The crack didn't come from me.
It came from the outside.
I was halfway through a late afternoon review when an unexpected calendar notification popped up.
Executive Briefing — Mandatory Attendance
My name was on the list.
So was hers.
The room was already filling when I arrived. Senior managers. Department heads. Faces that usually didn't share the same space unless something important was about to be discussed.
Evelyn arrived last.
She didn't look at me when she entered. Didn't need to. The room straightened instinctively, attention shifting the moment she took her seat at the head of the table.
"This won't take long," she said. "Let's begin."
The briefing moved fast. Numbers. Projections. Expansion plans. I focused on the data, not the fact that we were in the same room for the first time in days.
Then a slide appeared on the screen.
Internal Review: Team Assignments
My chest tightened.
"This review was requested by the board," Evelyn continued evenly. "Specifically regarding recent reallocations."
Eyes shifted. Subtle. Curious.
One executive cleared his throat. "There's concern that talent reassignment may have been influenced by… personal judgment."
The word personal hung in the air.
I didn't move.
Neither did she.
Evelyn folded her hands on the table. Calm. Precise.
"All decisions were made based on operational efficiency," she said. "Documentation is available."
Someone glanced at me.
Another glance followed.
She noticed.
Her gaze flicked to mine for the briefest moment—sharp, warning, protective.
"Lucas Reed was reassigned to eliminate speculation," she added. "Not because of performance."
The room stilled.
"He exceeded expectations," she continued. "Any implication otherwise is incorrect."
The defense was clean. Professional.
Still, hearing my name spoken like that—clearly, firmly—sent something through me I wasn't prepared for.
The meeting ended shortly after.
People filed out in clusters, voices low, curiosity unsatisfied.
I stayed seated.
So did she.
When the room was finally empty, Evelyn stood and turned to me.
"That shouldn't have happened," she said.
"It was inevitable," I replied.
She exhaled, the composure slipping just slightly.
"They're watching more closely now."
"I figured."
She walked toward the window, hands clasped behind her back.
"I won't let this damage you," she said. "I won't allow that."
"I know," I said.
She turned.
"You don't," she corrected. "Not fully."
The distance between us felt smaller now. Not physically—but emotionally.
"This situation," she continued, "it puts pressure where it doesn't belong."
"On you," I said.
Her lips pressed together.
"On both of us," she admitted.
That was the crack.
Not wide.
Not visible to anyone else.
But real.
"Evelyn," I said, before thinking.
She froze.
I hadn't used her name before. Not like that.
Slowly, she met my eyes.
"Yes?"
"I trust you," I said. "Whatever this becomes—or doesn't."
Something in her expression shifted. Relief. Fear. Recognition.
"Lucas," she replied softly, "this is exactly why we have to be careful."
I nodded.
"I know."
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then she straightened, professionalism sliding back into place.
"This conversation doesn't leave this room," she said.
"It won't."
She hesitated, then added, quieter, "Thank you. For today."
I gave a small nod and turned toward the door.
Behind me, she spoke one last time.
"The cracks," she said, almost to herself, "are how things break."
Or how they let light in, I thought.
But I didn't say it.
Some thoughts were still dangerous.