By mid-morning, I had concluded that this was getting unbearable.
It was one thing to keep things professional, to set clear boundaries between work and whatever the hell had happened between us over the weekend. That made sense. That was necessary.
But this? This wasn't just keeping things professional. This was forced, strained, too careful, like we were walking on opposite sides of an invisible line neither of us wanted to admit we had drawn.
And I hated it.
Mark, for all his usual control, was the worst offender.
He wouldn't stop looking at me. I wasn't imagining it, although at first I thought I was.
I could feel it every time his gaze flicked toward me when he thought I wasn't paying attention. Every time I shifted in my chair tucked my hair behind my ear, or reached for my coffee. And every time I caught him doing it, his expression was unreadable, his face carefully blank—like he knew he shouldn't be looking at all.
But he was.
And the worst part?
