I want to.
I shift my weight toward her. My body is moving on pure instinct, long before my brain has evaluated the collateral damage. The distance closes by an inch. Then two.
Her eyes don't dart away. She doesn't pull back. Instead, her chin tilts up the tiniest fraction, and her lips part slightly. She is letting me do this. Shewantsme to do this.
I lean in—
A blinding flashlight beam swings violently through the glass door.
Sam jerks back so fast her shoulder hits the back of her chair. I freeze, my heart hammering a frantic, violent rhythm againstmy ribs as the beam sweeps across the table—site plans, takeout containers, two laptops.
The security guard steps in, one hand on the door frame, dropping the flashlight to his side.
"You two know it's almost midnight?" He sounds tired, not suspicious
"Building's supposed to be locked by eleven."
Sam is already closing the laptop.
"Sorry. We lost track of time."
"No problem. Just need to get you out." He pulls the door wider, waits.
I cap my marker and stack the takeout containers, sliding the site plans into the tube. Sam unplugs her charger, folds it into her bag, zips it. She picks up her coffee cup, puts it down, leaves it.
We walk out.
The hallway is quiet, except for our footsteps on the tile floor, the guard's keys jingling on his belt as he walks, and the distant sound of the elevator.
I sneak a quick peek at Sam. She is looking straight ahead, her bag on her shoulder between us.
I adjust the shoulder strap on mine.
We don't talk.
Not hostile. Not comfortable. Just things neither of us is going to say at midnight with a security guard twelve feet behind us.
Sam’s ride share is at the curb, hazards blinking orange against the concrete.
She stops at the door. I stop half a step back. The professional distance reestablishes itself — both of us holding the shape of it carefully.
"See you tomorrow." I look at her, refusing to let her look past me. "You're ready."
She has her hand on the door handle. She pauses, and looks at me.
"We're ready."
She gets in. The door closes. I step back.
The taillights move down the ramp. Left turn. Gone.
I stand there, watching the empty street long after the taillights disappear. I wanted to kiss her. I still want to kiss her. But stepping across that line wouldn't just be a risk. It would change absolutely everything.
I put my bag on my other shoulder and head for the subway.
The presentation is tomorrow at ten AM.
One thing at a time.
