I hesitated. The thought of letting her watch me type made my chest tighten, made my hands itch like they wanted to do more than just hit the keys. But I couldn’t resist the way she leaned forward, eyes bright and sharp and impossibly alive.
“You’ll have to come over here. I’m afraid laps and typewriters aren’t the best of friends.” I sat at the desk, fingers poised over the keys, and let her scrutinize every motion. She made little noises of delight — tut-tuts and exaggerated sighs — and every time she grinned, I felt a flicker of warmth crawl up my spine.
“You take this so seriously,” she said, voice teasing as she leaned over my shoulder, “and yet… look at you. You look like a man who just discovered a new toy.”
“I take all toys seriously,” I replied, letting my fingers find the rhythm.
She shifted closer, whispering conspiratorially, “I’m going to tell everyone you look ridiculous right now.”
“And you’re going to enjoy it.” I glanced up at her. She wasgrinning, eyes bright with mischief, the snow-light catching her hair. I thought, impossibly, that she looked like trouble even when reading a book.
“You’re going to let me play with it?” she asked.
I raised an eyebrow. “Play?”
“Yes. Play. Hit a key. Hear the clack. Pretend I’m a writer from the 1920s who’s too cool for the internet.”
I laughed, low and soft. “You’re insane, this isn’t aplaything, Colette. It’s an antique.”
“Exactly,” she said, shifting her weight so she was practically sitting on the arm of the desk chair. “That’s why this works.”
And somehow, amidst the hum of the fire, the clack of the typewriter, and the snow pressing against the windows, the cabin felt impossibly alive. Just the two of us, simple and domestic, and yet charged like the air before a storm.
She reached over the table, fingers twitching like a kid in a candy store. “Come on, let me try!”
“Try?” I said slowly, hand hovering over the keys like a parent watching a toddler with a box of matches. “Colette, this isn’t like a regular keyboard. The mechanics are completely different.”
Her grin widened. “Exactly why Imustplay with it. Danger, remember? It’s what I live for.”
I could already feel my pulse start to speed. Every small motion she made was deliberate. She leaned closer, brushing against my shoulder. Her fingers hovered over my hands astheyhovered over the keys, and I swear I could feel the tiny sparks of mischief crawling up my arm.
“You don’t type like normal humans anyway,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re all… precise, too perfect. Let me ruin that perfection for you.”
“I wouldn’t call it ruin,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, though my stomach had dropped into some entirely new orbit. “It’s… technique.”
“Technique, schmechnique,” she said, slapping her hand on the table for emphasis. “Let me hear the clack! Ineedit.”
With a resigned sigh, I stood, offering the chair to her. “Please don’t destroy my means of writing, Colette.” I said as I ran my hand through my greying beard. “I literally don’t have another one.”
She sat down dramatically, hands twitching over the keys. “I don’t know where to start.”
I leaned just a fraction closer, letting my hand brush hers as I gently guided her fingers to the right keys. The contact was brief, deliberate, casual — or at least Itriedto make it look casual.
“Here,” I murmured, low, letting her feel the pressure of my hand over hers. “Try this one first. Steady, slow.”
She froze for half a heartbeat, eyes wide, then tilted her head, grin spreading. “Steady and slow? That doesn’t sound like me at all.”
“Maybe it should be,” I said, keeping my voice calm even though my pulse was betraying me. My lips were near her ear, I couldsmellthe unique profile of her skin.
Her fingers vibrated under mine as she hit the keys. I guided her just enough to keep the rhythm smooth, close enough that I could feel the heat of her hand. The movement wasn’t intentional — at least, I told myself it wasn’t — but the thrill of it had my chest tightening in ways I hadn’t felt in years.
“You’re… very… particular,” she said, voice soft, teasing, each syllable stretching out as if she knew exactly the effect it was having on me.
“Particular is different from picky,” I countered, letting my thumb brush hers as I shifted slightly to adjust her grip. My eyes flicked up, catching hers. She held my gaze, smirk playful, daring.
“You like being close,” she said.
“I—” I caught myself, swallowed, and tried to look at the typewriter. “I’m… showing you the proper way.”
