The call came after hours.
I was already home, jacket off, laptop closed, trying—and failing—to disconnect from the day when my phone lit up again.
Ms. Sheldon
I stared at the name longer than I should have.
"Yes?"
"I need you to come back," Evelyn said. No preamble. No explanation. "There's an issue with the board documents."
"I'm not on that team anymore."
"I know," she said. "That's why I'm asking."
I hesitated only a second. "I'll be there."
The office felt different at night.
Too quiet. Too empty. The kind of silence that made footsteps sound louder than they should. Her floor was lit, her office door open.
She was alone.
No jacket this time. Hair slightly loose. The sharp lines softened by exhaustion she no longer bothered to hide.
"Thank you for coming," she said.
"What happened?"
She handed me a tablet. "They found an inconsistency. Minor, but they'll use it if they can."
I scanned the figures quickly. It was subtle—but I saw it.
"This was revised after the reassignment," I said.
"Yes."
"And they think—"
"They think it reflects poor judgment," she finished. "Or favoritism."
I looked up. "It doesn't."
She met my gaze. "They don't need it to."
We worked side by side.
No one spoke unless necessary. Data checked. Notes revised. Explanations tightened until there was nothing left to question.
At some point, I realized how close we were standing.
Not touching.
Just… closer than before.
"You don't have to do this," I said quietly.
She didn't look at me. "I do."
"For the company?"
She finally turned.
"For you."
The words hung between us, heavy and undeniable.
"That's crossing a line," I said.
Her expression didn't change. "So is letting them damage your future."
Silence followed.
Not strained.
Honest.
"This isn't sustainable," I said.
"I know," she replied. "But neither is pretending you don't matter."
That was it.
Not a confession.Not a promise.Just the truth—spoken without protection.
I took a step back. "We should finish."
She nodded, just as quickly. "Yes."
When we were done, she saved the file and locked the tablet.
"It won't come up again," she said.
I believed her.
At the door, I paused.
"Evelyn," I said.
She looked at me.
"I don't regret helping," I added. "But this—whatever it is—it can't live in moments like this."
She studied me for a long second.
"You're right," she said. "Lines don't blur all at once."
"How do they blur then?"
She answered without hesitation.
"When people stop pretending they don't see them."
I left before either of us said something we couldn't take back.
That night, lying awake, I understood something clearly for the first time.
The line wasn't gone.
But we were both standing close enough nowto feel its edge.