I don’t.
Her mouth is tight with concentration, lips pursed, jaw flexed just enough to reveal tension behind her calm. She bites the inside of her cheek—just once—then swipes a corrupted file from the display with an elegant flick.
And then?—
She leans toward me.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
Her elbow brushes mine.
Her forearm grazes my chest.
I stop breathing.
She doesn’t.
Her eyes flick up—quick, assessing—but she says nothing. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t flinch.
That alone nearly undoes me.
My body responds before my mind can override it. Heart rate up. Temperature spike. Neural pathways lighting in patterns usually reserved for combat alert or near-fatal injury.
I step back. One pace. No words.
She watches me.
Her head tilts.
“Too close?” she asks, voice low.
I don’t answer.
I can’t.
I nod once. Curt. Controlled.
She looks at me a second longer than necessary. And then—thankfully—turns back to the interface.
The contact should fade.
It doesn’t.
It replays in my mind like a breach warning.
I retreat to the corridor under the pretense of perimeter analysis.
I don’t return until I can breathe again.
Barely.
I lie awake that cycle.
No rest.
No stillness.
