Our hands brush. She jerks back like I burned her.
My stomach drops.
“Sorry,” she blurts. “I’m—sorry. I mean, I didn’t—sorry.”
That’s a lot of sorry. A worrying amount of sorry. “You okay?” I ask.
She nods too fast. “Yes. Fine. Totally fine. Just… clumsy. Extra clumsy.”
She’s always a little clumsy. A little flustered. That’s part of her charm.
This is different. This feels like shame.
Or fear.
The thought lands hard and unwelcomed.Did she figure me out?
I straighten slowly, heart pounding harder than it should over a simple interaction. I’ve been careful. Painfully careful. No lingering looks. No unnecessary touches.
No comments that could be read as anything but professional.
But people notice patterns. And Liz is observant when she’s not panicking.
I hand her the last page. “If you need help with the copier?—”
“No!” she says too quickly, then winces. “I mean, no, I’m good. Thank you. For… helping. With the papers.”
She escapes before I can say anything else.
I watch her go, unease curling tight in my chest.
The break room offers temporary refuge and terrible coffee. I pour a cup and stare at the steam like it might give me answers.
It doesn’t.
The door opens behind me, and I turn, my breath catching.
Liz steps inside, and immediately looks like she wants to step right back out.
She hesitates, then commits, eyes glued to the floor like it might swallow her whole. She reaches for a mug, fumbles it, and nearly drops it.
I move without thinking. Catching her elbow, I steady her.
My hand feels the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her sleeve. Her body stills under my touch, breath hitching just enough that I feel it. She smells amazing, as always. Clean, warm vanilla mixed with something exotic that is uniquely her. I breathe in her scent, trying to be quiet about it.
She looks up.
Our faces are too close. Not inappropriate. Not obvious.
But charged.
I let go immediately.
“Sorry,” she says again, cheeks flaming. “I’m just… off today.”
Something twists in my gut.
“If something’s bothering you—” I start.
