We've been pushing the final presentation flow back and forth for twenty minutes. I'm trying to walk him through why the design story needs to lead with community integration—not the structural hero shots—and he keeps circling back to the visual sequence like this is a photography problem instead of a stakeholder one.
"No," he says, tapping the screen. "If you start with the structural bones, you get the scale immediately—"
"But scale isn't what neighbors are going to feel first," I cut in. "They'll feel the path from their front door to the waterfront. That's the emotional anchor. If we don't open with that, the whole presentation reads like we're building a monument to ourselves."
I hear the edge in my own voice and dial it back.
"Sorry," I say. "I'm not explaining it right."
I scan the room for something to work with. Tape measure on the desk. Stack of crates in the corner. Folding chair against the wall.
"Here." I grab the tape measure. "Hold this end."
He takes it, confused. "What are we doing?"
"I need to show you the sightline." I drag the folding chair toward the crates. "If you hold that steady and I measure the angle from up there, you'll see exactly what residents will see looking toward the waterfront. That's why the connectivity shot has to lead."
"Sam—"
"I'm fine." I test the top crate with one boot. Solid. I step onto the chair, then onto the crate, and the tape measure pulls taut between us. "Okay. Hold it steady—"
The crate shifts. Not much. Enough.
Tom is already moving before I process the shift. No hesitation, no "careful"—just three fast steps and both hands are at my waist.
He lifts me down in one clean motion.
There isn't much space between the desk and the crates, and when my boots hit the floor, we're closer than we should be. His hands stay where they are. Mine land on his shoulders because there is nowhere else to put them.
Neither of us moves.
"Okay," I say. "Not my best plan."
"No." His grip doesn't loosen. His voice is easy but his eyes aren't.
"Did you at least see what I meant? About the angle?"
"No." A pause. "I was too busy watching you try to seriously injure yourself."
A laugh slips out. "I had it under control."
"You were standing on a folding chair on top of a crate."
"It was structural."
"It was cardboard."
"Reinforced cardboard."
He finally lets go and steps back toward the laptop. "Show me on the screen. No climbing required."
I follow him back to the desk.
The ghost of his hands is still warm against my sides, and I have no good reason to still be thinking about it.
I take a breath.
Then I pull my chair to the opposite side of the desk.
