May 3, 2027.
I told myself I was done.
After the elevator.
After the hand.
After coming home smelling like him.
I blocked Ryan’s number.
Deleted the threads.
Told myself it stopped there.
Damien and I had a good week.
Tender.
Close.
Like before.
He sensed the shift.
Held me longer.
Made love slow.
Looked in my eyes.
I almost believed I could bury it.
Then the email came.
From Ryan—work address this time.
Subject: Campaign Collaboration Follow-Up
Professional.
But the body:
Hey Lila,
Hope you’re well. I know things got intense. No pressure, but I’d still love to grab coffee—just talk. About work. Or not. Your call.
Ryan
I stared.
Should have deleted.
Replied instead.
Me: Coffee. Work only. Tomorrow, 11 a.m. Neutral spot.
I told myself it was closure.
To end it
