Sam is holding two coffees. She said she wouldn't bring coffee. But she's standing in my hallway with two paper cups anyway.
She's nervous.
That's not a good sign.
Chapter twenty-six
Tom
My brain shorts out.
Do we kiss? Lips? Cheek? Do I take the coffee first? We just stand there, staring at each other across the threshold like two people who dismantled every boundary between us last night and now have to figure out how to exist under fluorescent hallway lighting.
After a few agonizing seconds, Sam breaks first. "So," she says, her voice dry. "Are we stalling until the cleaning crew scoots out the back door?"
A laugh punches its way out of my chest, the tension breaking. "No. And for the record, I don't have a back door."
She gives me a small, real smile and steps inside.
I close the door behind her, suddenly intensely aware that she is in my space. This isn't the site office. It isn't the Donut. It's the apartment I've lived in for two years but never quite bothered to fully move into.
She hands me one of the coffees and looks around. I follow her gaze, seeing it through her eyes—functional, minimal, completely bare.
"I expected you to have more artwork up," she says, turning slowly.
I gesture to the corner, where a stack of framed prints leans against the baseboard, still wrapped in brown paper. "Yeah. I keep meaning to."
Her eyes land on the one piece I did bother to hang—a small, framed print above the couch. She steps closer to it, her posture shifting as she studies the image.
"Japanese Bridge," she says softly.
I watch the line of her profile soften as she takes it in.
She glances back at me over her shoulder. "That has a special place in my heart." She turns back to the print. "I saw the full series at the Met a few years ago. Early in my career. I'd had a rough week—a project didn't go well, and I was spiraling. I read that Monet painted this bridge something like a dozen times, maybe more. And I remember thinking, 'If Monet has to take twelve tries to get it right, I guess I can do a second version.'"
I smile, moving a step closer into the room. "I saw that exhibit too."
She turns to look at me, surprised.
"I read that Monet painted the Japanese bridge many times throughout his life," I say quietly. "He created it 'over and over again, catching it in different moods and lights.'" I pause, letting the memory settle between us. "It's what gave me the idea to shoot at different times of the day."
Sam stares at me. Then she looks at the print. Then back at me.
The hum of the hallway fluorescents fades. I can hear her pull in a slow breath.
"I wonder if we were there on the same day," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
I shake my head. "I don't think so."
Her brow furrows. "Why?"
"I would have remembered seeing you."
Sam steps toward me. Just one step, closing the distance. She lifts her hand, her fingers brushing the line of my jaw—a touch so gentle it makes my breath catch. Every muscle in my body goes completely still. I don't want to move. Every instinct I've ever had to leave dissolves. I am exactly where I'm supposed to be.
She takes a deep, uneven breath, holding my gaze for a split second before letting her hand drop. She steps back, the air between us suddenly too thin to breathe.
"Can I sit down?" she asks.
