A Meeting on Campus
(Inspired by real events, blurred together with memories, daydreams, and the things I wished had happened.)
G: Hey, meet me on campus so we can go over the story I have so far and see if you can come up with ideas for character art.
I smile at his text even though I’m exhausted and fully planned on being lazy today. I know I shouldn’t, but I get all tingly whenever he texts or talks to me, even if it’s just a meme.
I: Okie pokie. Where and when?
G: George Eastman. I got a room. Later this afternoon?
I: See you then.
I put my phone on the bed and shake my head, trying to stop myself from imagining things about him that I definitely shouldn’t be imagining. Then I force myself up to get ready.
Even after graduating, we both still ended up on campus occasionally. I guess five years of living there makes it a second home, hard to let go.
Later, we meet in front of the Eastman building. We say hi and do one of those friendly church hugs. The second he wraps his arms around me, I swear my brain short-circuits for a second. He smells so good. I stop myself from holding on too long or letting my hands wander somewhere they shouldn’t.
He leads me to the room he booked. It’s a typical classroom-conference setup with tables arranged in an open rectangle and huge windows stretching across one wall. Afternoon sunlight spills through the glass, making everything feel warmer than it should.
He starts explaining the plot of his book, and honestly, I love it. It reminds me of all the anime, books, and fantasy shows I grew up obsessed with.
He gets so into it when he talks too, hands moving while he explains scenes and characters, eyes lighting up like he can already see the whole world in his head; such a turn on.
Meanwhile, I’m fighting for my life trying to pay attention. Because every few minutes my mind drifts somewhere completely inappropriate, like staring at his lips or wondering what would happen if he suddenly pulled me against the whiteboard... or bent me over the table in front of those giant windows.
I blink hard and force myself to focus again before he notices I barely heard a word he said for the last thirty seconds.
He stops and asks what I think so far, I tell him I’m into it and I already have ideas of what to draw.
He walks away from the board where he was writing and trying to sketch out some of his ideas.
He sits next to me and gives me a printed copy of his manuscript so far. He had more done than I thought. I get really into explaining what I’m picturing for the characters and hearing what he thinks, fully invested bouncing ideas back and forth with him.
But the whole time in the back of my mind I was thinking about going for it and kissing him.
A man being passionate about the things he loves is already attractive enough. Add in the fact that he’s fine and smells good? I never stood a chance.
Does he even know what he’s doing to me?
I flip through the pages while he watches me, waiting for my reaction like he’s trying not to look nervous about it.
“You’re really into this world, huh?” I ask, smiling as I skim another page.
He leans back in his chair, one arm resting across the table. “Yeah. Probably too much.”
“No. Never too much when it’s something you love,” I say softly.
“It’s actually really good.”
Something about the way he looks at me after that makes my stomach do cartwheels.
Not dramatic. Not movie-like.
Just quiet.
The kind of look that lasts half a second too long before one of you glances away.
He scoots his chair closer so he can see one of the character sketches I started scribbling in the margins. Close enough now that our shoulders brush every once in a while when one of us moves.
“So,” he says, tapping the edge of my sketchbook, “are you actually paying attention to the story or just pretending to?”
I gasp dramatically. “Excuse you. I’m being very professional.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Professional? You?”
“Wow. Rude.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
The smile he gives me after saying it feels way too familiar.
And that’s the problem.
This thing between us has never exactly been innocent.
It had always lived in the almosts.
Flirty comments that lingered too long. Hands brushing “accidentally.” Late-night conversations that crossed lines without technically crossing them. A few moments in the past where we definitely should’ve behaved better than we did.
But somehow we always stopped before things went too far.
Like both of us knew the second we crossed certain lines, there’d be no pretending anymore.
He stands up to stretch, rolling his sleeves up a little higher before walking back toward the whiteboard.
Absolutely disrespectful behavior.
I try to focus on the manuscript again while he talks through another scene idea, but now he’s pacing slowly across the front of the room, passionate and animated, completely unaware he’s basically become every female author’s “he doesn’t know he’s attractive” male lead.
Or maybe he does know.
That thought alone nearly takes me out.
A little while later, he drops back into the chair beside me again, closer this time without even thinking about it. Our knees bump underneath the table.
Neither of us moves.
The air shifts.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to notice.
He glances at me, then down at where our legs are touching before looking away again.
I try to ignore how aware I suddenly am of every inch of my body.
“This is exactly how I pictured her,” he says.
His voice is lower now, calmer.
He points to part of the drawing, and when he reaches across me his hand brushes against mine.
Neither of us moves away immediately.
My brain instantly starts glitching like I accidentally slipped into the wrong Spider-Verse.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
I clear my throat and pretend to be deeply invested in shading techniques before I completely embarrass myself.
“You really think people would like this story?” he asks.
I turn toward him to answer, but he’s already looking at me.
Not the drawing.
Me.
The room suddenly feels way too warm.
For a second neither of us says anything. Just sunlight pouring through the windows and this awful, dangerous silence stretching between us.
His eyes flick down to my lips so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it.
Almost.
Then he leans back first, rubbing the back of his neck like he caught himself doing something he shouldn’t.
I turn to fully face him and say “of course you already got me hooked.”
The way he looked at me after that sent tingles all through my stomach and down the rest of my body.
“So,” he says with a nervous little laugh, “you hungry? I’ve been here all day.”
The tension breaks just enough for me to breathe again. I laugh a little because the question is so normal and nonchalant compared to whatever is happening between us right now.
“Starving,” I reply, even though I’m pretty sure I could survive entirely off adrenaline right now.
“I brought snacks,” he admits.
“You brought snacks to a planning meeting?”
“I was here all day.”
“Or we can go get something depending on how hungry you are.”
Little does he know I’m more hungry for him than anything else right now.
But honestly, I am actually hungry too. I rarely eat breakfast, and at this point my body is probably running entirely on adrenaline, bad decisions, and unresolved tension.
He reaches into his bag and pulls out cookies and chips like a dad preparing for a field trip.
I laugh harder than I should, and he starts laughing too.
The tension eases for a second after that, but not completely.
Because even while we’re sitting there eating vending machine snacks and talking about character designs, I can still feel the heat of his leg pressed against mine under the table.
And neither of us moves away.
Finally, I say, “I need more than a snack if we’re going to keep going.”
Second Act
(Inspired by real events, blurred together with memories, daydreams, and the things I wished had happened.)
He looks at me for half a second too long before laughing.
I give him a questioning look.
“Dangerous wording,” he says.
“You knew what I meant.”
“Did I?”
My face instantly gets hot, so I punch his arm to recover what little dignity I have left before he can say something smart. Apparently I look “cute” when I’m annoyed, which is honestly one of the most disrespectful things people have ever told me. Judging by the way he’s looking at me right now, he’s definitely thinking it.
I turn away and say, “I need to eat before I pass out.”
He laughs softly. “Yeah, fair.”
“What are my options?” I ask. “Because if you say vending machine anything, I’m leaving.”
“That hurts my feelings a little.”
“You’ll survive.”
He grins while straightening up the room a little since we’re coming back to keep working on the book.
“Alright, so are we bringing food back here or eating out? And are we talking campus food or fast food?”
“We can eat here since we’re coming back anyway,” he says. “And definitely not Gracie’s.”
We both laugh immediately.
“I’m fine with McDonald’s, or we can just run over to RITZ or Commons.”
“Come on, let’s go to RITZ. It’s right there,” he replies.
The second we leave the room, the cool air in the hallway helps clear my head a little.
Not completely.
Just enough to function like a normal person again.
We walk side by side over to the SAU, falling into conversation so naturally it almost annoys me. One minute we’re talking about character designs, and the next we’re excitedly recommending anime to each other like we haven’t already spent years doing exactly that.
“You still haven’t watched the one I told you about,” I say.
“I’ve been busy.”
“I know, but you seriously need to ketchup… mustard.”
“You watched twelve episodes of some random cooking anime in one night,” he retorts.
“Because it was good. I love Food Wars.”
“You said the exact same thing about every anime you recommend.”
“Because they’re ALSO good.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Your watch list stresses me out.”
“That sounds personal.”
“It is personal. I’m trying to improve your life with my recommendations.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling so hard it probably ruins the effect.
Somehow the conversation drifts so easily between us that I almost forget how dangerously attracted to him I am. Almost.
Then he looks over at me while I’m talking, smiling like he could listen to me ramble forever, and suddenly I remember again.
Immediately.
He laughs again, and I swear that sound alone could ruin my life.
Outside, the late afternoon sun hangs low across campus, turning everything gold. Students pass by around us, but somehow it still feels like we’re in our own little world.
We hurry up and go get food because I really am starving, then head back.
On the way back through the wind tunnel, a breeze catches the scent of his cologne again.
Dangerous.
I steady myself and get back into the conversation.
We get back to the room and finally start eating.
It feels normal.
Like we do this all the time.
And maybe that’s part of the problem.
We get back into the room with the same rhythm we left with, like the world outside campus doesn’t really matter once that door clicks shut.
He drops the food on the table and I immediately claim a spot again, kicking my bag slightly under the chair so I can settle in.
For a second, it’s just wrappers, fries, and the low hum of the building outside the windows.
Normal.
Almost annoyingly normal.
He sits across from me, but not really across from me the way he was before. More like… angled. Like the chair got moved without him thinking about it.
I notice.
Of course I notice.
I just don’t say anything.
“You’re really quiet,” he says, unwrapping his food.
“I’m eating,” I reply, like that explains everything.
He hums like he doesn’t believe me.
That little sound alone is a problem.
We eat for a few minutes, conversation slowing down into small comments about the food, campus, nothing important. But the pauses between sentences start getting longer.
Different kind of quiet than before.
Less comfortable noise.
More awareness.
Somewhere between sharing fries, laughing too hard at stupid jokes, and him casually resting his arm against the back of my chair while he talks, the line between “meeting about his book” and “this is dangerously close to a date” starts getting blurry.
Very blurry.
I take a sip of my drink and glance up, catching him already looking at me.
Again.
He doesn’t look away immediately this time.
Instead he just smiles a little, like he got caught doing something he doesn’t feel like stopping.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, way too quickly.
“That’s never true with you.”
He laughs softly, leaning back in his chair. “You’re just… really distracting today.”
I pause mid-bite.
“That’s a wild thing to say unprovoked.”
“I didn’t say it unprovoked,” he replies. “You started it earlier.”
“I started what?”
He tilts his head slightly. “Everything you say sounds like it has a second meaning.”
I feel my face heat up again, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of reacting too hard.
“So you’re telling me,” I say slowly, “this is my fault.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“You’re thinking it.”
He smiles more now.
And that’s worse.
Because now it feels like he’s enjoying this.
I shift in my chair a little, turning slightly toward him without meaning to. Or maybe I did mean to. Hard to tell at this point.
“Weirdo,” I add.
“You’re the one who punched me earlier,” he says.
“That was self-defense.”
“From what?”
“You.”
He laughs again, and this time it’s quieter. Less playful on the surface.
More… present.
The air between us changes a little.
Not dramatic.
Just tighter.
He leans forward slightly, resting his forearm on the table, and suddenly he’s closer again without actually moving much.
“You always this defensive when you’re hungry?” he asks.
“I’m not defensive.”
“You are right now.”
I narrow my eyes at him.
He doesn’t back off.
Instead, he just looks at me like he’s waiting for me to do something about it.
Like he knows I won’t.
Or maybe he hopes I will.
I reach over without thinking and grab one of his fries from his tray.
“Hey,” he says immediately.
“What?” I ask, chewing.
“That was mine.”
“You have more.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What’s the point then?”
He pauses.
Then he says, “You didn’t ask.”
That lands differently than it should’ve.
I look at him again, slower this time.
“Oh,” I say softly. “So you want me to ask.”
His expression changes just slightly.
Like I hit something closer than either of us meant to aim for.
“Depends,” he says.
“On what?”
“On how you ask.”
There it is again.
That pause.
That space where something could happen if either of us stopped pretending this is still just food and anime and book planning.
I set the fry down instead of finishing it.
Neither of us speaks for a second.
The room feels louder even though it’s not.
I shift in my chair again, this time turning more fully toward him without hiding it.
His eyes drop to my hand on the table.
Then back up.
He leans in a little more, like he’s testing distance instead of closing it.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says quietly.
“What thing?”
“Acting like you don’t notice anything.”
I let out a small breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“I notice things,” I say.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Another pause.
This one longer.
He doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
And suddenly the table feels too big between us.
I don’t remember moving, but I’m closer now. Or he is. Or both.
Hard to tell.
His voice drops a little when he says, “Then what do you notice right now?”
That question shouldn’t feel like a trap.
But it does.
I glance at his mouth before I can stop myself.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough.
His expression shifts immediately.
Not big.
Just real.
Like something clicks.
The teasing doesn’t disappear, but it changes shape.
Slower now.
Careful.
He reaches across the table slightly, not fully touching me yet, but close enough that I feel it in the space between us.
“Still hungry?” he asks, quieter than before.
I should answer normally.
I don’t.
Yes,” I say. Even if it’s not for food anymore.
I think he knows what I meant.
That’s the moment everything stops felling like pretending.
He doesn’t move away.
I don’t either.
The air between us tightens again, but this time there’s nowhere for it to go. And when he finally leans in just a little more, it doesn’t feel like a decision anymore.
It feels like something that’s been happening the entire time we’ve been in this room.
An intrusive thought sneaks in, and instead of acting normal, I take the fry from his fingers and slowly eat it, watching him from my peripherals.
He doesn’t react immediately.
Just stares at me like he’s recalculating everything he thought he knew about the situation… about me… about us sitting in this too-small space pretending fries are the main event.
Then he leans back slightly in his chair.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says.
“Little ol me?” I tilt my head, all innocence on purpose.
The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
What he does next catches me off guard.
He reaches forward, not rushing, not hesitating either, and takes the fry from my hand like it belongs to him. Then, instead of eating any of it, he just sets it down between us on the try.
Like a boundary marker.
Like he’s officially decided we’re not talking about food anymore.
My brain short-circuits a little.
He leans in again, slower this time, like he’s giving me every chance to move away if I want to.
I don’t.
His voice drops just enough that it stops feeling like teasing and starts feeling like intention.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he says.
I should argue.
I don’t.
Because now he’s close enough that I can’t tell where the air between us ends and something else starts.
My hand is still on the table.
So is his.
Neither of us moves it.
There’s a beat where everything goes completely quiet except the stupid hum of the room and the fact that I suddenly can’t remember how to breathe normally.
He glances down at my mouth again.
Not fast this time.
Not accidental-feeling.
And this time when he looks back up at me, he doesn’t laugh.
Neither do I.
The teasing is still there, hovering at the edges, but it’s thinner now. Like it’s just there to give us something to stand on while everything else tips.
He shifts slightly closer.
Not enough to close the distance.
Just enough that I feel the decision sitting between us.
Waiting.
And I realize, very clearly, that if either of us moves again, there won’t be another joke to hide behind.
Another intrusive thought slips out before I can stop it, and I let my fingers brush against his arm.
“Why are you so close?” I say, smirking now. “I think you’re the one playing games.”
I take another sip, like that somehow resets my entire nervous system, then stand up and walk toward the whiteboard.
The movement feels louder than it should.
I can feel his eyes on me the whole way.
Not heavy.
Just present.
Aware.
I pick up the marker, turning it over in my hand like I suddenly remember I came here for something else besides… whatever that was back there.
Trying to calm myself down, I stare at the blank board, but my thoughts are still stuck a few feet behind me at the table.
I don’t know what he’s going to do next.
And I don’t know what I want him to do next either.
“So you’re running away?”
“No,” I answer without looking back. I focus on the whiteboard instead, even though I can feel his attention on me like a weight I can’t ignore.
My face is warm again, so I force my hand to keep moving, sketching something—anything—just to have a reason to stand here without turning around.
Before I even realize it, I feel him behind me.
Close.
Not touching.
Just there.
His presence fills the space like he never left it.
I catch his scent and my hand almost falters on the marker.
I don’t turn around.
I can’t.
I keep drawing, trying to act like this is normal, like my body isn’t suddenly hyper-aware of every inch between us.
It feels like hours pass.
But I know it’s only been seconds.
Still, I can’t tell what happens next.
Or what I want to happen next.
He leans in beside my face, close enough that his voice lands low and warm near my ear.
“You did run,” he says quietly, “and we were playing a game.”
I swallow, trying to keep my hand steady on the marker.
The snark in me slips out before I can stop it.
“I already won, didn’t I?”
Silence.
That kind of silence that feels heavier than words.
I turn around.
Dumb move on my part.
Or maybe not.
It’s hard to tell anymore.
This is torture.
The space between us is gone now.
I can feel him right there, looking at me like I’m not just talking about a game anymore.
My breath catches slightly as I realize how close we are again.
And then I see his hands move.
Slow.
Intentional.
Like he’s deciding instead of reacting.
His hand comes up, steady and deliberate, and he gently takes my wrist.
Before I can fully process it, he places it above my head against the board, trapping it there without actually touching me anywhere else.
My breath catches.
He leans in closer, lowering his head until he’s just slightly beneath my line of sight, close enough that I can feel his voice more than hear it.
“You sure about that?” he says.
And suddenly, I forget what I was even supposed to be sure about.
The room feels smaller.
Hotter.
Too aware.
My hand is still halfway raised where he moved it from.
I should say something smart.
Something sharp.
Something that keeps this in the same playful space we’ve been dancing in all day.
But nothing comes out fast enough.
Not before I realize he’s waiting.
Not just for an answer.
For me.
My throat feels dry.
I should say something smart. Something teasing.
Something that keeps this safe in the “game” we’ve been pretending it is.
The words don’t come fast enough.
Instead, I swallow.
“I’m sure,” I say, but it comes out quieter than I meant it to.
His gaze shifts—slower now. More focused. Like he heard the hesitation underneath it.
The marker is still above my head.
His body hasn’t moved away. Neither has mine.
“You don’t sound sure,” he says.
That does it.
Something in me snaps into competitiveness—stubborn, instinctive, unwilling to lose whatever this is supposed to be.
I step closer.
Close enough that the air between us feels different.
My voice drops as I look up at him.
“I won.”
The words land between us like a challenge instead of a statement.
And for a second, neither of us moves.
I see the look in his eyes change.
His the grip around my wrist tightens slightly.
My eyes widen.
Then he kisses me, his lips lightly brushing against mine as electricity shoots through my body.
He pauses, waiting to see to what I’ll do.
And of course I say “See? I told you I win.”
Before he could respond, I kiss him back.
This time the kiss lands differently.
Less hesitant.
Deeper.
Like both of us finally stopped trying to behave. Letting out all the built tension not just from today.
His free hand slides to my waist slowly, sending more electricity through my body, and the second he pulls me closer my entire train of thought derails.
Completely.
I let out the smallest laugh against his mouth, mostly because I can’t believe this is actually happening.
He pulls back just enough to look at me.
And somehow that’s worse.
Because now I can see it on his face too.
That same “we definitely crossed the line” realization happening in real time.
“You are unbelievably smug right now,” he says quietly.
“I did say I won.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.”
“You know I’m right.”
He laughs under his breath before kissing me again, and this time I barely have enough time to think before I even realize it, the marker slips from my hand and my hands slide up his arms and around his neck.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember we’re still standing in a classroom on campus in broad daylight.
Which just makes it feel even more dangerous.
Third Act
(Inspired by real events, blurred together with memories, daydreams, and the things I wished had happened.)
He kisses me again, slower this time.
Not really teasing anymore.
Just warm and tingly and impossible to think properly.
My hands stay around his neck while his rests against my waist, holding me close enough that I can feel how steady he’s trying to keep himself despite the fact that I’m pretty sure I short-circuited both our brains ten minutes ago.
Or maybe thirty seconds ago.
Time doesn’t feel real anymore.
The marker hits the floor at some point with a quiet clatter neither of us acknowledged.
His forehead rests lightly against mine when we finally pull apart for air, both of us breathing a little harder now.
And suddenly the reality of where we are crashes back into me all at once.
Classroom.
Campus.
Windows.
Daylight.
People absolutely existing somewhere outside this room.
“This is probably a terrible idea,” I whisper, even though I make absolutely no attempt to move away from him.
He lets out a quiet laugh against my ear.
“Probably.”
“But you’re still doing it.”
“So are you.”
Fair.
I hate when he’s right.
I open my mouth to argue anyway, but he looks at me in that soft, quiet way again and the words disappear before they make it out.
The teasing fades just enough for something more honest to slip through the cracks.
“I tried really hard to behave around you,” he admits quietly.
That catches me off guard more than the kissing did.
I blink at him. “Tried?”
“Tried,” he repeats with a small smile. “You make it difficult.”
The warmth crawling up my neck somehow gets worse.
“Wow,” I murmur. “So this is my fault too?”
“A little.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re still holding onto me.”
I realize then my arms are still looped around his neck like I forgot they were there.
I should let go.
I don’t.
Instead I laugh softly, my forehead falling against his shoulder for a second because suddenly looking directly at him feels way too intense.
“That bad, huh?” I ask.
His hand slides slowly along my waist, careful, almost hesitant now compared to before.
“No,” he says quietly. “That’s the problem.”
And there it is again.
That feeling that this stopped being harmless a long time ago.
My head is reeling.
Every thought crashes into the next one before I can even hold onto it properly.
Part of me wants to make a joke and pull away before this gets any more real.
Part of me wants to kiss him again just to see if it still feels like lightning.
And the most dangerous part of me wants to finally admit what I’ve been feeling this entire time.
Because there’s only so long you can pretend tension like this is accidental.
He’s still standing close enough that I can feel his warmth.
Still looking at me like he’s waiting. Not pushing. Just… waiting.
And somehow that makes it comforting but worse.
I lift my eyes back to his, trying to steady myself enough to say literally anything coherent.
“You know,” I start softly, “I had this whole plan to behave today.”
His mouth twitches immediately. “Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
I let out a breathy laugh, shaking my head a little. “Obviously terrible.”
“That makes two of us.”
There’s another pause.
Smaller this time. Less tense.
I look down for half a second before admitting, “I think this stopped feeling harmless for me a while ago.”
The words leave my mouth so quietly I almost wish I could grab them back.
But the second I say them, something shifts in his expression.
Not surprise.
Relief maybe?
His hand tightens slightly at my waist, not enough to trap me there, just enough that I feel it.
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he admits.
And that does something catastrophic to my heartbeat.
I laugh, mostly because if I don’t laugh I might combust right there in front of the whiteboard.
“So we’re just… saying things out loud now?”
“I mean,” he says softly, leaning just a little closer again, “we already crossed a few other lines.”
I try to roll my eyes at him, but I’m smiling too hard for it to work.
“Still unserious,” I murmur.
“And you still kissed me back.”
Fair. Again.
I swear he wins every argument just by looking at me like that.
The smile on my face fades a little around the edges.
Not because I regret this. I don’t.
I look at him for a second too long, and suddenly every joke, every almost, every moment we stopped ourselves before things went too far crashes into me all at once.
Because now we can’t pretend this is harmless anymore.
Not after this. Not after finally saying the quiet part out loud.
“I don’t want this to ruin us,” I admit softly.
The words feel heavier than everything else we’ve said combined.
His expression changes slightly.
“It won’t,” he says.
“How do you know?”
His hand stays warm against my waist. Steady. Careful.
“Because we’re us, silly.” He tilts his head. “What’s that face?”
I hesitate before answering.
Because I don’t know how to explain that somehow he already feels like mine in the ways that actually matter.
Not officially. Not publicly.
Not in the clean, normal way people understand relationships.
Just… mine.
And maybe I’m his too?
“We can’t go back to pretending after this,” I say quietly.
His eyes search mine for a second before he nods once. Slow. Honest.
“I know.”
The room falls quiet again.
Not awkward. Not uncertain.
Just full.
Like both of us finally opened a door we’d been leaning against for years.
“I still want you in my life,” I whisper.
That gets the smallest smile out of him again. Softer this time.
“You couldn’t get rid of me that easily.”
I laugh under my breath, but my chest still feels uneasy.
Because wanting him was never the complicated part.
“It’s wanting more when we both already know there are lines we shouldn’t cross.”
The words come out quieter than I expect.
More honest too.
For a second neither of us says anything.
I can practically feel the thought passing between us at the exact same time: then why does this feel so impossible to stop?
My eyes drift down briefly to where his hand still rests against my waist.
Slow. Warm. Steady.
Every small movement of his fingers feels amplified now that I’m actually letting myself acknowledge it.
My head is still spinning, but honestly, I’m tired of thinking.
Tired of calculating consequences before I let myself feel anything.
Tired of acting like wanting him is something temporary that’ll disappear if we ignore it long enough.
Maybe we’ll figure out what this means later. Maybe we won’t.
Right now, I just want him.
And judging by the way he’s looking at me, I don’t think I’m alone in that.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” he murmurs softly.
I let out a quiet laugh. “Unfortunately, one of my worst habits.”
His thumb brushes lightly against my waist.
Tiny movement. Catastrophic effect.
“Come here,” he says, just barely above a whisper.
Like I’m not already right in front of him.
Like he somehow wants me even closer.
I shake my head a little, smiling despite myself. “You are entirely too confident right now.”
“And you’re still here.”
Fair.
Again.
I swear I’m never winning another argument with this man.
But instead of answering, I close the distance myself this time.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And the look on his face when he realizes I’m the one leaning in now.
Yeah.
That alone might ruin me forever.
His smile should honestly come with a warning label.
That stupid half-smirk like he already knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
The way his voice drops lower whenever the teasing turns serious.
How unfairly attractive it is watching him talk passionately about something he loves, all intelligence and confidence and quiet humor wrapped together so naturally he probably doesn’t even realize the effect he has on people.
On me.
And his cologne? Absolutely criminal.
Every time I catch the scent of it my brain temporarily powers down like an overheated computer.
I’m trying so hard to hold onto whatever self-control I have left, but my intrusive thoughts are fighting for their lives right now.
Because standing this close to him already feels dangerous enough.
Feeling his hands rest against my waist while he looks at me like that?
Worse.
Way worse.
“You’re staring again,” he says softly, clearly entertained.
“I’m thinking.”
“That expression usually means trouble.”
I narrow my eyes slightly. “You say that like you’re innocent.”
“I never claimed innocence.”
The honesty in that answer sends another wave of heat through me.
God.
This man is intoxicating in every possible way and I’m starting to realize resisting him might’ve been the real impossible task all along.
“Yes you have,” I shoot back, laughing.
He raises an eyebrow like he wants evidence presented immediately.
“When?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, trying and failing to sound casual. “Maybe all the time.”
“Well it’s the truth,” he replies smoothly.
“Delusional. You and your double innuendoes.”
“Never that. And you love it,” he says in my ear.
“You’re dangerous.”
“You like dangerous.”
Unfortunately for me, he says it quietly.
Like he knows exactly how much his voice affects me.
I roll my eyes to save myself from visibly malfunctioning in front of him again, but he notices anyway.
Of course he notices.
His smile softens around the edges as he watches me, and somehow that hits harder than the teasing does.
Because beneath all the flirting and tension and jokes, there’s still us underneath it.
The friendship. The comfort.
The years of conversations and almost-moments that led here.
That’s what makes this feel so overwhelming.
Not just wanting him.
But trusting him too.
“You’re thinking hard again,” he murmurs.
“Can you stop reading my face like subtitles?”
“No.”
“Terrible trait.”
“You love it.”
I open my mouth to deny it, then immediately close it because we both know I’d be lying.
That earns me another laugh, softer this time.
And before I can recover properly, his fingers tilt my chin up just slightly.
Not demanding.
Just enough to make me look at him again.
“There you are,” he says quietly, like he’d been waiting for me to stop hiding in my own head.
And honestly?
That might be more dangerous than the kissing.
I can’t help it anymore.
There’s barely space for air between us, and whatever restraint I was pretending to have finally gives up.
I step in and kiss him again.
This time it isn’t careful.
It isn’t teasing.
Almost reckless, like I stopped thinking and just started feeling instead.
The moment I do, his hand tightens at my waist like he’s been waiting for permission he didn’t want to ask for.
And then he meets me there.
No hesitation.
No questioning.
Just him, finally not holding back either.
The room fades in that strange way it does when something becomes the only thing that matters for a few seconds too long.
My thoughts scatter completely, like they all decided to leave the conversation at once.
There’s no game left in it now.
No pretending.
Just the pull of everything we’ve been circling all day finally catching up to us at the same time.
When we break apart, it’s only barely.
Close enough that I can still feel him there.
Still close enough that neither of us moves away.
His forehead rests against mine for a second, and he lets out a quiet breath that sounds like he’s been holding it in for too long.
“That,” he says softly, “was a terrible idea.”
I laugh under my breath, a little shaky. “You didn’t stop me.”
A pause.
Then, quieter: “I didn’t want to.”
That lands differently.
Not dramatic.
Just real.
And for a second, everything between us goes still again, except now it’s not tension pretending to be playful anymore.
It’s the truth neither of us can un-know.
We’re too serious.
And that’s not really us.
Not at all.
It hits me all at once like a reset button getting pressed in my head.
My thoughts start to spin again, but in a different direction now.
If I’m being honest… I’m not done with this.
Not even close.
But I’m also not about to just stand here and let him think he can get away with all that teasing without consequences.
So I start to pull away.
Just slightly.
Not fully leaving.
Just enough to see what he’ll do.
His hand catches me almost immediately.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
The tone is lighter now, but his grip says he’s not actually ready to let go.
I glance at him, trying to get my usual composure back in place.
“Nowhere,” I say. “But we did come here for a reason.”
A pause.
My lips twitch.
“Unless that was just an excuse to get me out of bed.”
His smirk comes back instantly.
Like he’s been waiting for the switch to flip back into us.
“I would never want you out of bed,” he says.
I let out a laugh, shaking my head like I’m trying to clear it.
“You’re impossible.”
“You like it.”
“I tolerate it.”
“Liar.”
He says it so calmly it almost feels like a fact instead of a joke.
His hand is still on mine.
Still there.
Still not letting the moment fully break.
And I realize something pretty quickly.
Neither of us actually wants it to end.
Somewhere outside the room, a door shuts down the hallway.
Neither of us moves.
And the late afternoon light spilling gold across the whiteboard behind us.
Forth Act
(Inspired by real events, blurred together with memories, daydreams, and the things I wished had happened.)
Neither of us actually wants it to end.
Somewhere outside the room, a door shuts down the hallway.
Neither of us moves.
And the late afternoon light spills gold across the whiteboard behind us, turning the room into something softer than it has any right to be.
He’s still close.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just… there.
Like distance is suddenly optional and neither of us remembers the rules for it anymore.
I clear my throat like that’s going to reset something.
It doesn’t, duh I think to myself.
“Okay,” I say, far too casually. “We should probably… continue the thing we were here for.”
He mhmms, leaning back slightly in his chair like he’s considering this suggestion very seriously.
“Ohh the book?” he asks.
“Yes. The book. The reason we are here. Professionally.”
“Professionally,” he repeats, like the word tastes funny.
I point at him. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it.”
That gets a small grin out of him, slow and entirely unhelpful.
I sit down first, because sitting down feels like control. Grounded.
Like I am a person who has not just experienced whatever that was five minutes ago.
My hands find the sketchbook on the table.
Safe object. Grounding object. Normal me activity.
Behind me, I hear his chair shift.
Too close.
Not touching yet.
But close enough that I feel it anyway.
“You’re sitting weird,” he says.
“I’m sitting normally.”
“You’re sitting like you’re bracing for impact.”
“I’m sitting like I’m working., like you should be.”
“Mhm.”
That “mhm” is doing things it should not be allowed to do to my nervous system.
I flip open my sketchbook just to give my eyes somewhere to go.
“Okay,” I say, forcing focus. “Character designs, clothing, coloring, hair. We were talking about—”
A pencil slides onto the table next to my hand.
I didn’t see him move.
Of course I didn’t.
“Start here,” he says, voice calmer now.
Almost helpful.
Almost.
I take the pencil, ignoring the fact that my fingers brush his when I do.
That was definitely not necessary.
Neither of us comments.
I start drawing something basic. A head. Anything.
Behind me, he leans in just slightly.
Not enough to touch.
Enough that I immediately forget how drawing circles work.
“You’re distracting me on purpose,” I say without turning around.
A pause.
Then him, way too casually: “Am I?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
And then I hear it in his voice. The smile.
“Prove it.”
That should not sound like a challenge.
And yet it absolutely does.
I refuse to look at him. If I look at him, I lose something important. Possibly my entire personality.
So instead I draw faster.
Or I try to.
His hand lands on the edge of the table near mine. Not touching me.
Just… there.
Like a question mark I can’t ignore.
“You’re shaking a little,” he says quietly.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
“I am focusing.”
“On what?”
I stop drawing.
Because that is a dangerous question for reasons that have nothing to do with the book.
“One of the main character’s face,” I say carefully.
“Mhm,” he repeats again.
And now it’s unfair. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing with that tone.
I finally glance sideways at him.
Bad idea.
He’s watching me like he’s not even trying to hide it anymore.
Like he already knows I’m going to react and he’s just waiting to see how.
“You’re enjoying this,” I mutter.
“Yeah,” he says simply. Honest. Easy. “A little.”
I shoot him a death glare.
I turn back to the sketch immediately.
“Focus,” I tell myself out loud.
He leans in closer behind me.
Close enough now that his voice drops into something quieter. Private.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he murmurs.
I don’t look back. “What thing.”
“Trying to act normal.”
“I am normal.”
A soft laugh, right near my ear this time.
“That’s the worst lie you’ve told today.”
My breath catches slightly at the proximity, and I hate that he notices it immediately.
Of course he notices it.
His voice softens just a fraction.
Not teasing now.
Just amused. Warm.
“You want me to stop?” he asks.
I was taken aback for a moment because that was real question underneath the game.
My pencil pauses over the page.
I could say yes.
I could reset everything.
I could rebuild distance and pretend my heart isn’t doing something incredibly stupid right now.
Instead, I say the worst possible thing:
“…n boo.”
A beat of silence.
Then I hear him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for my answer.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I thought so.”
And suddenly he shifts again.
Not away.
Closer.
Just enough that his shoulder brushes mine as he reaches past to grab something off the table.
Intentional.
Absolutely intentional.
I make a noise that is somewhere between a sigh and a warning. “Asshole.”
He glances at me, far too pleased.
“What?” he asks innocently.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still here.”
I should move.
I don’t.
Because the worst part is—I like it.
He reaches past me again, this time grabbing the pencil directly out of my hand.
“Whatchu doing.”
“You’re struggling.”
“I am literally drawing.”
“Ehh. Debatable.”
I turn to glare at him just in time to realize he’s way closer now than he was a second ago.
Again.
“You can’t even draw stick figures,” I remind him.
“That’s hurtful.”
“It’s true.”
He pretends to study the sketchbook even though I know he’s mostly watching me react to him existing.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “I think your problem is proportions.”
“My proportions are fine.”
I feel him looking at me and I almost missed him whisper very lightly to himself “yea, yours are.”
“What?”
Clears his throat. “I said that sounded defensive.”
“Because you’re annoying and don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He laughs quietly under his breath, and before I can stop myself, I nudge his shoulder with mine.
“Move over.”
“I’m not moving.”
He grins. “Then I guess we’re sharing.”
Before I can argue, he gets behind me, chest pressed lightly against my back and attempts to sketch something on the edge of the page.
It’s terrible.
I stare at it for a second. “What is that supposed to be?”
“That’s you.”
I gasp dramatically. “You think I look like that?”
He laughs under his breath, and the sound is warm enough to make my stomach flip again.
“No,” he says quietly, glancing at me instead of the page now. “You’re way prettier than that.”
Immediate system failure.
My entire train of thought evaporates on contact.
He knows it.
“You did that on purpose,” I accuse softly.
“Did what?”
“That.”
“That” smile appears again. Slow. Dangerous.
His body is still brushing mine.
I grab the pencil back and I try to focus back on the page.
I really do.
But every time I start sketching again, I can feel him watching me.
Not subtle at all.
“You are physically incapable of acting normal right now,” I mutter.
“I could say the same thing about you.”
“I am acting extremely normal.”
He glances down at the pencil in my hand.
“You’ve erased the same line six times.”
I look down.
He’s right.
Ugh.
Before I can defend myself, voices drift down the hallway outside the room.
Both of us go still for half a second.
Not because we’re doing anything wrong.
Technically.
But suddenly I’m hyper-aware of: how close he’ is, how warm his body feels against mine, and the fact that if literally anyone walked in right now, they’d probably immediately sense whatever this is.
The footsteps get closer.
He leans toward me slightly, lowering his voice.
“You look nervous.”
“I’m not nervous.”
“You just sat up like the principal walked by.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s not what your face says.”
I bite back a laugh at the exact wrong moment, and now I really look suspicious for absolutely no reason.
The footsteps pause outside the door briefly.
Both of us instantly look down at the sketchbook like model students.
I can physically feel him trying not to laugh beside me.
He leans closer.
“You nervous?” he whispers.
“No.”
“Liar.”
The footsteps continue down the hall.
Silence.
Then:
“We are literally doing nothing,” I whisper.
“I know,” he whispers back.
Which somehow makes both of us laugh harder.
Fifth Act
(Inspired by real events, blurred together with memories, daydreams, and the things I wished had happened.)
I’m still holding the pencil.
He’s still way too close behind me.
And now the room somehow feels even quieter than before.
“This is stupid,” I whisper, trying not to laugh again.
“Mhm.”
“That’s not a response.”
“It’s the only one you deserve right now.”
I elbow him lightly. Or at least I try to.
His hand catches my wrist before I can pull away completely.
Not forceful.
Barely even stopping me.
Just enough.
And there goes my ability to think again.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter.
“You keep saying that like it’s new information.”
I turn slightly in my chair to look back at him, fully intending to argue, but now our faces are way closer than I expected again.
Dangerously close.
The crazy part is neither of us even reacts anymore.
Outside the room, voices echo faintly down the hallway again.
Automatically, both of us glance toward the door.
Then back at each other, faces still too close.
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile.
“You know what’s funny?” he whispers.
“What.”
“We actually are working.”
I look down at the page.
There’s one decent sketch.
Three random lines.
And whatever crime against humanity he drew earlier.
“You contributed nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh really? What exactly have you contributed?”
He pretends to think about it.
“Emotional support.”
I stare at him.
Then laugh despite myself, dropping my head forward for a second.
The second I do, his hand slides absentmindedly against my side like it belongs there now.
Tiny movement.
Catastrophic consequences.
I go completely still.
Unfortunately, he notices immediately.
That smug little smile appears again. “Ohh so that’s one.”
“One what?”
“One of your spots”
“Don’t you start.”
“So, I got it right.”
“You’re annoying.”
“You like me.”
I hate that he says it so confidently.
I hate even more that he’s right.
I grab the sketchbook again.
He lightly moves his hand on my side and across my lower back as he sits down next me.
I stiffen and glare at him. Why did he have to touch me lower back?
“You kinda liked that, huh?”
I turn toward him immediately. “No I didn’t.”
His eyebrow lifts.
And annoyingly enough, I can already feel myself blushing.
“…maybe a little.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly higher, victory written all over his face.
“Thought so.”
“Don’t get cocky,” I mutter, trying to focus very hard on the sketchbook in front of me instead of the fact that his hand is still dangerously touching my lower back.
“Too late.”
I roll my eyes, but my entire nervous system betrays me when his fingers brush lightly against my side again as he shifts in the chair beside me.
Enough to completely ruin my concentration.
I press the pencil to the page harder than necessary.
“You are a menace.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, leaning closer to glance at the sketchbook, “you’re still sitting next to me.”
I glance sideways at him just long enough to regret it immediately.
Too close again.
At this point I’m starting to think distance simply stopped existing in this room an hour ago.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs.
“You’re distracting.”
“That sounds like a multitasking issue.”
I let out an offended laugh. “Did you seriously just say multitasking issue?”
“Yes.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And you’re blushing again.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
“Annoying.”
“And you’re smiling.”
“I am not.”
“You literally are.”
I try to glare at him, but he’s too close again and it ruins the effect immediately.
His shoulder stays pressed lightly against mine while he pretends to look at the sketchbook.
Pretends.
Because every few seconds I catch him looking at me instead.
“You know,” he says casually, spinning the pencil between his fingers, “for someone who keeps accusing me of distracting you, you haven’t drawn anything in like ten minutes.”
“That’s because someone keeps touching me.”
His eyebrows lift slowly.
“Oh? So now we’re admitting that’s the problem.”
I immediately regret saying it.
He notices. Of course he notices.
“That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“Mhm.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“You make it very easy.”
His leg rubs against mine under the table.
I suck in a quiet breath before I can stop myself.
And there it is again.
That look on his face.
The one that says caught you.
“Oh, that one definitely affects you too,” he murmurs.
“Stop profiling me like a science experiment.”
“But I’m learning so much.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re flustered.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
why does he have to be so calm when he says it.
Like he already knows.
His fingers kind of dance against my lower back again as he leans closer to look at the page, and this time I physically stop functioning for a second.
He notices that too.
The smugness radiating off him should honestly be illegal.
“Wow,” he whispers near my ear. “That really works.”
I turn toward him immediately, fully prepared to defend myself, and accidentally end up way too close to his face again.
Both of us pause.
The air changes instantly.
His eyes flick down to my mouth for half a second.
Then back up.
And somehow that gets me more than him touching on me.
“You are bad” I whisper.
His mouth curves slightly. “You were kissing me against a whiteboard like thirty minutes ago.”
“That sounds fake when you say it out loud.”
A laugh escapes him softly.
Then quieter: “You started it.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You stole food off my tray seductively.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You ate a fry out of my hand while staring at me.”
Okay. Fair.
I open my mouth to argue anyway, but his hand slides lightly along my waist again and my brain fully abandons ship.
The words disappear.
His expression shifts immediately when he notices.
Less teasing now. More intent.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
I nod once.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “Just distracted.”
His eyes hold mine for a second too long.
Then: “By me?”
I should lie.
Instead I say, “You know damn well it’s you.”
That finally wipes the smugness right off his face for half a second.
The room goes quieter again.
Outside, voices pass somewhere down the hall.
Closer this time.
Neither of us moves away.
Which is probably the first sign we’ve completely lost control of this situation.
His thumb brushes once against my waist.
Slow.
Careful.
And before I can overthink it again, I lean in first.
This kiss lands somewhere between teasing and dangerous.
Still smiling a little against each other’s mouths at first.
Still us.
But underneath it is all that tension from before, finally spilling over again every time he pulls me closer or I forget we’re technically supposed to be working.
A chair scrapes loudly somewhere outside the room.
I giggle against his lips.
He tastes good. Lick my own lips while thinking about kissing him again.
Sixth Act
(Inspired by real events, blurred together with memories, daydreams, and the things I wished had happened.)
I lick my lips without thinking, immediately regretting it when I catch the look that flashes across his face.
One corner of his mouth twitches.
I groan. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're about to say."
The grin spreading across his face tells me I'm already too late.
"You looked disappointed when that ended."
"I was laughing."
"Mhm."
"I was."
"Sure."
I shove his shoulder lightly.
I don't put much effort into it and neither of us creates any actual distance afterward.
His arm is still draped along the back of my chair, I can feel his fingertips barely touching my back.
My knee is still touching his.
The sketchbook sits forgotten between us like a third party that's been trying and failing to get our attention for the last hour.
"We are terrible at this," I say.
"Drawing?"
"Being productive, I can draw."
"That's fair."
I glance down at the page.
One finished sketch.
Half of another.
And several lines that look like they were drawn during a mild earthquake.
"This is your fault."
"My fault?" he repeats, sounding offended.
"Entirely."
"Interesting accusation from the person who kissed me first."
I point at him immediately.
"You should let that go."
"Never."
"Not once?"
"Absolutely not."
I roll my eyes.
He laughs.
I love this feeling.
Not just the flirting.
Not just the tension.
Us.
The conversations that somehow bounce between serious life discussions, terrible jokes, anime debates, and arguments about which superhero would survive the longest in increasingly ridiculous scenarios.
The comfort of him.
The ease of him.
The reason all of this feels dangerous in the first place.
Because losing this would hurt more than any awkward confession ever could.
The thought must show on my face.
His smile softens.
"What?" he asks quietly.
I hesitate.
Then shake my head.
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"Maybe."
His shoulder bumps mine.
Gentle.
Patient.
Like he's giving me room to decide whether I want to say it.
I stare at the sketchbook for a second before speaking.
"You know what the worst part is?"
His expression shifts.
"What?"
I laugh softly.
"The fact that even if none of this had happened today, I'd still want to spend the whole afternoon sitting here arguing with you."
I think that catches him off guard.
His smile changes into something warmer.
"Yeah," he says.
Then, after a beat:
"Same."
For once neither of us follows it with a joke.
The silence settles between us.
Comfortable.
Real.
Then, because apparently we are incapable of being serious for more than thirty consecutive seconds, he points at the sketchbook.
"Your main character still looks suspiciously like me."
I stare at him.
"It does not."
"It absolutely does."
"You're delusional."
"You gave him my hair."
"I gave him hair."
"He has my jawline."
"You do not own a jawline."
He looks genuinely pleased by that sentence.
And somehow that makes me laugh hard enough that I have to put the pencil down again.
"You are annoying."
His grin returns immediately.
"And yet."
I point at him.
"Don't."
"And yet," he repeats, completely ignoring me, "you're still here."
I hate that line.
Mostly because he's right.
And because part of me knows exactly what he's doing every time he says it.
Still.
Seventh Act
(Inspired by real events, blurred together with memories, daydreams, and the things I wished had happened.)
I'm not about to let him get away with it. And because I'm apparently incapable of surrendering gracefully, I have to challenge him.
I cross my arms.
"You want me to leave?"
The confidence disappears from his face for half a second.
Not much.
Just enough.
Interesting.
I stand up.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The sketchbook closes with a soft thump.
He watches me.
I start gathering pencils.
Still watching.
I zip up my bag.
His eyes narrow slightly.
"You being dramatic?"
"Lil ol me?" I say innocently.
"You're being dramatic."
I sling the bag over my shoulder.
For the first time all afternoon, he looks a little uncertain.
Not worried.
Just suspicious.
Like he's trying to figure out what I’m doing and when I’ll fold.
I smile sweetly.
Which definitely doesn't help.
"Okay then," I say.
And start walking toward the door.
I make it three whole steps.
Three.
That's honestly more than I expected.
Behind me, I hear his chair scrape across the floor.
Fast.
I barely have time to turn before a hand catches mine.
"Absolutely not."
The laugh bursts out of me immediately.
"Absolutely not, what?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Whatever game you're playing."
"What game?"
"The one where you pretend you're leaving."
I clutch my chest dramatically.
"The disrespect."
"You weren't leaving."
"I was."
"You threw away your trash and came back."
"That proves nothing, I came for my bag.”
“Hmm.” he gives a little huff.
I try to keep walking.
His grip tightens just enough to stop me.
Not forceful.
Not trapping.
Just stubborn.
Very, very stubborn.
Unfortunately, I know that look.
He's dug in now.
Which means reasoning with him is pointless.
I shake my head.
"You are impossible."
"You keep saying that.”
"Because you keep proving it."
His grin returns.
Dangerous.
Then, before I can decide whether I'm actually staying or going, he gives my hand a tug.
Not hard.
Just enough to throw off my balance.
I stumble.
"Hey—“
And suddenly I'm sitting sideways across his lap.
For a second neither of us says anything.
I blink.
I become painfully aware of everything all at once.
His arm around my waist.
My hand still caught in his.
How close we are.
How warm he is.
He smells so good.
The fact that neither of us seems particularly interested in fixing this situation.
Slowly, I look up.
He's already looking at me.
Like this was exactly what he wanted.
I muster out, “So, you gonna let me go?”
"You done leaving?" he asks.
I stare at him.
"Maybe."
"Liar."
I hate that I can feel myself smiling.
His hand is still wrapped around mine, the other resting securely at my waist like he doesn't even realize he's doing it anymore.
Or maybe he does.
Knowing him, he absolutely does.
“You are ridiculous,” I inform him.
“That's not a no.”
“It wasn't supposed to be.”
His mouth twitches.
I know that look.
Victory.
I also know I should probably get off his lap.
Unfortunately, the part of my brain responsible for good decisions appears to have clocked out for the day.
“People usually ask before kidnapping someone,” I say.
“One, you weren't kidnapped. And two, who asks permission before kidnapping someone?”
“Hush”
“And third, you came back.”
“I was pulled back.”
“A technicality.”
“No, that’s the truth.”
His fingers tighten around mine slightly.
Not enough to keep me there.
Just enough to make it clear he doesn't want me to move.
The realization sends a warmth through my body that has nothing to do with how close we are.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
I narrow my eyes at him.
“You know you're being smug, right?”
“I'm sitting here minding my business.”
“You literally dragged me into your lap.”
“You fell.”
“You caused the falling.”
“Allegedly.”
I laugh despite myself.
He smiles immediately.
Like making me laugh was the entire point.
Which, it probably was.
For a second neither of us says anything.
The room settles around us.
Late afternoon sunlight stretches across the table, catching the scattered pencils and abandoned sketchbook.
The project we were supposed to be working on sits completely forgotten.
Again.
“We're never finishing this today,” I say.
“Nope.”
“We've accomplished nothing.”
“Not true.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He gestures toward the sketchbook.
“We confirmed I can't draw.”
“Already knew that.”
“We confirmed you're cute when you're flustered.”
I groan.
“See? This is why we always argue.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Yet here you remain.”
I shake my head, trying not to smile.
“I should probably get up now, I’m not exactly light.”
I start trying to get up and he forces me back down.
“Where are you going?”
“To sit on an actual chair”
“What’s wrong with my lap?”
Slightly shocked.
“What, umm... nothing.”
“That's what I thought.”
I stare at him.
“You are impossible.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep proving it.”
His grin widens.
Unfortunately, I'm still sitting in his lap, which makes maintaining any sort of authority in this conversation significantly harder.
I point a finger at him.
“This is a hostage situation.”
“A dramatic hostage situation.”
“You physically prevented me from leaving.”
“You were fake leaving.”
“I was absolutely leaving.”
“Sure.”
The look he gives me says he doesn't believe that for a second.
“It’s like you’re trying to challenge me.”
“I would never.”
All I hear is sarcasm.
He settles back in the chair, one arm still draped casually behind me.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, “for a person who's supposedly trying to escape, you're spending a lot of time sitting in my lap.”
I immediately point at him.
“Don't start.”
“Just making observations.”
“You forgot to add in your observations that you’re the reason I’m on your lap in the first place.”
“Not how I remember it.”
“Well, you might need a doctor for your memory loss.”
His grin widens.
I hate that grin.
Mostly because it does something to my brain.
His hand shifts slightly at my waist.
Not enough to be fully distracting.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Comfortable.
I glance away first.
Mistake.
His laugh is immediate.
“There it is.”
“There what is?”
“That face you make when you're losing.”
I whip my head back toward him.
“I am not losing.”
“You looked away.”
“I was thinking.”
“Excuses.”
“Confidence looks terrible on you.”
“Good thing I'm also pretty.”
I stare at him.
His smile softens slightly.
Less teasing now.
More knowing.
The kind of look that makes my pulse forget how to behave.
Act 8
(Inspired by real events, blurred together with memories, daydreams, and the things I wished had happened.)
For a second neither of us says anything.
Not because we'd run out of things to say.
That had never been our problem.
The problem was that somewhere between arguing about character designs, stealing kisses, and pretending we were getting work done, we'd stopped pretending this was about his book.
His arm was still around my waist.
My hand was still resting against his chest.
Neither of us moved.
Neither of us seemed interested in moving.
The sketchbook sat abandoned on the table.
The project was forgotten.
The afternoon was slipping away in golden streaks of sunlight across the room, and somehow that felt less important than the fact that I could hear his heartbeat if I paid attention.
I should probably get up.
His thumb brushed absentmindedly against my side.
Tiny movement.
Huge problem.
I let out a slow breath.
"You're way too comfortable right now."
His smile appeared instantly.
"Says the person still sitting in my lap."
I opened my mouth.
Closed it again.
Unfortunately for me, he had a point.
And suddenly staying in his lap feels significantly more dangerous than it did thirty seconds ago.
Which is exactly why I decide I'm not giving him the satisfaction.
“Yeah?”
I stand up before he can react.
“Watch me leave.”
Before I even get close to the door I feel his arms around me.
How is he so fast.
He pulls me back. Spins me to face him and sits me back on his lap.
He slides one hand to my back and the other to my thigh. And now we are face to face.
“Again, you’re trying to leave me.”
“No, you challenged me.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Well now you’re definitely not leaving.”
This dominant side of him makes me melt.
Heat rushes through me.
I see him smirk.
“You really kidnapping me now.”
“Yea, you’re mine” he said low and almost growling in my ear.
Okay why did he say it like that.
A shiver runs down my spine.
He grips my thigh. I feel his breath on my neck.
He has me and he knows it.
Before my brain starts functioning again, I whisper, “I’m yours.”
What did I just say?
Neither of us moved.
The joke was gone.
The teasing was gone.
The room felt different now.
Because he'd said you're mine.
And I'd answered without hesitation.
I'm yours.
Neither of us was laughing anymore.
He pulls back and looks at my face. Searching to see if I was joking.
I guess he saw that I wasn’t and that’s all the permission he needed.
He leans forward again, his lips brushing my neck.
I stiffen slightly and my breath catches.
He found another spot.
My body is a traitor, giving away our secrets one reaction at a time.
“Mmm. Another one,” he murmurs against ear, as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer.
His lips dance along my neck, to my cheek and now my lips.
He’s not hesitating.
He kisses me, gentle at first then hungry.
I finally notice one of his hands behind my head as our kiss deepens.
His tongue slips in through my parted lips.
Does he know what he’s doing to me? Awakening desires I’ve kept locked up.
I let my tongue slide against his. Does everything about him taste good?
At first I react without thinking, but eventually I stop fighting it, giving in to him.
I wine in his lap and that gets a reaction from him and the hand he had on my back is now gripping my hip.
I wine down harder on his lap and explore his mouth with my tongue like he does with mine.
I can feel him stirring under me and his hardness.
I want him badly. At this point, I know I need him.
And judging by the twitching under me, the feeling isn't exactly one-sided.
But how far is he willing to go?
Because I don't think I can hold back anymore.
He pulls back from our kiss and rests his head at the crook of my neck and his lips against my neck.
Should I tell him I want more? Will he go for it? We are technically in public.
As these thoughts run through my head, I hear him whisper “I want you”
“Are you reading my mind?”
“No but I can read your face and body. And I’m pretty sure you can feel what I’m thinking too.” He twitches under my lap.
He kisses my neck again.
I’m losing all reasoning.
“If you don’t stop I’m not going to be able to stop myself. I’m trying to behave.”
“Who told you to behave?” he said in between kissing and licking my neck.
Oh my god! Thankfully I didn't wear a dress or skirt, or he'd be able to feel exactly how wet I already am.
“Ummm… nobody.” I barely whisper
“Exactly, so stop trying to behave.”
“But…..”
