Orien’s silhouette was tense against the buzz of the muted monitor, the blue glow sharpening the soft planes of his face and catching on the wiry ends of his too-long hair. His gray henley clung to the lines of his arms, sleeves forever shoved to the elbows as if bare forearms might focus his mind. Across the table, Lysa nursed a whiskey with methodical indifference, black suit jacket draped over her chair, crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at her skin, not enough to invite touch. The air between them vibrated with what was unsaid: half-coded apologies, memories pressed between the keys.

Orien’s fingers hovered above his laptop, but his eyes kept drifting—hungry, then guilty, each glance ricocheting off Lysa’s careful stillness. She sat straight, jaw tight, expression impassive except for the betraying shimmer at the edge of her lashes. Her hand trembled only when lifting her glass. The silence was a third, bitter presence.

“You’re not the same,” Orien murmured, voice thick and a little reckless. A challenge, a plea, a confession.

Lysa’s gaze flickered up, steel meeting storm. “Neither are you.” Her lips—painted a clinical mauve, so like her—quirked, mocking even as her eyes glistened. “Is this what we’re doing now? Trading ghosts?”

He laughed, a short, broken sound. “It’s all I know to give you.”

Outside the window, Berlin’s rain streaked and smeared city lights, and inside, Orien’s pulse hammered too close to his skin. Lysa set her drink down, pushing away from the table, her movement sharp. Jacket forgotten, she strode across the floor, boots silent, until she stood close enough that he could taste the whiskey in her breath.

She reached out, tentative at first, fingertips one by one grazing his cheek. Instead of pulling back, he pressed into her touch—desperate, starved—and her mask shattered. The next thing between them was not a word but her mouth, insistent and seeking, finding his with a violent hunger that loosened something deep inside.

He rose, arms circling her, hands fisting in the fabric at her waist. Their bodies crashed against the edge of the kitchen counter, her hair coming undone as his fingers tugged—the sound of her breath, sharp and urgent, impossibly precious. Lysa’s hands slid under his shirt, nails scraping up his spine, drawing tears to the surface of his eyes. Control, the thing she worshipped, abandoned utterly in the tangle of mouth and skin and memories.

They shed barriers with clothing, movements messy and unscripted—her shirt dropped, his belt open, Lysa hoisted onto the cold countertop, legs wrapped around him, gasps tangled with whispered curses. Orien drank her in, every line and scar and vulnerability, the rhythm of their bodies a fevered staccato lost in the stutter of rain against glass. Neither dared slow: there was only desperation, forgiveness begged and denied in every frantic touch, every shuddering kiss.

After, Lysa traced the lines of his jaw with shaking fingers, both of them breathing hard, hair damp, shirts half off. She studied him as if memorizing a language she would soon have to forget. Naked longing, regret, and something softer flickered across her face. She leaned in, pressing her forehead to his.

“I wish we could go back,” she whispered, voice splintering.

He swallowed, taste of her still on his lips, and nodded like a vow. “So do I.”

She pulled her shirt back on, fingers moving clumsily over the buttons, refusing to look at him as she gathered her dignity and slipped out into the hall. The door clicked softly shut behind her, leaving Orien in silence, the memory of her body etched deep into his skin.

The next morning, Orien woke to an absence beside him—cold sheets, a barely-there scent. On his pillow, a piece of Lysa’s monogrammed notepaper: We can’t go back, can we?

Downstairs, Selene stood in the break room across from Jorel Rynn, the new product manager—short chestnut hair, jacket slung rakishly over his shoulder. He grinned, practiced and predatory, as he teased Selene about her code review. She rolled her eyes, mouth twisted in disdain, but something vulnerable flickered in her posture before she caught Orien passing by, red-eyed and raw. She caught the sadness in his slouch, the way his hand lingered at his throat.

Jorel’s banter stilled, his gaze shifting to Orien, a challenge lurking behind the smile. Selene’s guard slammed back up, but not before Orien saw her ache—something fragile, hidden beneath armor.

In the echoing pulse of too-bright fluorescents, three lives edged closer and apart, jealousy and heartbreak winding ever tighter. Unspoken truths hovered, pressing against the brittle surface of their control.

The secrets between them were multiplying, feeding on every glance.

To be continued...