Page 79 of While I’m Still Here

It happens so quietly that if I weren't already hyperaware of every inch of space between us, I might miss it. Danny's gaze stays on mine instead of bouncing away to the computer, the paperwork, or some other safe thing. The office is still moving around us. Phones still ring. Somebody laughs somewhere near the kitchen. A chair scrapes against the floor. The printer starts making that noise it makes when it's contemplating suicide.

None of it seems particularly close anymore.

Danny looks at me.

Really looks at me.

Then his eyes drop to my mouth.

There have been dozens of moments like this with him, moments where the joke stretched a little too long or one of us stood slightly too close and I wondered what would happen if neither of us stepped away. Every single time, one of us did.

Usually me because I’m a coward. I always said later.

Later.

Always fucking later.

Stupid bitch fucking up my life… Me… I’m the stupid bitch.

Except now I have a notebook at home filled with all the things I've been saving for a woman who might never arrive, and Danny is sitting right here. I also realise I could have been having spectacular sex with Danny instead of using Vibrató, the vibrator.

My body understands what I want before my brain finishes assembling all the reasons I shouldn't. Heat crawls beneath my skin, my pulse suddenly too noticeable at the base of my throat, and when Danny's eyes lift back to mine, his expression holds no teasing.

He knows.

More importantly, so do I.

Cancer isn't making me want Danny Clarke. I've wanted Danny Clarke for nearly three years. Cancer has simply made later sound like the stupidest fucking plan I've ever had. Danny glances briefly across the office, then back at me. When he speaks, his voice is low enough that the words belong only to us. “Come with me.”

“Come with me.”

Three words. That’s all it takes for my legs to decide they’re no longer interested in my opinion. I stand and smooth the front of my red dress. Danny doesn’t touch me. He walks, and I follow, weaving through the cluster of desks. The office hums around us—keyboards clacking, someone arguing with the photocopier—but my focus narrows to the back of his neck, the way his shoulder blades move beneath his shirt. He pauses at the door to the small staff kitchen, glancing back once. His expression is unreadable, but his hand is already on the handle.

I slip past him into the room before I can overthink. The kitchen is tiny, more of a cupboard with some shitty appliances. There’s a kettle, a biscuit tin with one sad digestive left, a window that looks out onto the fire escape, and a sad toaster I named Kathy. The air smells faintly of burnt toast and cheap coffee.

The lock clicks into place, and the sound goes straight through me. I turn. Danny is standing with his back against the door, watching me. His mouth twitches. “You’re nervous,” he says.

“I’m not nervous. I’m just… processing.”

“Processing what, exactly?”

“The fact that you didn’t even hesitate,” I laugh.

That pulls a proper grin from him. “I’ve thought about it,” he admits, voice low. “Never had the nerve.”

I blink. That is not the answer I expected. For three years, Danny Clarke has been a walking punchline, a man so self-assured it bordered on obnoxious. But now he’s leaning against a kitchen door in an office he’s worked at for longer than I have, and he’s telling me he was scared too.

Somehow, that makes it worse. No… better… no… worse.

“You don’t have to,” he says quietly. “We can walk out.”

“Shut up,” I hear myself say, and then I cross the space between us.

The kiss is not gentle. It can’t be. There are three years of office small talk and loaded jokes stored up in both of us, and now there’s a locked door and a red dress and a diagnosis I keep swallowing back like a stone.

Danny’s mouth is warm and sure, and one hand comes to rest on my jaw while the other settles low on my back, pulling me close. I make a sound against his lips—embarrassing, needy—but he doesn’t seem to mind. He kisses like he’s been waiting for permission, and now that he has it, he doesn’t know where to start.

I do.