Part 4 — The Confession

The silence in the cabin was almost physical.

It pressed against the walls, wrapped around the two of them like something alive. Outside, phones rang, printers whirred, and voices murmured in the distance — but in here, everything felt suspended.

Laird was still seated behind his desk, pen resting between his fingers, his gaze steady but expectant. He had just accused her, in the most composed, professional voice, of working hard for a selfish reason — a promotion.

He thought he’d cornered her.

He expected, perhaps, for her to flush with embarrassment. Maybe her eyes would water, her lips would tremble. Or maybe she would snap back, voice shaking with hurt pride.

But Yara didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, she simply stood there, her expression calm. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, unhurried — like each word was chosen with care.

"I’m sorry if I gave you that impression," she said.

Something in the quiet certainty of her tone made him lean back slightly, as though bracing for whatever would come next.

"I don’t want any promotion," she continued, her gaze steady on his. "I just want to take care of you… cherish you."

He frowned, the pen in his hand tapping once against the desk. "Yara—"

But she didn’t stop.

"The same way you stand for everyone here — I want to stand for you. But I don’t see anyone caring about you the way I do." Her voice didn’t waver, though her heart was thudding painfully in her chest. "I wanted to be that person."

For a moment, something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Disbelief? Annoyance? Or something deeper, something he didn’t want her to see?

And then she smiled — not the bright, polite smile she sometimes gave colleagues, but a small, tender curve of her lips. A smile that felt private, meant only for him.

"I love you."

The words hung in the air between them, too heavy to vanish and too clear to be misunderstood.

Laird’s mind stalled for a second.

He had been bracing for excuses, for defensiveness, for an admission of ambition dressed up in modesty. Not this.

Not these three words — spoken without hesitation, without shame, without bargaining.

For a moment, he simply stared at her. Her eyes were open, unguarded, and there was nothing coy or manipulative in them. Just truth.

And that was the problem.

Truth was dangerous. Truth had burned him once before, when someone else had looked at him with that same open devotion — only to twist it into betrayal. He had promised himself he would never stand in that fire again.

His jaw tightened. He set the pen down slowly, deliberately, the click of it against the wood of the desk sounding louder than it should.

"Yara," he said finally, his voice low and rougher than before. "Get out."

Her chest rose, but she didn’t move. Not right away. She searched his face for even the smallest trace of softness, some crack in the armor.

There was none.

"Now," he added, sharper this time.

She nodded once, the movement almost imperceptible, and turned toward the door.

But as she reached for the handle, she heard the faint scrape of his chair behind her — not that he was following her, but as if he had shifted, restless. As though her words had left him unsettled in a way he didn’t want to admit.

She left without looking back.

And when the door clicked shut, Laird leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. Her words echoed in his mind — not because he believed them, but because he couldn’t stop hearing them.

"I love you."

It was ridiculous.

It was unwanted.

And yet… it stayed.

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