“Don’t psychoanalyze me, counselor,” she murmurs, amused.
“Not analyzing,” I say. “Observing.”
She looks at me from under her lashes. “Observing what?”
“You,” I say. The word sits between us, heavy yet simple.
She swallows. The fan ticks. The panel light buzzes. The world shrinks to six feet and the way she’s breathing now. A little erratic again, but not the same way as before when she was panicking.
This is different. Awareness.
A beat passes. She watches my throat as I swallow.
“Tell me another thing,” she says, almost desperately.
“I don’t touch what isn’t offered,” I say.
Her lips part. “Good rule.” Her teeth catch her lower lip gently.
“It keeps people safe,” I say.
Her knee nudges mine. Not an accident. Barely there. Enough. Heat runs through me quickly, nearly stealing my breath. I don’t move.
Her knee stays against mine. A small press. A choice.
“Olivia,” I say, low.
She looks up through her lashes. “Yes?”
Her breath slips out, slow. Her fingers slide from her knee to the floor between us, close to my hand but not touching. Waiting.
I turn my palm up. I don’t take; I offer. She studies it like she’s weighing the different outcomes, then lays her hand in mine. Warm. Small. Stronger than it looks.
She leans another inch, the faintest of movements, and I can feel the warmth of her breath now.
“May I?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says,almost a whisper.
I reach up with my free hand and touch the loose strand at her temple. I smooth it behind her ear. My knuckles skim her cheekbone. Her eyes go heavy-lidded, then open again, clear.
I pull my hand back slightly, giving her the out.
She leans forward, making contact again.
I skim my knuckles over her cheekbone again, slower.
Her breath hitches and evens out, the panic replaced by something thick and warm. My fingers pause just under her jaw; her skin is soft there. She leans into the touch.
Her hand leaves mine and finds my tie, not grabbing, not pulling—just resting at the knot. Her fingertips press lightly into the silk. I feel it everywhere.
“You’re very… put together,” she says.
“Occupational hazard.”
“I like it,” she says, and her voice drops.
She shifts that last inch, our knees lined up, her shoulder against my arm, her body telling mine exactly what it wants, even if we’re both pretending that’s not what’s happening.
