Not the act.
The permission.
I find the handkerchief later, when I’m changing.
Crumpled.. Left where I’d see it without it being a production.
It’s just a handkerchief. Linen. Soft. Practical in a way most gestures aren’t.
I don't know why I even kept it.
For God's sake it's got his come on it.
It's like some sort of weird symbolism I don't understand.
By the time I shower, dress, pin my hair back with practiced precision, I’m myself again—composed, competent, intact. Whatever almost happened last night doesn’t get to rearrange me without consent.
Work helps.
The building hums the way it always does. Familiar. Grounding. I settle at my desk, open my inbox, let routine do its work.
I’m already seated when my phone lights up.
Derek Pierce:
Do you have five minutes this morning? I can come down.
My breath stutters—just once.
I read it again.
I can come down.
Not an expectation.
Not a summons.
I turn the phone face-down and press my palm flat against my abdomen as warmth blooms there, slow and uninvited. Butterflies—soft, unmistakable. Annoying. Comforting.
Last night presses forward without permission.
The drive back to my place.
The way the city noise faded when the car door closed.
The quiet—not awkward, not rushed. Just held.
The way he watched me, like he was making a choice instead of following momentum.
My fingers curl slightly against my stomach.
I exhale and flip the phone back over.
Audra: Yes. I’m here.
I set it down again and ground myself with the edge of my desk. This is work. This is my floor. My space. Whatever almost happened last night doesn’t make me smaller here.
Still, when the elevator chimes a few minutes later, my body responds like it recognizes the sound.
