He remembers.
Of course he remembers.
He rememberseverything.
Including the way you take your coffee at three AM when you’re both pulling all nighters on a brief.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “That would be great, actually. Thanks.”
He nods and heads toward the door.
I watch him go.
Those broad shoulders. The confident stride. The way he moves like he’s used to people getting out of his way.
I shake my head. Turn my attention to my legal pad.
He returns a few minutes later carrying two mugs of coffee. Sets mine on the desk beside my legal pad without comment and walks to the opposite side of the office so that he’s standing near one of the windows.
Like he’s giving me space.
Or maybe keeping himself at a safe distance.
I pick up the mug and take a sip.
It’s black with no sugar.
Exactly how I like it.
I want to say thank you.
I want to ask why he still remembers these small details about me when we spent five years not speaking.
I want to know if this is as hard for him as it is for me.
Instead I just take another sip and pretend the warmth in my chest is from the coffee and nothing else.
6
Corin
The first week working with Amara is... interesting, to say the least.
Ten-hour days at the clinic. Concrete walls trapping heat the ceiling fan barely touches and the open windows do fuck all to cool. A single steel desk we share, like it’s neutral territory in a negotiation neither of us wants to lose.
Except this isn’t a negotiation.
This is something worse.
This is me pretending I’m not cataloging every detail about her.
The way she tucks hair behind her ear when she’s thinking. The faint scent of lemon peel mixed with industrial-strength sunscreen and enough bug spray to repel an army.
Her skin burns easily. Pale and soft and completely defenseless against the Caribbean sun. I caught her wincing yesterday when her shoulder brushed the window frame. Red as hell beneath her cotton dress.
So now I’m checking the UV index every morning like some kind of neurotic weather app addict. Suggesting earlier starttimes on high-exposure days. Adjusting the damn louvers so sun doesn’t hit her face.
It’s pathetic.
