"Hey." Tom's voice is warm, but it’s thin. Distracted.
"Hey." I don't look up yet. Two more bullets. One more paragraph.
His phone vibrates violently against the table between us. Once, then twice in quick succession. The sound grates against my nerves. I hear the rapid, frantic tap of his thumb on the glass screen.
I finish the email, mark it unread so I remember to respond later, and set my phone face up. Tom is typing furiously, his jaw locked tight with concentration.
"Sorry." He glances up, offers a quick, apologetic smile, and drops his eyes right back to his screen. "Client's freaking out about print deadlines."
"It's fine."
It's not fine. It’s actually incredibly far from fine, but I don't know how to say that without sounding needy or unreasonable. I am a project manager; I understand deadlines. So instead of speaking, I reach for my coffee. It's lukewarm and bitter. I take a sip anyway.
Tom finishes typing, sets his phone down with a heavy thud, and exhales deeply. He finally looks at me. His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than they have all week.
"Long week," he says, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah."
The silence stretches between us. It is absolutely nothing like the comfortable, electric quiet from the gala weekend. I can feel the entire week sitting in the space between us—the one rushed ten-minute coffee we managed to grab on Monday, the night I went to bed without hearing his voice because he was still on set.
I shift in my seat, cross my arms, then uncross them because that feels too defensive. I pick up my coffee again just to have something to do with my hands.
"The post-Harbor debrief was a disaster," I say finally. "Richard wants major revisions, and Leo managed to lose half the data we needed."
Tom nods. His phone vibrates again. He glances at the notification banner but doesn't pick it up.
"That's rough," he says.
I wait for him to ask a follow-up question. He doesn't. His eyes flick back to his phone screen, still lit on the table.
Saturday night, we were on a terrace. His hands were in my hair, my back pressed against the railing, the whole world narrowed down to his mouth on mine and the sound of the ocean below. Now we're sitting three feet apart and he's watching his phone like it might explode if he looks away too long.
"You're distracted," I say, and I hear the edge in my voice before I can smooth it out.
Tom's head snaps up. "What?"
"You're distracted. You've checked your phone four times since you sat down."
"I'm dealing with a client emergency," Tom says.
"I know. I get it." I am highly aware that I was doing the exact same thing to him three minutes ago, but the hypocrisy doesn't make me any less frustrated. "I'm just—" I stop, bite down on the frustration rising in my throat. "Never mind."
"Sam."
"It's fine."
"It's not fine." He picks up his phone, flips it face down, and slides it to the far edge of the table. "I'm here. I'm listening."
I look at him. He isn't pulling away or putting up walls like he used to; his eyes are just bloodshot and tired. He is genuinely drowning in work. I appreciate the gesture, but the irritation doesn't dissolve completely.
"I was telling you about the debrief," I say carefully. "And you weren't really listening."
"You're right. I'm sorry."
I nod. Accept the apology because it's sincere.
Tom leans forward, elbows on the table, hands folded. He's giving me his full attention now, but it feels effortful. Like he has to consciously choose not to let his focus drift.
