He doesn't answer right away. His gaze moves over my face—eyes, mouth, back to eyes—and the silence stretches. Outside, a car horn sounds faint and distant. The refrigerator in the kitchenette hums.
Then he speaks.
"I want to know what else makes you look like that."
My brain stalls.
"Like what?" I manage.
He leans in.
Six inches between us. Then four.
I soften against his hand. My body tilts toward him, closing the distance he left open.
His eyes are green. I see the darker ring around the iris. The pale flecks catching the monitor light. The place where his jaw tightens, holding himself back.
Three inches.
The project disappears.
Thursday doesn't exist. The Board doesn't exist. The compliance log, the careful distance—all of it stops mattering.
Two inches.
His phone vibrates against the glass table.
The harsh buzz violently shatters the quiet.
We freeze.
For one long, agonizing beat, neither of us moves. The phone buzzes again, rattling against the glass.
Tom closes his eyes. His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle jump. He exhales—a sharp, frustrated sound—and his hand drops from my face.
The sudden loss of his heat leaves my skin feeling cold and completely raw.
He leans back, runs a hand through his hair, and reaches for the phone. His grip is tight, knuckles showing white for a second before he loosens it on purpose.
"It's Wren," he says. His voice is strained, thick with whatever we just stopped ourselves from doing.
I nod. I don't trust myself to speak. My face is burning where his hand was.
He stands, his boots shifting loud against the floor, and steps into the hallway. The glass wall between us might as well be a mile. I see him pacing, phone pressed to his ear, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck.
My pulse hammers in my throat. My chest is tight.
I wasn't caught off guard. That's the terrifying truth. When he closed the gap, I met him halfway. I let the project, the Board, and my entire career disappear for a pair of green eyes.
I stand and start packing. My hands are shaking, so I shove them into my pockets and use my forearms to gather the sushi containers. Stack them. Wipe the table. Close the laptops. Efficient. Methodical.
The door opens.
Tom steps back in. He looks frustrated and tightly restrained. He starts to reach for his camera bag, then stops, staring at the perfectly cleared table.
"She thinks she found a space," he says. "In Greenpoint. She wants me to see it tomorrow." He stops. Takes a breath. "Look, Sam, about just now—"
"That's great." I cut him off, voice too bright, too fast. "You should go. Help her."
