I keep reminding myself that Fahad is only here for business.
That's the rule. That's the lie.
The conference room smells faintly of coffee and expensive cologne. The glass walls make everything feel exposed, even though no one is paying attention to us. Fahad sits across from me, calm, professional—too professional for the way his eyes linger when he thinks I'm not looking.
"Are you okay?" he asks, tapping his pen lightly on the table.
"I'm fine," I say quickly, flipping through the documents even though I've already memorized every line.
Business. Numbers. Contracts. That's all this is supposed to be.
But the silence stretches. Thick. Uncomfortable.
"You've been distracted all morning," Fahad says, lowering his voice. "And it's not like you."
I finally look at him. That's my mistake.
Something shifts between us—subtle, dangerous. The kind of moment that doesn't announce itself until it's already too late.
"It's nothing," I lie.
He leans back slightly, studying me. "You don't lie well."
My heart stumbles. "You shouldn't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you already know."
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he stands and walks toward the window, putting distance between us—like he's trying to be responsible.
"This is getting complicated," he says quietly. "And we haven't even crossed a line."
The words hit me harder than they should.
I stand too, my heels clicking against the floor. "Then stop making me feel like this."
He turns. "I don't make you feel anything."
I step closer, lowering my voice. "Then why does the room change when you walk in?"
For a moment, he says nothing. His jaw tightens.
"Because I feel it too," he admits. "And that's the problem."
My chest tightens. "Nothing has happened."
"Not yet," he says softly. "But we're standing too close to something we won't be able to undo."
The door suddenly opens. A colleague steps in, cheerful, oblivious. The spell breaks instantly.
Fahad steps away first. Professional. Controlled.
I hate him for it.
And I hate myself more for wanting him to stay close.
As the meeting resumes, our hands brush accidentally when we both reach for the same file.
It lasts half a second.
But my pulse races like I've been touched everywhere.
Nothing has happened.
Yet.
And that scares me more than anything.