“I can’t complain,” he tells me as he sets down his papers and starts sorting through them. “Hey, listen, I’m sorry I—”
“It’s fine” I tell him, waving him off. “We’re friends. Or coworkers.”
“Friends is good,” he tells me.
Several awkward minutes pass while we work at our own machines, the sounds of rustling paper and whirring machines the only sound in the room. Somehow, the silence is louder. As my pile of copies finishes, I push myself off of the wall and straighten the papers before collecting them and heading out of the room.
Within four steps, I feel it coming. A blanket of ice wraps itself around my body as the hallway gets longer in front of me and I start seeing double.
Shit. Not here. Please.
I shift the huge stack of paper into one arm and use the other to support me, bracing myself against the wall as Icarefully step down the hallway, aiming for the large office at the end of it. The one that keeps pulling farther and farther away from me.
Just a little further. You can do this.
I push myself the last few steps until I cross the threshold of Colt’s office. I bounce the papers in my arm and shakily breathe, “Take them.”
“What’s that?” He asks, focused on his screen.
“Colt,” I pant as white creeps into the corners of my vision.
He breaks away from what he’s doing and looks at me, I assume ready to scold me for using his first name at work, but his features immediately flood with concern, and he jolts out of his seat.
The last thing I see before my vision sweeps into nothing but whiteness is Colt Fowler taking a step toward me.
•
With the world still far away, I feel something on my head. Combing? No, stroking. Soft, repetitive strokes accompanied by an equally gentle voice.
I slowly open my eyes as blurry light floods my vision, and I put together that I’m looking up at the ceiling tiles of the office.
I groan, and hear a deep, soothing whisper in response. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Colt comes into view and I realize that my head is in his lap, and it’s him that I feel stroking my hair.
“Was it bad?”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t hit anything.”
I turn my head, looking around and trying to get my bearings. “Your door is closed,” I point out.
“You needed privacy.”
I could probably sit up now and be fine, but I don’t. He’s so solid and warm, and being here in his lap is comforting. I’d stay here forever if I could.
“Is this you being pushed too hard,” he asks, “or is this your normal?”
“It happens, just not often.”
“Am I pushing you too much?” He repeats.
I shake my head, not completely unaware of the friction I’m creating on his lap.
He nods his understanding and just tells me, “Okay.”
I let a few beats of silence pass before saying, “You’re the first person who’s taken care of me. Really racking up the prince points, Mr. Fowler.”
“I don’t like that.”
