I do. Somehow.
My knees are weak. My pulse loud. My mouth dry.
He sits next to me. Close enough to feel the heat of him through the air.
He opens the folder.
“We’ll start with the Valentine’s feature,” he says. Calm. Professional.
Like he didn’t rearrange my entire nervous system yesterday.
I try to focus.
I really do.
But then, he leans in.
EVERY TIME.
He points at the draft. Our shoulders brush.
A breath. A spark. A small shock of contact.
My lungs forget how to function.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?” he asks, voice low.
I shouldn’t have said anything. He wasn’t apologizing.
He meant the contact.
He meant for it to happen.
His fingers brush the tabletop, just inches from mine. Hovering again. Waiting.
Not touching.
Not yet.
I swallow.
He notices.
He always notices.
“Relax,” he murmurs.
I can’t.
He knows that.
His eyes lock on mine. Warm. Focused. Undeniably intentional.
“If you need a break,” he says quietly, “tell me.”
My breath is a shaky exhale.
