She glances out the window again. "He has this habit when he gets uncomfortable. He constantly checks for the exit. Moves around so nobody notices he's already halfway out of the conversation."
"I've seen it."
"He hasn't done it once since you walked in."
Outside, Tom turns back toward the door.
"I'm trying not to make him feel like he has to have an exit plan," I say quietly.
"Good." Wren's eyes follow him through the glass. "Because he will find one if you push. But if you don't—if you just let him figure it out..." She pauses. "He might surprise you."
"He already has."
She looks at me. The corner of her mouth moves, although it's not quite a smile.
The door opens, letting in a blast of street noise as Tom steps back inside, shoving his phone into his pocket. "Ready to head back?"
I close the sketch file and stand. "Wren, I'll send you a curated property list and the zoning guidelines tomorrow morning."
"You really don't have to—"
"I want to," I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Let me help."
Wren nods."Okay. Thank you."
***
The train ride back to Manhattan is packed, standing room only. We end up near the sliding doors, gripping the overhead rails.
We are pressed close together. Tom's chest is inches from my shoulder. Every time the car sways, his arm brushes mine, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight down my spine. The air between us feels entirely different from the quiet ride into Brooklyn. The quiet on the ride here had edges. This quiet is heavy. Thick.
The train violently jerks over a rough patch of track. I stumble, my hand slipping from the rail.
Tom catches my hip instantly, steadying me before I can fall. He doesn't let go immediately. He looks down at me, his green eyes dark in the flickering subway light.
"You're not what I expected," he says over the screech of the rails.
My breath catches. "What did you expect?"
"Someone rigid. Someone who wouldn't detour." His thumb flexes against my hip, just once, before he finally drops his hand. "I'm glad I was wrong."
***
I am home by seven.
I drop my bag on the chair, hook my jacket by the door, and open my laptop on the kitchen table before I've even kicked off my shoes. Pulling up three commercial Brooklyn listings I flagged during the subway ride, I screenshot them and start drafting an email to Wren. I include the zoning notes, permit requirements, and square footage ranges for two new neighborhoods she hadn't considered.
I am three paragraphs in when my phone buzzes against the wood.
Tom
Wren just texted me. Called you "good people." High praise. She doesn't trust easily.
Iread it twice, my heart doing a strange, fluttering rhythm in my chest.
Neither do I.
Three seconds pass.
