I tap the drawing.
“But we’re using a custom frame that lets the glass run straight across the break. No visible seam.”
Tom leans forward across the table, studying the detail.
I keep going, the chopstick tracing the line as I talk.
“So it reads as one surface even though it’s built in sections. That matters because the whole building is designed around visual flow — inside to outside, public to private, ground level to the upper floors.”
I gesture with the chopstick again.
“If the glass breaks, the whole idea breaks.”
I’m talking faster now, the chopstick sketching invisible lines in the air. I don’t realize how animated I’ve gotten until I glance up.
Tom isn’t looking at the screen.
He's looking at me.
I stop mid-sentence. Lower the chopstick. "What?"
"You love this." His voice drops, quieter than before.
My shoulders stiffen reflexively. "It's my job."
"No." He shakes his head, and his mouth curves just barely—not quite a smile, but close. "It's not just the job. You light up. Your whole face changes when you talk about it."
My pulse kicks.
I set the chopstick down carefully. I don't know what to do with that sentence. I don't know where to file it or how to deflect without sounding defensive.
So, I turn my chair to face him.
Bad idea.
Because he is already standing up. He walks around the edge of the glass table, closing the physical distance I had so carefully set up, and crouches down right beside my chair.
We're knees-to-knees now. The space between us is maybe eight inches. The air feels suddenly heavy, still. The faint hum of the building's HVAC system is the only sound left in the world.
Tom's gaze flickers down to my mouth, then slowly, deliberately, back up to my eyes.
My hands grip the armrests. I forget to be careful. I forget everything.
Tom leans forward. Slowly. His hands come down, resting over mine, his long fingers gripping the plastic edges of the armrests as he boxes me in. Then, his right hand comes up. Knuckles brush my jawline, rough and warm, and then his thumb settles just under my chin.
The contact is light.
My breath stops.
He tilts my face up. Just a fraction. I meet his eyes.
I don't pull away.
His thumb traces along my cheekbone. The calluses on his skin catch slightly against mine. Heat floods down my neck, across my shoulders, into my chest.
"Sam." His voice is low and rough.
"Yeah?" It comes out barely more than a breath.
