something crosses his expression.
Interest.
“Everything about you is relevant now,” he says.
That word again.
Now.
Something shifts in the air between us.
Not softer.
Worse.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I say.
His gaze holds mine. Steady. Certain.
“I already did.”
Silence.
Then he speaks again.
“Again.”
I frown. “What?”
“The scenario,” he says. “Run it again. This time like you mean it.”
I exhale slowly. Resetting.
Adapting.
Because whether I like it or not, I’m already playing.
- Writer
