Even the radiator seems to pause.
Dominik exhales long and skeptically."That might actually work."
Lukas shrugs, grabs his water bottle."Better than 'Power.Precision.Pride.'That one always sounded like toothpaste."
Niko snorts.Lukas laughs.
Thomas doesn't.
He just watches me.Unreadable, but present in a way that prickles under my skin.
A few weeks ago, I might have melted under that stare.Right now, I barely feel it.I'm in my flow.
Dominik nods, slowly."You'll pitch it to the federation heads tomorrow.If they say yes, we run with it."
I nod back, trying to play it cool, but the grin pulling at the edge of my mouth has other ideas.
My fingers are still curled tight around the pen.I know what this is.
It's a win.
The guys start to file out, the tension breaking.Someone tosses a ball-up paper towel.Niko blocks it with a grin.
"Pick up your litter, will you?"Lukas mutters.
"It's your litter!"Niko says, but he scoops it up anyway, still grinning.
Martin palms the paper, flicks it with a trick shot into the bin without looking."Efficient.On-brand."
They drift toward the elevator; Lukas limps half a step, hides it; Niko bounces; Martin checks the lobby's reflection like it's a lens.
And then it's just me alone again.Almost alone.
Thomas lingers.
He crosses the room while I gather my sketches and scraps.I sense him before I see him, like static in the air.Warmer.Closer.My skin tightens half a second before he speaks.
Warmer.Charged.
He stops behind me.Close.Too close to breathe freely.
"You didn't just carve it," he says, voice low."You owned it."
I pause.My hand stills on the edge of a page.I should say something sharp.Dismissive.I can feel the line forming on my tongue, ready to fire.
But it doesn't come.
I glance at him.And I don't see a smug macho, but an honest face.
"Is that your idea of flirting?"I ask.My voice doesn't match my words.It comes out too soft, too interested.
"If it was," he says, meeting my eyes, "you'd already be smiling."
I don't smile.
Not really.
But I feel it now: the shift.Like the air changed shape.Like our connection from dinner, buried under work, logic, and pride, just surfaced without permission.
