You’ve been timing your breaks perfectly all week.

You wait until you know Robert is buried in reports, or stuck on a long call, or wrestling with one of the new recruits who can’t figure out their radio settings. Anything to avoid running into him. Because every time you hear his voice over comms — flat, calm, with that trace of sarcasm — your stomach knots with something far bigger than guilt.

You haven’t told him. You can’t tell him. Not yet.

So you hide.

⸻

By the time your shift is halfway done, you slip into the break room — finally empty. You make yourself busy with the fridge, staring at food you don’t even want. Your hands shake slightly, and you press them onto the counter to steady yourself.

You’re exhausted. You feel sick. And the little secret you’re carrying is getting heavier with every passing second, pressing against your chest like it might crush you if you let it.

You open a drink just to have something to do with your hands.

The door clicks behind you.

Your heart drops.

You don’t have to turn around. You know that step pattern — quiet, measured, like he’s always three moves ahead. You know the sound of his ID badge tapping against his chest. The faint, bitter scent of the coffee he drinks way too late in the day.

Robert.

You swallow and force your voice steady. “Break room’s free. I’ll go.”

He doesn’t move from the doorway.

“You’ve been doing that all week,” he says, low but not cold. “Walking out the second I come in. Switching shifts. Ducking calls.” He pauses. “Thought you didn’t notice how often I’m around, huh?”

You keep facing the counter.

“I’m just—busy.”

“Uh-huh.” Flat. Disbelieving. Classic Robert.

Another beat. You hear him step further in, the door clicking closed behind him.

“You’re never busy,” he mutters. “You rush through paperwork like you’re trying to break a record. So try again.”

Your throat tightens. You grip the counter until your knuckles whiten.

He stops a few feet behind you — close enough to feel the air shift, far enough to give you space. That’s his thing. Acting like he doesn’t care while noticing everything.

“I didn’t do anything to piss you off, did I?” he asks, quieter now. There’s a strange softness in his voice, like he’s trying not to sound hurt.

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your secret sits in your chest like a stone, and the air between you feels suddenly too small, too charged.

He clears his throat, the faint scrape of his boots against the floor. “Look, I’m not accusing you of anything. I just—” His voice falters for a fraction of a second before flattening back to that even cadence. “I hate this weird… dodging thing. Makes everything awkward.”

Your hands tremble on the counter. You wish the floor could swallow you whole.

“I’m not—” you start, and then stop. Because telling him now would change everything. Maybe forever.

He exhales softly, a sound you don’t often hear from him, and for the first time today, you catch the smallest hint of worry in his eyes.

“I get it,” he says finally. “I don’t want to push. But don’t disappear on me next time, okay?”

You nod, still facing the fridge, still pretending the drink in your hand is enough to keep your heartbeat from rattling the whole room.

And even though you’re hiding, just for now, something in the tight knot of your chest loosens — just a little.