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Ryan Edwards

The office emptied with the slow hush of after-hours, but my mind kept hammering one truth: a single half-believable excuse wasn’t enough. If Lily stayed suspicious, every glance, every question would slice a little deeper until the whole façade bled out in front of her.

I needed something ordinary, something that looked like the real life of a mid-level employee who definitely didn’t own penthouses or private jets.

That was why I’d rented the small apartment in the first place.

Time to use it.

I found Lily at her desk around six, packing her laptop. She didn’t glance up.

“Hey.” I kept my tone light. “Small panic. Theo needs tomorrow’s payroll review sheets. I, uh, left the signed originals at my place.”

She slid her gaze to me. “You can scan them in the morning.”

“Finance needs them queued tonight. Audit window.” I held up my phone, screen lit with an exaggerated string of frantic messages from Theo (I’d drafted them to myself). “If I cab across town I’ll miss Isabella’s pickup time. But your route passes my block. Ten-minute detour—promise.”

She hesitated. Five seconds of silent assessment.

“Fine,” she said at last, slinging her tote over her shoulder. “But no longer than ten minutes.”

“Scout’s honor.”

We arrived at “my apartment” and the complex looked even shabbier in twilight, sun-bleached siding, flickering hallway light. I saw Lily’s brows twitch as we climbed the stairs.

Inside, the unit smelled faintly of takeout and cheap pine cleaner. A single lamp glowed over the sagging couch.

Lily hovered just inside the doorway, arms folded. “You really live here?”

“Short lease,” I said, shrugging out of my jacket. “I was thinking of not renewing the rent since I’ve moved into the penthouse”

I crossed to the kitchenette, retrieved a thin folder I’d actually filled with blank pages. “Five minutes,” I reminded, waggling it in victory.

But she wasn’t watching the folder. She was studying the apartment—the mismatched dishes, the thrift-store bookshelf, the lumpy futon.

Her shoulders eased a millimeter.

Progress.

“Water? Coffee?” I offered.

“Water’s fine.”

I poured two glasses from the filtered jug, handed her one. Our fingers brushed, hot shiver shot up my arm and settled behind my ribs.

She sipped, gaze drifting to the window where neon city glare seeped through slatted blinds. Her profile in that soft light was so achingly familiar it twisted my gut.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said quietly. “And for not… bolting earlier.”

She looked at me then, wary but curious. “Bolting because of what?”

“The watch.” No point dancing around it. “I know it looked… off. I just didn’t want you thinking I’m hiding more secrets.”

Her lips parted, but no protest came. Encouraging.

“I told Theo, and it’s the truth,” I went on. “It was a gratitude gift. I should sell it, but it reminds me what I’m working toward. That’s all.”

A beat of silence. Then she nodded once, as if filing the explanation away for later examination.

Lightning cracked outside—summer storm rolling in. Rain hammered the rooftop so suddenly it drowned the city noise. Lily jumped, laughing under her breath. “Great. We’ll be soaked by the time we get to the car.”

“We can wait it out,” I suggested, flicking on another lamp. Warm yellow flooded the room, cozy despite the peeling paint.

She glanced at the door, then back at the rain-blurred window. “Ten minutes,” she reminded, but her voice lacked conviction.

I sat on the edge of the couch, leaving distance. She remained standing, water glass cupped in both hands. The storm’s rumble filled the gap between us.

“You always loved rain,” I said before I could stop myself.

Her eyes flicked to mine—surprised, maybe softened. “I loved dancing in rain. There’s a difference.”

I smiled, memory threading warmth through my chest. “You dragged me into every spring downpour on campus. Ruined half my notebooks.”

“You never complained.”

“I did—once.” I chuckled. “You kissed me to shut me up.”

Color crept into her cheeks. She looked away, but the ghost of a smile tugged her lips.

Outside, thunder rolled again. Inside, the air became electric in a different way.

She set her glass on the counter and fidgeted with the frayed hem of her blazer. I rose slowly, one careful step closer. No sudden moves—like coaxing a skittish animal.

“Lily…”

She met my gaze. The storm flashed, lightning reflecting in her eyes. For a heartbeat the tiny apartment disappeared; only the thrum of rain, the hum of old feelings, the pull of her mouth existed.

I lifted a hand—hesitant—brushed a damp curl from her cheek where humidity had coaxed it free. Her breath hitched but she didn’t step back.

She wavered toward me—minuscule, but I felt it like gravity shifting.

Every cell in my body screamed to claim the inch left between us.

But she drew a sharp breath, spun away. “We should go. Isabella—”

“Right.” My voice came out rough. I dropped my hand, flexed shaking fingers. “Storm’s easing. Let’s move.”

I shut off the lamp, pocketed the dummy folder, and followed her into the hallway. She walked ahead, posture rigid, but when she reached the stair landing she glanced back.

Something raw glimmered in her eyes—want tangled with fear.

I swallowed the urge to pull her into the shadows and finish what almost started.

Time, I reminded myself. I’d bought time tonight.

But the clock was still ticking.

And the next near-kiss… I wasn’t sure either of us would survive backing away.