It had been a day since I fell apart in his arms.
Since I'd confessed, between broken sobs, that there were things I couldn't tell him—that I had made a promise I wasn't willing to break, even if it killed me.
Mark hadn't pushed. He hadn't asked for explanations. He'd just held me, steady and silent, like I was something worth holding onto.
Yesterday had passed in a strange, fragile sort of peace.
We'd worked like normal, side by side in the office, the soft clack of keyboards and the occasional murmur of conversation filling the space between us.
But everything had been softer.
Smiles that lingered a second longer. Light touches on my arm when he passed behind me.
No accusations. No tension.
Just a quiet understanding neither of us named.
It should have made me feel better.
It didn't.
Because even if he hadn't said it, I knew: the clock was still ticking.
And this morning, I could feel it coming. Like a storm pressing against the horizon.
