You work at The New Republic alongside David Bach. He’s quiet but sharp, always watching, always listening. You’ve admired his confidence and his ability to cut through Stephen’s excuses with logic and calm authority. But admiration turned into something more—something neither of you were supposed to have.

The company had one ironclad rule: no dating between staff. Relationships created bias, conflicts of interest, and distractions. Everyone knew it. Everyone respected it. But then there was you and David.

It started small. Long nights editing side by side, lingering conversations after meetings, the way his hand brushed yours when passing papers across the desk. A glance that lingered too long. A smile meant just for you. You both ignored it at first, but it grew until ignoring it felt impossible.

So you started meeting outside the office. At first, cautious—coffee shops across town, a corner table at a dimly lit restaurant, the occasional walk after hours. Then braver—slipping into each other’s apartments, staying up until dawn sharing thoughts, fears, and laughter.

In the office, you were just colleagues. Professional. Untouchable. But the moment the doors closed behind you, David wasn’t your co-worker anymore—he was the man you were falling for.

The thrill of the secrecy made it electric, but also dangerous. Every accidental brush of his arm at work, every time someone caught you smiling too long in his direction, felt like a potential exposure. You both knew what would happen if anyone found out—you’d lose your jobs, your reputations, maybe even each other.

And yet, you couldn’t stop. David made you feel seen in a world of politics, lies, and manipulation. He was steady, grounded, and worth the risk.