Words keep coming.
Smart words.
Confident words.
Passionate words.
Her hands move when she talks, fingers sketching shapes in air before pen touches paper. Her brows pull together when she concentrates. She taps the page when emphasizing points. She bites the inside of her cheek while thinking.
I hear almost none of the technical details.
Because I am too busy being ruined by the sight of her caring about something. There is nothing more attractive than competence worn honestly. She doesn’t perform intelligence. She lives inside it. The room changes when she speaks about design. She becomes brighter somehow. Less guarded. Like passion opens doors fear keeps shut. I could listen to her explain ceiling textures for hours if it means seeing this face.
She glances up mid-sentence. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“What did I just say?”
“That you are talented.”
Her expression goes flat and she studies me for a whole minute before shaking her head and huffing, “I hate you.” She mutters.
“No you don’t.”
“I professionally dislike you.” I grin.
She exhales sharply and continues. I make an effort this time. I really do. I focus on the plan. Glass partitions with privacytreatment. But then she leans across the desk to show me a sketch, and the scent of her reaches me.
Something soft. Clean. Faintly floral. Entirely distracting. My body stills. There should be laws. She doesn’t notice what she does to me. Or maybe she does and chooses violence anyway. Her finger traces a line on the page. “This wall can open the room visually. Right now it feels stiff.”
“Unlike me.”
She closes her eyes briefly. “Please try to behave like an adult for ten minutes.”
“That long?” I feign a pout trying to control my laughter.
“Yes.”
“You’re being cruel.” I clench my chest in dramatics. She mutters something under her breath.
“What was that?”
“I said focus.”
Liar.
I smile and obey for approximately forty seconds. When she finally finishes, she sits back, shoulders dropping slightly from effort. “That’s the concept. Final detailing will take a few more days.”
I look at her. At the flushed cheeks from talking too much. At the stubborn set of her mouth. At the eyes that never stop watching for danger even in calm rooms. “It sounds perfect.”
She blinks. Then suspiciously narrows her eyes. “You didn’t listen to half of it.”
“I listened to the important part.”
“What important part?”
“You made it.”
