His eyes find mine.
Time lurches.
Don’t. Don’t even think about it. Follow the rules. Pick a seat. Keep your distance. Don’t—
Garrett starts walking. Down the aisle. Toward me.
The air turns to static.
I spot Turner, one of the alternate captains, nudge his seatmate and nod toward us. A rookie cranes his neck to get a better view, mouth slightly open. Even Frank adjusts his rearview mirror.
He stops at my row.
Looks down at me with something unreadable flickering in his expression.
The silence stretches like a wire about to snap.
“Thought the arena rat might need backup in enemy territory.”
He slides in beside me. The leather sighs under his weight.
A jolt—sharp and electric—shoots through me. The callback to our earlier conversation hits with surgical precision. He remembers what I said. He chose to remember. This is not casual.
This is deliberate.
I stare straight ahead, body rigid. “What are you doing?” I whisper through gritted teeth. “Everyone is looking.”
“Let ’em look.” He leans back, exuding calm. Broad shoulders shift into a posture that blocks me from the rest of the bus. Like a shield. Like a dare.
Heat radiates off him. His soap—something clean and subtle—wraps around me, and I fight the dangerous urge to lean in instead of away.
In the window’s reflection, I catch Easton’s stare boring into the back of my skull. His jaw is a slab of granite. His eyes: hard warning.
“This is not appropriate.” My voice is barely audible. My hands shake slightly, so I grip my laptop tighter. “Do you have any idea what this looks like?”
“What? Sitting next to a colleague?” Garrett's voice carries just enough innocence to be infuriating, but his eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. He pulls out his phone and a pair of earbuds. “Besides, you look like you're about to crawl out of your skin. Music helps.”
The observation is too accurate, too perceptive. I hate that he can read me so easily.
He holds up one earbud, the white cord dangling between us like an offering. Or a trap.
My mind races through the implications. Taking it makes this worse. Solidifies whatever statement he just made. Turns us into a unit. A narrative.
But refusing? That’s a statement too. The rookie is still watching. And so are the others. My media training project is no secret. This could be spun. Controlled. Rationalized.
The silence stretches.
And he’s still holding out the earbud.
With trembling fingers, I take it.
Our fingers brush. The contact lights a fuse. I fumble the bud before securing it in my ear.
The music begins—not the aggressive rock I expected, but something indie and thoughtful. The bass line creates a bubble around us, blocking out the rest of the bus and its watchful occupants.
“Better?” His voice is lower now, meant only for me.
Despite myself, I nod. The music gives us cover, makes the conversation feel less exposed. But my pulse is still hammering, and I'm hyperaware of how close he is, how his knee is mere inches from mine.
