Chapter 9: A Dangerous Kind of Closeness

After that trip, Lillian and I grew much closer.

It was like an invisible line had been crossed—one we couldn’t uncross, even if we wanted to. The secret we shared bonded us in ways neither of us could have predicted.

After all, sharing a room is a secret just between us.

In an office where everyone knew everything, it felt strange to have something only the two of us knew. It was intoxicating and terrifying at the same time.

Maybe once you break the physical barrier, the heart opens up too.

We both seemed to let our guard down a little, the small talk growing more frequent, the jokes coming easier.

Or maybe Lillian realized I wasn’t as filthy as she thought and changed her impression of me.

Her smiles became warmer, her tone gentler. She even asked about my weekend plans, something she’d never done before.

Even though we were so close, we barely spoke face-to-face, mostly messaging each other to avoid Natalie’s suspicion.

Our Slack chats became more playful, filled with inside jokes and silly GIFs. In meetings, we barely made eye contact, but our phones would buzz in sync under the table.

It was strange—there was nothing special in our chats, but it felt like we had to keep it secret.

Even a mundane meme about Monday mornings felt thrilling when it came from her. I started looking forward to every notification.

Lillian started treating me like a little brother. The fiercer she’d scolded me before, the more doting she was now.

She’d bring me snacks, check in on my projects, and tease me about my lack of dating life. I could tell she cared, even if she hid it behind sarcasm.

From her, I could feel a kind of motherly pampering.

She’d scold me for skipping breakfast, or remind me to bring an umbrella when the forecast called for rain. It was both embarrassing and sweet.

In real life, I’m shy, but online I let myself go, collecting all sorts of memes. When chatting with Lillian, I’d tease her now and then.

I’d send her a picture of a grumpy cat after a tough meeting, or a meme about being stuck in Zoom calls. She always replied with a string of laughing emojis.

She’d stare at her phone, cover her mouth, and giggle uncontrollably.

Sometimes I’d catch her trying to hide a smile behind her coffee mug, and I’d have to suppress my own grin.

Natalie noticed, shot Lillian a suspicious look, and frowned: “Lillian, what are you looking at that’s so funny? Not going to share with us?”

Natalie’s eyes darted between us, her curiosity barely contained. I tensed, bracing for another round of office interrogation.

Lillian realized she was being obvious, quickly straightened up and explained: “My son’s being naughty again. I need to discipline him when I get home.”

Her excuse was so quick, it almost sounded rehearsed. I bit my lip to keep from laughing.

I was speechless—how did I become her son just by joking around?

It felt weirdly flattering, even if it meant pretending to be a mischievous kid.

Natalie turned to me: “Jason, are you seeing someone? Why are you always glued to your phone?”

She leaned across the divider, her eyes searching mine for any hint of a secret.

I blushed: “No, just replying to messages.”

I could feel my ears turning red. I was a terrible liar, and Natalie knew it.

Natalie snorted, dissatisfied: “I called you to eat several times, but you acted deaf.”

She sounded hurt, and I felt a pang of guilt. I mumbled an apology, hoping to diffuse the tension.

I explained: “Sorry, Nat, I was too focused.”

I tried to sound casual, but my voice was shaky. Natalie wasn’t buying it.

Natalie pouted: “Don’t deny it. You’re definitely dating. Dare to let me see your phone?”

She reached for my phone, but I snatched it away, holding it out of reach.

I jumped and instinctively shielded my phone.

My hand shot up, covering the screen. Natalie laughed, but her eyes narrowed, like she was piecing together a puzzle.

Natalie sneered, eyeing me with a half-smile.

She leaned back, clearly enjoying the game. I knew she wouldn’t let this go anytime soon.

Lillian loved shopping online. Whenever she found something tasty, she’d buy an extra for me, so my place was always overflowing with snacks.

Boxes would show up on my doorstep—cookies from New York, dried fruit from California. My roommates started calling me "the snack king." I couldn’t keep up.

I had to protest: “Lillian, seriously, stop sending me stuff. I can’t finish it all.”

I texted her a photo of my overflowing pantry, hoping she’d take the hint. She just sent back a row of laughing emojis.

Lillian rolled her eyes: “Don’t be ungrateful. Who else spoils you like I do?”

Her reply was immediate, playful, but tinged with real affection.

I joked: “I’m honored. Even your husband doesn’t get this kind of treatment, right?”

The message was meant to be funny, but as soon as I hit send, I wondered if I’d gone too far.

Lillian’s face darkened, her eyes turning misty.

Her replies slowed, and I could sense the mood shift even through the screen. Something was wrong—really wrong.

I closed the office door and asked softly: “Lillian, what’s wrong?”

I waited until everyone else was gone, then approached her desk. Her eyes were red, and I felt my heart ache in my chest.

Lillian’s tears fell as she choked out: “I think my husband’s cheating on me.”

Her voice broke, barely more than a whisper. In that moment, all the office politics and secrets faded away, replaced by something raw and real. I reached out, unsure what to say, but determined to be there for her—whatever came next. I didn’t know what lines we’d crossed, or where we’d end up. But I knew one thing—nothing in that office would ever be the same again.