The elevator doors slide open on another breathless Friday, fluorescent light catching the shine in Sirae’s sharp eyes as she stands in the glass-walled corridor just outside Cael’s office. Her hair’s up, but loose strands frame her face, and her navy silk blouse is a size too loose, billowing at her wrists as if she’s trying to disappear inside it. She doesn’t knock—just pushes in, jaw set, carrying a folder like a shield.

Cael’s at his desk, sleeves rolled, tie undone. There’s a tremor in his fingers as he closes his laptop, eyes flicking up to find her silhouette in the doorway. The tension between them is living, electric; it’s been days since their last collision, and they haven’t touched—haven’t let themselves. He’s never looked more tired, or more beautiful, dark hair mussed, pale knuckles pressed to the desk to keep from reaching for her.

“Thalen needs our help,” Sirae says, voice clipped, as if formality could save them. She glances away, lips pressed together, but a vein jumps at her throat. “Audit’s closing in. He’ll lose everything if this leaks.” Her tone softens at that last word, just slightly, and Cael stands, stepping around the desk to close the distance.

He’s close enough to feel her breathing, warm and shallow. “We can fix it,” he says, careful, quiet, trying not to let his longing show. He fights the urge to brush a stray hair off her cheek, remembering the taste of her skin in the parking garage, the trust in her eyes that night. She looks everywhere but him.

Silence grows heavy, wrapping them in old secrets and things unsaid. “You’re still running,” he murmurs, voice rough. She flinches, letting her arms drop, folder forgotten. Her knuckles are white, jaw trembling with the effort of holding herself together.

“Don’t,” she says, barely audible. She’s so tired of being examined, of wanting so badly she can barely see straight. She wants to ask him to hold her—but she can’t. Instead, she turns her back and heads for the door, clutching herself, blinking too quickly.

Cael can’t look away. “I can’t keep pretending this is just about work,” he says, desperate now. “That night in the garage—Sirae, I’ve never needed anyone like this.” He steps toward her, voice shaking, but she whirls on him, pain burning in her expression.

“I’m not built for this,” Sirae whispers, broken. “I destroy things. I can’t…” Her hands tremble. For a heartbeat, she almost softens, almost reaches for him. But she doesn’t. “Don’t make me choose between you and surviving here.”

Cael wants to say her name, wants to beg, but something in her eyes—a plea, a warning—makes him stumble back. She leaves without another word, the click of the door louder than her absence should be.

He collapses onto the edge of his desk, bracing himself on trembling hands. His tie falls, forgotten. It takes everything to keep from following her. Instead, he fumbles in his pocket for his phone, thumb hovering. He records a voice message, words rough-edged, raw: “I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe without you. Come back to me, Sirae. Please.”

Across town, Sirae stands alone in her apartment, black skirt still on, hair wild, face streaked with tears. She listens to his message, clutching the phone so tightly her nails leave crescents in her palm. She presses the phone to her chest, desperate to feel his voice as more than a vibration.

When she looks down, she realizes her hands are shaking. She rubs her eyes hard, hides under her sheets, but every inch of her aches for him—his mouth, his arms, the safety she keeps running from.

Meanwhile, Thalen sits hunched at his kitchen table, phone buzzing with an anonymous message: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID. Meet me, or everyone finds out. His stomach drops, and he looks up, eyes wild, as if the walls themselves might betray him. Panic claws at his chest, and for the first time, laughter can’t save him.

To be continued…