She leans back into her seat like nothing just happened.
Like she didn’t feel that spark.
I’m so distracted by her, I barely register what’s happening on the big screen.
I’m too busy being aware of the way her knee shifts slightly toward mine.
The faint brush of her sleeve against my arm.
The way she leans just a little closer as the movie plays.
Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles.
My pulse kicks hard.
Someone a few rows down laughs too loudly.
My attention flicks that way.
Hers doesn’t.
It stays on me.
I shift in my seat.
“Everything okay?” I whisper.
“Yes.”
“You’re not watching the movie.”
“I am.”
“You’re watching me.”
She tilts her head slightly. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Does that bother you?”
I hesitate. “…No.”
“Good.”
She smiles, then turns back to the screen like that answers everything.
God, I want to kiss her.
But I chicken out.
What if she doesn’t want me to?
What if I’m reading this wrong?
What if I’m the only one feeling this?
She turns to me. “Drew?”
