"Community integration slide," I say, opening the file. "I'll walk you through the revisions."
I sound like I'm presenting to the Board, not sitting in a construction trailer with a man who just had his hands on my waist.
We work like that for twenty minutes. Me on one side, him on the other.
It doesn't help.
Every time his hand moves near the center of the desk, I'm aware of exactly how many inches separate his fingers from mine.
This is ridiculous.
I've worked late with colleagues hundreds of times. I've shared tight spaces, missed dinners, collaborated under pressure. I don't lose focus because someone steadied me when I climbed on a crate.
Except I am losing focus.
We had to move back to the main monitor to review the final photo sequence in high resolution. Tom stands behind me, close enough that I can hear him breathing, one hand resting on the back of my chair.
The mini-fridge hums. Outside, the site has gone quiet. It's after nine.
It is a perfect, dangerous echo of the night we almost crossed this line weeks ago. The dark office, the glowing screen, the impossible proximity. But this time, there is no sudden interruption. This time, there's no excuse to step away.
It doesn't usually require this much concentration to ignore.
"This one," I say, pointing to the screen. "This is the hero shot."
"The connectivity sightline?"
"Yeah." I zoom in—the path, the water, the way the massing frames the view perfectly. "You saw something I missed. You've been doing that since day one."
He doesn't answer immediately. "You see plenty," he says, low and close to my ear. "You just don't give yourself credit."
I turn to look at him because it's a reflex and also a mistake.
He's right there. The laptop light catches the angle of his jaw, the steadiness in his expression. He doesn't look surprised to find me looking at him. He doesn't look away.
He leans in. His eyes drop to my mouth, then come back to mine, and he holds there for one beat. Giving me room to step back into the distance I built.
I don't take it.
His lips meet mine, careful at first, the pressure measured. He tilts my face up with two fingers beneath my jaw, the touch so gentle it makes everything else in the room recede.
I can smell his soap, feel the faint scratch of stubble at my chin. His thumb traces my cheekbone in one slow, steady stroke. I can't tell if my heart's racing or if it stopped.
My hand lifts to his chest, then slides up to his neck. My fingers find his hair and tighten as I pull him closer. My mouth softens against his.
The office, the project, the four-week timeline—all of it disappears.
He pulls back one inch. Maybe two.
We're both still.
I open my eyes. He's watching me.
"Shoot," I say.
His brows lift. "Shoot?"
The laugh that comes out of me is half nerves, half genuine. "Sorry. I was kind of hoping you'd be a terrible kisser. Would've made this a lot easier to file under 'overworked and tired.'"
