"And?"
I stand up because my body needs something to do. I take three steps across the tiny office, then turn back. The room is too small for real pacing, but I do it anyway.
"You're not a bad kisser."
He leans against the desk and watches me, and he doesn't smile—not the full easy grin. Just a slight pull at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you. I think."
I drag a hand through my hair. "We have four weeks left on the Harbor project. Weekly Board presentations. Wednesday prep sessions." I turn to face him. "We're basically stuck working together."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"I don't know yet." I hold his gaze. "Ask me in four weeks."
His expression settles, softer. "Okay."
Silence. I've crossed my arms without thinking, pressing them against my ribs like I can hold the whole situation in place. He's watching me from across the narrow room and he isn't filling the quiet. Isn't making a joke. Isn't giving me an exit.
"This is a terrible idea," I say.
"Probably."
"We have four weeks of high-stakes presentations. If this goes wrong—if we can't stand to be in the same room, the Board will notice."
"I know."
"And I don't do casual. I don't do messy. I plan things."
He pushes off the desk. Takes one step toward me, then another. He stops close—not touching, but close enough that I would have to make a decision to step back.
"I know that too," he says.
His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers settle at my jaw, thumb resting just below my ear, and he stays there—steady, unhurried, like he has nowhere else to be.
"I've wanted to kiss you all day," he says quietly. "Longer than that, actually."
The list starts forming in the back of my head—project timeline, board calendar, professional liability—and none of it makes it past my throat.
"Then maybe," I say, just above a whisper, "you should stop talking and do it again."
He doesn't rush it. His other hand finds my waist, draws me in, and when he kisses me this time there's no testing, no careful opening offer. His hand at my jaw holds me steady, and I stop trying to stand at a sensible distance and fist my hands in his shirt instead, pulling him closer without planning to.
When we finally separate, he doesn't step back. He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed, and stays there.
I'm still catching my breath.
"Okay," I say. "That was…"
"Yeah."
A beat of quiet.
"We're in trouble," I say, breathless.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We really are."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, but he doesn't step away. One hand stays firm at my waist. The other lifts, his thumb brushing across my lower lip.
"I know we still have four weeks," he says quietly. "But I'm not pretending this didn't happen."
