(Elara POV)
I don't sleep.
Not really.
I lie in bed with my eyes closed, listening to the unfamiliar quiet of Kyla's apartment, the distant hum of the city seeping through the glass, and every time I feel myself drifting, the same moment drags me back under.
His mouth.
The way the world narrowed around it.
The way I didn't pull away.
I turn onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow like that might smother the thoughts before they spiral completely out of control, but it only makes it worse. My body remembers things my mind is trying desperately to discipline.
The heat.
The closeness.
The way his voice sounded when he said my name.
Alex.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
This is bad. This is really bad.
By monday morning , my shame has settled into something heavy and persistent, like a weight pressing against my ribs. I shower longer than necessary, letting the water run hot over my shoulders as if I can wash friday night away, as if standing there long enough will return me to the version of myself who didn't kiss her boss in the middle of a crowded pub.
I dress carefully….too carefully.
Neutral colors. Long sleeves. Hair pulled back tight, like armor. The girl in the mirror looks composed again, controlled, professional, and for a moment I almost believe her.
Almost.
Kyla is already up, sitting at the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee, watching me with a knowing look that makes my stomach tighten.
"You okay?" she asks gently.
I hesitate. "Yeah."
She raises an eyebrow. "That wasn't very convincing."
I sigh, leaning against the counter. "I just… drank too much."
"That part, I figured." She studies me for a second longer, then softens. "You don't owe me details, you know."
Relief loosens something in my chest. "Thank you."
She nods, satisfied. "You want toast?"
I shake my head. "I'll grab something later."
The walk to work feels longer today, every step measured, my mind running ahead of me with worst-case scenarios I can't quite silence.
What if he regrets it?
What if he doesn't?
What if he pretends it never happened?
What if he looks at me differently now — worse, what if he doesn't look at me at all?
By the time I reach the office, my nerves are frayed.
I sit at my desk and busy myself with small, meaningless tasks, opening emails I've already read, reorganizing files that don't need reorganizing, anything to keep from thinking about the fact that at some point today, I will have to see him.
When his door opens across the floor, my body reacts before my mind does.
I don't look up.
I know better.
Footsteps pass by my desk. A familiar presence moves through the space like gravity, subtle but undeniable. My pulse jumps anyway.
"Good morning," he says, voice even, professional.
It takes effort to respond without betraying myself. "Good morning, Mr. Hale."
That's it.
No pause. No glance. No flicker of acknowledgment that friday night ever happened.
He disappears into his office, the door closing quietly behind him, and something inside me twists painfully at how easy it seems for him to step back into control.
I should be relieved.
Instead, I feel… hollow.
The morning crawls by. I lose myself in work because it's the only place where I feel competent, grounded, certain. Numbers don't look at you differently after you make a mistake. They don't remember the heat of a kiss or the way your heart stuttered when someone stepped too close.
Still, my mind betrays me.
Every so often, a fragment of the night surfaces uninvited.
The way his hand felt steady at my arm.
The brief hesitation before he leaned in.
The restraint in the kiss — deliberate, controlled, like he was holding something back.
That's the part that won't leave me alone.
He didn't lose control.
He chose it.
And then he chose to stop.
I'm not sure which part hurts more.
At lunch, I can't bring myself to eat. I pick at a salad I don't want, staring out the window as colleagues pass by, laughing, talking, living their uncomplicated lives.
Daniel stops by my desk in the afternoon.
"Hey," he says softly. "You doing okay?"
I look up, startled. "Yeah. Why?"
"You seem… quiet."
I force a small smile. "Just tired."
He doesn't push. He never does. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."
"Thanks," I say, and I mean it.
But even as he walks away, a strange guilt settles in my chest — not because I did anything wrong with him, but because for the first time, I notice the absence of something else.
Someone else.
By the end of the day, I'm exhausted.
Emotionally wrung out in a way that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with restraint. I pack up my things slowly, half-hoping, half-dreading that I'll run into Alex in the hallway.
I don't.
The elevator ride down is quiet. The walk home slower than usual.
When I finally step back into Kyla's apartment, the tension I've been holding onto all day loosens just enough for the weight of it to hit me properly.
I retreat to my room and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at my hands.
Why did it matter so much?
It was just a kiss.
Except it wasn't.
It was the first time I let myself want something I knew I shouldn't.
The first time someone looked at me and didn't see responsibility, or obligation, or pity.
The first time I felt chosen — even briefly — without asking for it.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment over and over again, each time lingering on something different.
His voice when he said my name.
The warmth of his chest under my palms.
The way he pulled away first.
Shame creeps in slowly, curling around my thoughts.
I crossed a line.
I blurred boundaries.
I let myself believe in something that can't exist.
Tomorrow, I'll be careful again.
Tomorrow, I'll be professional.
Tomorrow, I'll pretend it was a mistake fueled by alcohol and bad judgment.
But tonight, alone in the quiet, I let myself admit the truth I won't say out loud.
I don't regret the kiss.
I regret that it ended.
And that wanting more might cost me everything.