Enemies To Lovers

Professional Distance

By the time lunch ended, I had already rehearsed the meeting in my head at least ten different ways.

In most of them, I stayed calm. Cold. Untouchable.

In a few, I quit.

Neither felt realistic.

I straightened my blouse, smoothed my skirt, and checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror one last time. My face looked composed, but my eyes gave me away. They always did. Too alert. Too aware.

I hated that he still had this effect on me.

His office was on the top floor, enclosed by glass walls that made privacy feel like a joke. You could see everything—power on display, transparency as intimidation. Very him.

I knocked once.

“Come in.”

The sound of his voice sent an unwelcome shiver through me. Calm. Even. Like nothing had ever happened between us.

I stepped inside and closed the door behind me.

“Yes, sir,” I said again, the word deliberately placed between us like a shield.

He didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he moved behind his desk, setting his jacket down, loosening his cufflinks with practiced ease. I stood there, hands clasped in front of me, eyes fixed on a spot just past his shoulder.

Silence stretched.

“You can sit,” he said finally.

“I’m fine standing.”

That made him look at me properly.

His gaze was sharp, assessing—not the familiar one from years ago, but something colder. More controlled.

“As you wish,” he replied, taking his seat.

He opened a file on his desk, flipping through pages I knew by heart. I had prepared them myself. Watching him pretend to read felt strange, like we were both acting in a scene we hadn’t auditioned for.

“You’re efficient,” he said again. “Organized. Reliable.”

“I take my job seriously,” I replied.

“I can see that.”

Another pause.

I shifted my weight slightly. “If there’s an issue with my work, I’d prefer you state it directly.”

“There’s no issue,” he said. “This isn’t about your performance.”

Then why am I here?

He closed the file and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of him. It was a familiar posture—one he used to take when he was thinking too hard.

Or hiding something.

“This is about boundaries,” he continued.

My eyebrows lifted before I could stop them. “Boundaries?”

“Yes,” he said. “Given our… history.”

There it was.

The word hung between us, heavy and undeniable.

I straightened instantly. “Our history has nothing to do with my work.”

“I agree,” he said. “Which is why we need to be clear.”

Clear.

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re the one who called me up here.”

“Because I didn’t want assumptions,” he replied calmly. “I won’t be accused of favoritism. Or hostility.”

“Hostility?” I echoed. “You’re my boss. You barely looked at me in that meeting.”

“That was intentional.”

I finally met his eyes.

“Good,” I said. “Then we’re on the same page.”

Something flickered across his face—annoyance, maybe. Or something deeper.

“I expect professionalism,” he said.

“You’ll get it,” I replied without hesitation. “I didn’t build my career just to lose it over the past.”

The past.

He flinched at the word. Just barely.

“Neither did I,” he said quietly.

Silence fell again, thicker this time. Charged.

I shifted my gaze away, refusing to let myself get pulled under. “If that’s all, I should return to my desk.”

“Wait.”

There it was again. That word. That tone.

“Yes?” I asked sharply.

“You don’t look at me,” he said.

I frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Since you walked in,” he continued, “you’ve avoided eye contact.”

“That’s called professionalism.”

“No,” he said. “It’s avoidance.”

I bristled. “You don’t get to analyze me.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not trying to.”

“Good,” I snapped. “Because we’re not—” I stopped myself. “We’re not anything anymore.”

The words came out harsher than I intended.

For a moment, he said nothing. He stood slowly, rounding the desk until he was standing a few feet away from me. Too close.

I didn’t move.

“You’re right,” he said. “We’re not.”

Then he added, softer, “But pretending we’re strangers won’t change what already happened.”

My chest tightened.

“I didn’t come here for a conversation,” I said. “I came here because you asked me to.”

He studied my face, like he was trying to read between the lines. Like he used to.

Finally, he stepped back.

“You’re dismissed,” he said.

I didn’t wait for him to change his mind. I turned and walked out, my heart pounding far too hard for a professional meeting.

Back at my desk, I stared at my screen without seeing it.

Boundaries.

Professional distance.

That was what he wanted.

Fine.

I could do distance. I was good at that.

What I wasn’t good at—what terrified me—was the way my mind kept replaying the look in his eyes when I said we weren’t anything anymore.

Because it hadn’t looked like agreement.

It had looked like regret.