“Mm-hmm,” she said, clearly unconvinced. She pressed the keys again, this time letting her wrist brush mine as she leaned a fraction closer to see the letters more clearly. My chest thumped. Every nerve in me screamedtoo close, but my brain was useless,distracted by the warmth of her hand, the spark in her eyes, the impossible pull she had on me.
“See?” she whispered, voice low. “I can be good at this too.”
“You’re… surprisingly… coordinated,” I said, voice tight. I could feel her laugh vibrating through her chest against mine. “For chaos incarnate.”
She leaned in just a little more, letting her hair brush my arm, and I realized that this moment — small, domestic, innocent-seeming — was nearly impossible to survive without losing every shred of composure.
And I didn’t want to survive. Not really.
She leaned even closer, elbows resting on either side of the typewriter, eyes locked on mine. “No, no, you’re doing it all wrong,” she said, voice soft but teasing, as if every word was carefully designed to make me tense.
“I’m showing you the rhythm,” I replied, fingers brushing hers again as I adjusted her hand over the keys. The heat of her skin against mine sent a shiver up my arm. My pulse thudded in my ears, loud and insistent.
“I don’t need your rhythm,” she said, a crooked grin forming. “I have my own. But Idoquite like you this close to stop me from… smashing everything.”
I caught my breath. Close enough for her to feel my chest, the subtle shift of my weight, and yet, I dared not move an inch. “Then follow my lead,” I murmured, low, letting my hand rest lightly over hers.
Her eyes flicked down to our hands, then back up, sparkling with mischief. “Mm… your hand is heavy. Do I… do I press too hard?”
“No,” I said, voice tight, conscious of the small friction where our skin met. “Just… steady. That’s all that matters.”
She leaned in a fraction more, and I could smell the faint pine and something uniquely her — warm, spicy, impossible to ignore. Her laughter bubbled, soft and dangerous, and she tapped a keywith my fingers still over hers, sending a small clack through the quiet cabin.
“See?” she said, teasing, “I could get used to this. Being led like a… typewriter apprentice?”
I swallowed, pulse hammering. “You’re… remarkably persuasive.”
Her grin widened. “I think you like it.” Her head turned, eyes meeting mine with a fire that settled low in my stomach.
“Yes,” I admitted under my breath, almost lost in the feel of her hand, the small, careful guidance, the way she leaned just enough to keep the contact, her eyes daring me to admit more.
She pressed another key, brushing past me slightly as she reached for the next one, and I felt the tiniest spark — too small to name, too big to ignore. My fingers twitched involuntarily, holding hers steady even as every sensible part of me screamed to step back.
But I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
“Ready for the next line?” I reached around her, caging her between the desk and my body, as my fingers found the lever. “Pull here.”
She shivered underneath me, tiny and involuntary, and my chest tightened. The warmth of her pressed against me, the faint scent of her hair brushing my cheek, and the spark of her energy made every rational thought vanish.
“Pull here,” I murmured again, leaning just enough that the tip of my lips brushed near her ear. She froze, a shiver running through her again — whether from the motion or my proximity, I couldn’t tell.
“I—uh…” Her breath hitched slightly, and I caught the wordless confession in it. My hand on the lever lingered, guiding, steadying, though I was the one in danger of losing control.
Her eyes darted up at mine, mischievous and bright, but something else flickered there too — a thrill, a dare. She knew how close we were, and she let it happen anyway.
I exhaled slowly, careful not to betray just how far gone I already was. “Good,” I whispered, letting my chest graze against her back ever so lightly as I showed her the motion again. “Good girl, just like that.”
She bit her lip, letting out a soft, nervous laugh. “You’re so bossy,” she said, and I couldn’t tell if it was amusement or something else entirely — but I didn’t care.
The lever clicked, the typewriter responded, and for a suspended heartbeat, it was just the two of us, pressed together in that tiny space, every brush of skin, every shared breath amplifying the unspoken tension.
Colette’s laugh cracked the air between us, bright and startled. “Oh, god,” she said, tipping her head back until her hair brushed my chin. “We look ridiculous.”
The sound of her laughter broke whatever spell had been holding us in place. I stepped back a fraction, enough to breathe, though the echo of her warmth stayed against my skin.
“Probably,” I said. My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. “You’re supposed to be learning how to use a typewriter, not turningwritinginto a contact sport.”
