Until You

🌿 Rider's Point of ViewI've always believed the most dangerous cracks don't shout. They hum like a light about to burn out, or the silence in a room that feels too sharp around the edges.The office burned too brightly that morning.Not sunlight, as the city had woken to a curtain of low, grey cloud, but the harsh overhead fluorescents buzzing against the hum of conversation and the clatter of keyboards. I didn't like mornings like this. They reminded me of the numerous early meetings and the days when my first marriage was coming apart in quiet, invisible ways.From my corner office, I had a perfect view of the bullpen. The glass walls gave the illusion of distance, but not much escaped me in this place: numbers, performance, and morale. People are patterns; I've built a life on spotting fractures before they splinter.That's why I noticed Dan Callaghan the moment he walked in.Pressed navy suit. Crisp shirt, this one a shade too sharp for the role he held. New shirt, new shoes, ne

🌿 Dan's Point of View Approximately a month ago Comfort, I believed, was like a clock that never failed, a steady rhythm composed of the familiar rituals of morning coffee, the daily commute, and warm kisses exchanged at the door. It felt safe, predictable, and reliable, wrapping around me like a cosy blanket. But then, the clock began to falter, its once-constant tick becoming irregular, and I realised that routine, while soothing, could also become a choking vine, stifling growth and spontaneity. I used to think routine was comfort. Coffee at seven, work by eight-thirty, home by six. Dinner with Layla. Her laugh was soft, coming from the kitchen, where the smell of rosemary chicken filled the air, and the way she'd reach up to kiss me when I walked through the door. For the last three years, that rhythm had been enough. More than enough. Lately, though, it felt like a suit shrinking while I wore it, seams whispering that they'd split. It started slowly. A sideways glance. A

🌿 Layla's Point of ViewThe knock came just as I was setting the table.I frowned, glancing at the clock. It was too early for Dan as he'd texted an hour ago to say he'd be "working late, again", and too firm to be Evelyn, who always rapped out a cheerful three-beat rhythm before letting herself in.When I opened the door, Rider Steele was standing on my porch.For a second, my brain stuttered, the rest of the world going quiet around me. I'd only met Rider once, months ago, at the fundraiser. He'd come up to me and had known exactly who I was before I even introduced myself, not because of Dan, but because of my parents.He'd spoken about the education initiatives my mother had founded and the community programmes my father had financed before the accident, saying the foundation's name carried weight in the city long before I'd taken over its management. We'd talked about the philanthropy work my company still did, the literacy programmes, youth outreach, and the scholarships I'd qu

🌿 Rider's Point of ViewThe sound of the door slamming still echoed in my head long after I left her porch. Rain slicked the path, reflecting the fractured light from her kitchen window, a perfect house holding broken things.Water ran down the steps in thin streams, washing the last of Dan Callaghan out into the gutter. I watched it longer than I meant to, because some messes, even when cleaned, leave stains.The air still smelled of rain and heartbreak, metallic and sharp, the kind that clings to you. I told myself it was closure. It didn't feel like it.Inside, I'd seen her standing at the table, spine straight, hands trembling only when she thought I wasn't looking. She hadn't broken. Not once. That kind of composure wasn't learned; it was bred from surviving worse things before.When she finally met my eyes, something quiet passed between us, not comfort, not connection, just recognition. Two people who knew the language of loss, and what it meant to stand in the wreckage still s

🌿 Dan's Point of ViewThe motel room smelled like bleach and regret. The kind of place that looked like it had seen too many bad nights and worse decisions.Thin walls, flickering neon light bleeding through the blinds, a mattress that sagged in the middle. This was what I'd been reduced to. Three years of marriage, a total of five years together, a career I'd built brick by brick, and in twenty-four hours, it all had been ripped out from under me.I could have called my parents. I didn't.They'd never liked Layla. They thought I was marrying down, trading pedigree for pretty. My mother said it with a smile, my father said it with silence, and my brother just repeated it over drinks until it felt like the truth. But they would've liked Li