I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Yeah," I say, finding my voice. "Of course."
We move to the couch. It feels like a necessary retreat, a neutral zone. We sit close but not touching.
"So," she says, looking straight ahead at the blank wall opposite us. "Last night."
I trace the edge of the cardboard cup with my thumb. "Yeah. Last night."
"I don't want to pretend it didn't happen."
I set the coffee on the table and reach across the space between us, finding her hand. I lace my fingers through hers, my thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. "Me neither."
She looks down at our hands, then up at my face. "But we can't let it mess with the Harbor project."
I exhale, the weight of the last two weeks pressing down on me. "Listen. I know why you're concerned." I stop, forcing myself to look her in the eye.
"That night we worked late." The words feel like pulling teeth. "When the security guard chased us out of the office." I swallow hard, my thumb stalling against her knuckles. "I wanted to kiss you. I probably would have, if he hadn't interrupted us."
Sam gives me a small, understanding smile. She brings her free hand over, covering our joined hands so I'm anchored between her palms.
I run my free hand through my hair, a harsh, self-deprecating laugh slipping out. "I just—I panicked, I guess. I mean, we're in a professional relationship. I didn't want it to get complicated."
Her smile shifts, turning gentle, but knowing. "So you blew up the professional side to avoid the personal one."
I wince. "Ouch."
She laughs, a real, bright sound that fills the quiet room.
I shake my head, smiling despite the knot in my stomach. "Wow. That does sound pretty bad when I hear someone else say it." I look down at our hands. "Stupid, huh?"
Sam squeezes my fingers. "No," she says quietly. "Just human."
I look back up. "So, what do you want to do?"
"The work comes first," she says, her tone shifting into something firmer, more resolved. "We can't let this—" she tips her chin toward our hands "—bleed into the Harbor project."
"Agreed. And outside of work?"
"When we're not working?" She takes a steadying breath. "I want this. Whatever this is. But slowly. We can't afford to screw this up—professionally or personally."
"We won’t screw it up."
"You don't know that," she says softly.
"No." I tighten my grip on her hand. "But I know I want to try. So we're doing this. The personal relationship. Even though it complicates everything."
Sam searches my face for a long second. "Yeah. We're doing this."
There's a beat of quiet. Then Sam shifts on the couch, her shoulders pulling back, her spine straightening. I can practically see her planning brain coming online.
"Okay," she says. "So we need ground rules."
My mouth twitches. "Of course you want ground rules."
"You know you love my extraordinary planning skills," she says, raising an eyebrow.
I glance toward the kitchen island, where the pale blue sticky note is still resting on my laptop. A year ago, the phraseground ruleswould have sent me looking for the nearest exit. I've spent my entire adult life avoiding structure, avoiding commitments that required bullet points.
I look back at her, a genuine smile breaking across my face. "Yeah. I really do."
