#too close

Follow-up.

Continuity.

Clarifying questions.

Ethics documentation.

The board doesn’t say we need you. They say it would be helpful.

Which is, in Gotham, the same thing.

You learn this on a Tuesday that should have been ordinary. The kind of day that starts with coffee and ends with a predictable amount of exhaustion—contained, planned, survivable.

Instead, your phone lights up with an email chain that has grown teeth.

As part of the revised governance timeline, we’d like to schedule a working session with Mr. Drake and our external consultant to align messaging and documentation ahead of the January 30 vote.

External consultant.

It reads like a job title.

It feels like a collar.

You forward it to Tim with a single line:

You: Confirming you saw this.

His response comes too quickly.

Tim: I did. I’m sorry.

You stare at I’m sorry until it blurs slightly at the edges.

He’s not apologizing for the work.

He’s apologizing for the shape it’s taking.

You type back:

You: It’s fine. Schedule it.

It isn’t fine.

You schedule it anyway.

⸻

By six p.m., Wayne Enterprises is emptying out with the smooth inevitability of a building that believes in clean endings. The elevators carry people downward. Lights dim in stages. Offices go quiet one by one.

Tim’s doesn’t.

His desk lamp stays on—warm, deliberate. A single human circle of light inside an institution that prefers fluorescent truth.

When you arrive, he’s already set up the conference table with documents and a laptop, his jacket draped neatly over a chair. His tie is loosened a fraction, not enough to look casual, just enough to admit he’s been here all day.

He looks up as you step in.

“Thank you for coming,” he says.

It’s the first time he’s said it like that—like the words aren’t automatic.

You set your bag down. “We both know I didn’t have much of a choice.”

A beat.

Tim’s mouth tightens, then softens. “No. You didn’t.”

He gestures toward the table, toward the agenda that has been laid out like a quiet battlefield.

“Board wants to walk through the ethics narrative again,” he says.

He still hasn’t explained why he left that day.

You haven’t asked.

Some absences explain themselves by the way they lingered.

“They’re nervous about the amendment delay. They want… reassurance.” He continues

The word lands heavy.

Reassurance has never been about the numbers.

You sit, posture composed, pen already in hand. “Then we reassure them.”

Tim watches you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze flicks to your hands—steady, ready—then up to your face.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he says quietly.

You keep your eyes on the documents. “I’m here.”

It is not the same thing.

Tim doesn’t argue. He never argues when the truth is inconvenient.

He just starts.

⸻

The work is methodical.

You go line by line through the revised documentation. You tighten phrasing. You remove anything that can be interpreted as emotional reasoning. You make the narrative clean enough for people who like their ethics in neat little boxes.

Tim answers questions you ask as if you’re any other consultant. Calm. Precise. Contained.

It’s almost convincing.

Until it isn’t.

—

An hour in, you pause over a paragraph and frown.

“This sentence implies that the delay was due to internal disagreement.”

“It was,” Tim says.

“Yes, but we’re not framing it that way,” you reply. “We’re framing it as due diligence.”

Tim nods. “Right.”

You read the next section more slowly. Then again.

“Wait,” you say, tapping the page once.

Tim leans in. “What?”

“If we leave it like this,” you say carefully, “they can revisit approvals later. Pull funding. Adjust terms.”

Tim stills. He hadn’t seen it — not yet.

“After?” he asks.

You lift your gaze.

“After,” you confirm.

The word hangs there — heavier than it should be, not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s finally been said out loud.

Tim’s mouth tightens. “When things end.”

Not an accusation.

Not a fear.

Just a fact neither of you has named until now.

“They’ll want language that outlasts… this,” he adds quietly.

Something sharp and unwelcome twists in your chest. You keep your voice even.

“Then we don’t let it hinge on narrative at all,” you say. “We make the justification independent. Clean enough that it stands even after.”

Silence stretches.

Tim’s fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table. He hadn’t planned on thinking past the end date tonight. He especially hadn’t planned on hearing it framed like a contingency instead of a choice.

“What they mean,” he says finally, voice lower, “is whether I’m stable.”

You don’t look up. You don’t have to.

“What they mean,” you correct gently, “is whether you’re legible.”

Tim’s gaze catches on you again at that—something flickering beneath his composure. Not gratitude. Not relief.

Something more complicated.

Dangerous.

He says your name like he’s grounding himself. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

The words land without heat, without accusation.

Just truth.

You swallow, pen hovering. “No.”

And then, because you are who you are, because you can’t lie cleanly even when you want to:

“But if we don’t, they’ll start asking questions.”

Tim’s eyes sharpen. “About me.”

“About us,” you correct, and feel the weight of it immediately.

Us.

The word wasn’t supposed to come out that way.

Tim stills.

For a moment, he looks like he’s about to say something and decides not to. His jaw tightens. He nods once—small, controlled.

“Right,” he says. “About us.”

Your pulse ticks up, quiet but insistent. You force it down by returning to the page.

“Okay,” you say briskly. “Back to the language.”

Tim’s gaze stays on you for a second too long.

Then he follows you back into the work because he always does. Because he always chooses what can be managed.

⸻

By nine, the building has gone so quiet that even your breathing feels loud.

You rub at your temple, eyes gritty, and reach for your coffee—only to find the cup empty.

Tim notices without looking at you. He just stands.

“Stay,” he says, and leaves before you can respond.

You sit there alone, staring at the documents, trying not to think about how intimate it is that he told you to stay like it was a given you would.

Ten minutes later, he returns with two coffees.

Not catered. Not ordered. Not delegated.

He has gone out himself.

He sets one cup in front of you with the care of someone handling something breakable.

“It’s late,” he says, as if that explains everything.

You look at the cup, then at him. “You didn’t have to.”

Tim’s mouth quirks, barely. “I know.”

You wrap your fingers around the warmth. It steadies you.

It also does something worse.

It makes the night feel domestic.

Like you belong here.

You take a sip and close your eyes for half a second.

When you open them, Tim is watching you.

Not like a CEO assessing a consultant.

Like a man watching the one person in the room who doesn’t ask him to be simple.

You clear your throat. “Thank you.”

His gaze drops, just briefly. “You’re welcome.”

And then, like he needs to put walls back up before they collapse, he sits and picks up his pen again.

“Next section,” he says, too professional.

You let him have it.

⸻

By ten thirty, you’ve finished the last revision.

The document is cleaner than it was. The narrative tighter. The machine fed.

You should feel satisfied.

Instead, you feel hollow.

Tim leans back in his chair, eyes closing for a moment. When he opens them, he looks tired in a way he rarely allows anyone to see.

“We did it,” you say, because you don’t know what else to say.

Tim’s gaze lifts to you. “Yes.”

A pause.

Longer this time.

Not filled by work.

Filled by what’s left when the work is done.

“You should go home,” Tim says.

It’s careful. It’s polite. It’s the right thing to say.

You nod. “I should.”

Neither of you moves.

Outside the window, the city glitters—indifferent and beautiful.

Inside, the air feels charged, like a storm that never breaks.

You stand first, gathering your things with unnecessary precision. Bag zipped. Notes collected. Pen capped.

Control.

You slide your coat on, and as you shift, the strap of your bag catches against the chair.

The motion pulls you off balance just slightly—not enough to fall, just enough to stumble half a step.

A small thing.

Tim reacts instantly.

He’s up and beside you in a blink, one hand reaching out to steady you.

His palm lands at the small of your back.

Warm.

Firm.

Protective.

It’s the same gesture from the restaurant, the same careful touch meant to prevent a collision.

But there’s no waiter here.

No crowd.

No excuse.

You still.

Tim stills.

For a moment, neither of you lets go.

You can feel the exact shape of his hand through the fabric of your coat. You can feel how his fingers flex once, like he’s checking himself.

Your breath catches. You hate that it does.

Tim’s voice is close, lower than it has been all night.

“Are you okay?”

You nod, but you don’t trust your voice. So you make yourself speak anyway.

“Yes,” you manage. “I’m fine.”

Tim doesn’t move.

His hand remains at your back, not sliding, not squeezing—just… there.

Present.

As if letting go would be the real risk.

You tilt your head just slightly, not to look at him fully—because that would be too much—but enough that your peripheral catches the line of his jaw, the concentration in his expression, the restraint held like a blade.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

Just for a second.

Then back up.

A quiet inhale.

The space between you narrows by a fraction.

Not a kiss.

Not yet.

But the possibility of one hangs there—bright, dangerous, unbearable.

Tim’s hand lifts away as if it burns him.

He steps back.

The air rushes in between you like a door opening.

“I’m sorry,” he says automatically—like last time, like a reflex, like an apology for wanting.

You swallow. “You didn’t do anything.”

Tim’s eyes flick up, sharp with something you can’t afford to name.

“Exactly,” he says softly.

The words land like a warning.

Or a confession.

Or both.

You hold his gaze for one breath longer than you should.

Then you look away first.

Because if you don’t, you’re not sure you’ll be able to leave at all.

“Good night,” you say.

“Good night,” Tim replies.

And you walk out of his office with your posture composed and your steps steady, as if your body hasn’t just learned something it can’t unknow.

⸻

In the elevator, the reflection of your face in the mirrored wall looks the same as it always does—calm, controlled, unreadable.

But your heart doesn’t match.

It keeps replaying the same moment on a loop.

The warmth of his hand.

The brief flick of his gaze.

The fraction of a second where the kiss existed like a door left slightly open.

This was supposed to get easier.

Instead, it’s getting closer.

And the worst part is—

You’re not sure either of you is trying very hard to stop it anymore.

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