Lines Blurred
The car ride is quiet.
Not awkward—just heavy. Charged. The city lights streak past the windows as Elliot's driver navigates traffic with smooth efficiency. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, hyperaware of every inch of space between us.
Which isn't much.
"You didn't have to answer for me," I say eventually.
Elliot doesn't look away from the window. "Yes, I did."
I frown. "Why?"
"Because Lucas was testing boundaries," he replies. "And Vanessa was testing relevance."
"And me?"
His gaze shifts to me then, sharp and assessing. "You weren't being tested."
That should make me feel better. It doesn't.
The car stops outside my building. The driver steps out, opening Elliot's door first, then mine.
"I can go up alone," I say quickly.
"I know," Elliot replies. He doesn't move. "I'm coming anyway."
The elevator ride is worse.
The hum of the machinery fills the silence. I can feel his presence beside me, solid and controlled, like gravity. When the doors open on my floor, my heart is racing.
We walk down the hallway.
At my door, I fumble with my keys. They slip from my fingers and clatter to the floor.
"Damn it."
Elliot bends first, retrieving them. Our hands brush.
Electricity shoots up my arm.
He stills.
So do I.
Slowly, he straightens, holding my keys—but not handing them over.
"This wasn't part of the agreement," he says quietly.
"I didn't plan it," I reply, my voice barely steady.
His gaze drops to my lips. Just for a second.
"That's the problem," he murmurs.
The air between us tightens, pulled taut like a wire ready to snap. I can feel my pulse everywhere—throat, wrists, knees.
He steps back.
Deliberately.
Control reasserted.
"You should get inside," he says. "We both need distance."
I nod, throat dry, and take my keys. My fingers tremble as I unlock the door.
Before I can stop myself, I turn. "Elliot?"
"Yes?"
"Why me?"
He holds my gaze for a long moment. The mask cracks—just slightly.
"Because," he says, "you don't belong in my world."
Then he turns and walks away.
I stand there long after he's gone, heart pounding, the echo of his words settling deep in my chest.
Inside, I pace.
I tell myself this is just proximity. Stress. Chemistry mistaken for something else.
But later, lying in bed, his presence lingers. The way his voice softened. The way he stepped back when he could have stepped closer.
Control.
I don't sleep much.
The next morning, there's an envelope slipped under my door.
Heavy paper. My name handwritten on the front.
Inside is a single card.
Weekly Check-In
Saturday — 10 a.m.
Location: Blackwood Tower
And beneath it, in Elliot's precise handwriting:
We need to redefine the rules.
My heart stutters.
Because I'm not sure I want them redefined.