He leans in again.
He always does. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t.
But he does.
Our shoulders brush. Our arms graze. Heat shoots up my spine.
He speaks softly, pointing something out in the draft.
I’m not listening.
I’m absolutely not listening.
All I can focus on is the way his hand is moving, slowly, toward my wrist.
Not touching.
Just… drifting closer.
Closer.
My pulse thunders.
He notices.
He always notices.
His fingers graze mine.
Barely.
But I jolt like he shocked me.
He freezes.
I freeze.
The air changes.
His hand turns, just slightly, palm up, inviting, offering, asking.
A question without words.
My breath stutters.
I should pull away.
I should.
But I don’t.
Not right away.
My fingers twitch toward his.
And then there’s a knock on the door.
We both jerk.
