Page 23 of Crawl for Me

Noah

F reezing rain lashes the window, streaking the glass in jagged lines, the concrete-grey light bleeding into my office until everything feels washed out. I sit hunched at the desk, pen tapping a dead rhythm against a pad of notes I can’t focus on, words on my laptop screen bleeding into static.

I drag a hand down my face, pressing my palm hard into my eye socket until sparks flare behind my lids.

The closet.

It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. My dumb ass had fallen asleep with her tucked under my chin, too wrecked by the feel of her skin and our pleasure to remember there was someone in the other room.

Next thing I knew, she was shoving me in there in full-blown panic—half-asleep, clutching my shoes, her coats smothering me into near suffocation.

I get it. I’m not an idiot. I know why it happened. I know the rules. Stay quiet. Keep it secret. Don’t blow everything up.

But it stings—worse than I’ll ever admit out loud.

Because the contradiction’s killing me. She shoved me into a fucking closet like I was a dirty secret—and if she did it again, I’d go without blinking.

I’d let her fold me up and hide me away like I don’t even exist, if it meant getting her mouth on mine again.

And what the hell does that make me? Pathetic. A joke. Thirty-two, senior title, corner office, but I’d crawl into darkness on command if she asked, and thank her for the privilege.

Jesus. Calloway, you’re a goddamn cliché.

I shove up from the chair too hard, the legs screeching against the floor, my knee clipping the underside of the desk.

Pain shoots up my thigh and I curse under my breath, grabbing the file I don’t even need.

It’s not for the copier. It’s not for anything.

It’s just a prop. Something to justify getting up, moving, breaking the loop before I grind myself into dust.

The bullpen hums with the usual Monday morning energy—phones trilling, keyboards clattering, the low drone of half-hearted chatter blending together into one monotonous, miserable hum. I fix my eyes ahead and shove into motion, weaving through the mess of noise, bodies, and burnt coffee.

She’s at her desk, head tipped down, a mug balanced in one hand as she scrawls something across her tablet with the other.

Her hair’s fallen loose around her face, catching the glow of the monitor.

God. It would be so easy to walk up behind her, lean down, wrap my arms around her waist and bury my face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in until the smell of paper and toner fades and there’s nothing left but her vanilla shampoo and the warmth of her back pressed into me.

No. Keep walking, dumbass. Don’t stand there gawking. Go straight to the copier room.

There’s a knot of interns huddled around the printer, pretending they don’t know how it works, flipping through papers and snorting under their breath.

I shoulder past, drop the folder onto the copier tray with a hard thunk, and start jabbing at the buttons.

They give me a look, all wide eyes and nervous shuffling, and scatter the second I dump the file into the tray with a little more force than necessary.

The machine wheezes awake, clunky gears grinding, light strip crawling across the glass.

I jab at the buttons, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the plastic edge while it warms up.

Pages start to spit out, but I don’t even look.

What am I even copying? Hell if I know. Something I’ll probably dump in the shredder in ten minutes.

A giggle filters through the door, right over the low hum of the copier. “I’d do anything to have the boss man drag me back home when I’m drunk off my ass.”

My shoulders go rigid, paper crumpling under my fist.

“Wait—what? That was Noah ?!”

Air lodges tight in my chest. I glance sideways, just enough to see out the open door. Sam’s sprawled against Eleanor’s cubicle wall, one hand waving as he talks. Eleanor’s leaning back in her chair, smile sharp, eyes glinting like she’s enjoying this far too much.

“Yeah,” she says, lowering her voice a notch. “Volunteered himself. They live in the same building, apparently. He had to, like, haul you into the Uber while you were muttering something about—what was it—‘strategic carbs and hydration’ or some shit?—”

Oh, fuck. No no no, shut up.

Shut up.

My pulse goes feral, hammering straight up my throat. My fingers clamp the edge of the copier, numb with panic, knuckles bleaching white.

Sam snorts, head tipping back. “So it was hot boss guy, huh… that’s interesting…”

Please. Just stop. Please, God, stop talking.

He saw my tie that morning. Pulled it straight out of her sheets, twirling it between his fingers like a damn flag. He found the wrapper too. He grilled her on it, wouldn’t shut up, wouldn’t let it drop until she had to literally snap at him.

But if he puts it together now… One domino, and the whole thing comes crashing down. Eleanor runs her mouth, Sam feeds it to the bullpen, and by the end of the week Marla’s catching wind. Then HR. Then policy, investigations, write-ups, lost jobs, all of it.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Hey, have you seen Noah?” Sable’s voice cuts through their conspiring laughs, clear enough to rattle every bone in me.

“Have you seen Noah?” Sam parrots, his tone high and teasing enough to make Eleanor giggle again.

Sable’s voice sharpens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he laughs again. “You’re what? Looking for him?”

She exhales hard enough I can almost hear the accompanying eye-roll. “Yes,” she snaps. “Veylar are on my ass about their deadline and I need him for projections. Have you seen him or not?”

“No,” he grumbles. “Haven’t seen him.”

She sighs once. “Great.” And then the click of her heels fades, swallowed up by the noise of the floor.

My chest stays locked. Every part of me screams don’t move, not when Sam’s probably standing there with that smug little half-grin, piecing together whatever his probably-still-hungover brain can manage.

But I can’t stay plastered to the copier like a coward.

Someone will wander in eventually, and then I’ll have to explain why I’m holed up in here copying documents I don’t even need.

So what’s worse—walking out and risking whatever expression is on his face, or staying hidden until I really look guilty?

You can’t stay in here all day, Calloway.

Fuck it.

I shove the folder and papers under my arm, suck in a deep breath, square my shoulders, and push through the door.

Sam glances over as I step out, one eyebrow raised.

Eleanor spots me and immediately busies herself with something on her monitor, clicking around her screen with the kind of exaggerated focus that screams ‘ don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh. ’

Normal. Be normal. If I look guilty, I might as well staple the tie and condom wrapper to my forehead.

“Morning,” I say evenly, giving him the kind of nod I’d throw a stranger in an elevator.

His mouth quirks into a grin. “Oh, hey—Sable’s looking for you.”

I hike the folder higher into the crook of my arm, faking casualness as best I can. “Oh, is she?”

“Yep,” he says, drawing it out, jerking his chin toward the far end of the aisle. “Went that way.”

“Thanks.” I nod again and turn down the row.

Her cubicle’s empty. Figures. She’ll be in the break room.

I weave through the noise, and sure enough—there she is. One hand braced on the counter, the other jabbing the coffee machine as she mutters to herself under her breath.

I stop in the doorway and swallow down the knot in my throat. “Sam said you were looking for me?”

“Finally,” she hisses, wrenching the mug up. “I’ve been looking for you. Veylar are on our asses, and Marla’s ready to start biting heads off. Can we use your office?”

My office? Shit .

The paranoia’s a live wire under my skin. What if Sam and Eleanor are watching? What if they cotton on?

No . That’s ridiculous. It’s just work. Just two colleagues walking into an office. There’s nothing suspicious about that. Nothing conspicuous.

Jesus, calm down.

“Yeah.” I nod quickly. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

I lead her back through the cubicles and right to my office. Then I open the door, letting her slip inside first. The click as it shuts behind us feels louder than the rain hammering the glass.

She takes the seat across from my desk, places her mug down on the wood, and swipes open her tablet, already scrolling through whatever hellfire Veylar are throwing at us. Her knee bounces, jaw locked, eyes scanning. She’s all business.

And I just stand there for a second, fingers hovering near the back of my chair.

Watching her. The storm outside’s nothing compared to the one grinding through me.

Every muscle’s wound tight, chest aching with the urge to launch myself across the desk, grab her face, and kiss the stress line right out from between her brows.

Instead, I sit and pull my laptop toward me, fingers fumbling as I pull up the projections spreadsheet.

“They’re still pushing for Wednesday,” she mutters, swiping through her tablet.

“Even though they dumped half their assets on us Friday night. I’ve got the Q3 numbers pulled, but the forecasting’s useless unless we can stitch a clean bridge into Q4.

Do you still have the comparative breakdown from their last campaign? ”

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, clicking through folders. “I’ll pull it up—uh, just give me a second.”

The file opens and the deck loads. I start scrolling, slow and aimless, pretending I’m locked in. Like I’m right here with her, focused, working.

But I’m not. Not even close. She’s sitting across from me, three feet away, and it feels like miles.

I can still feel her on my skin—her breath against my mouth, the heat of her hands, the weight of her pressed against me in the dark.

I know the rules, I do. But she hasn’t looked at me once.

Not since she walked through that door, and it’s splitting me at the damn seams.

“Sable.”

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even falter. “—might be able to pitch a seasonal roll-forward that doesn’t tank their targets.”

I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Just—something. A flicker. A crack in the mask. Anything that tells me I’m not invisible.

My throat works, dry and rough, and I force it out again, louder. “Sable.”

She stills, fingers hovering mid-scroll, but she doesn’t look up.

Panic slams through me. “I’m sorry,” I blurt, like I’ve committed a crime just by saying her name. “It’s… you haven’t—can you please look at me, just for two seconds?”

She finally lifts her head, and our eyes meet. Her brow arches in question, but there it is—her teeth catching bottom lip like maybe she’s not as untouchable as she’s pretending to be.

“We should get through this,” she says. “Before we end up down shit’s creek without a paddle.”

I want to argue. Want to push. But I won’t. At least she looked at me.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding a little too fast. “Of course.”

She looks back down at her screen, fingers moving again.

Like it’s nothing.

Like I’m nothing.

No. That’s not fair. I know it’s not. She’s not doing this to hurt me. She’s doing this because we’re already on the wire. Because this thing between us could get us both fired. Hell, it hasn’t even been twenty minutes since I heard “Hot boss guy, huh… that’s interesting…”

I rub my palms against my thighs, trying to ground myself. But my tie feels like it’s strangling me, my spine’s too straight, muscles are locked tight in all the wrong places, and I’m pretty sure I’ve forgotten how to blink.

“I’m just—” The words scrape out and die on my tongue, so I clear my throat, fingers curling around the edge of the desk. “I’m trying really hard not to make things worse. I needed… I don’t know.”

She sighs softly and looks up. “I heard Sam and Eleanor talking,” she says. “I… Sam’s my best friend in the office but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him when it comes down to personal business. He has a knack for opening his mouth at the wrong time to the wrong people.”

I stare at her, blood roaring my ears.

Fuck, okay she heard that too.

She heard the giggles and the smirks. The way our whatever-this-is was about to possibly be turned into an office rumor that neither of us would be able to stop.

“It’s not your fault,” she says quickly, catching whatever must be written all over my face. “We got careless at a stupid time.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Because she’s right. Of course she is.

Silence stretches between us and her gaze dips for a second, before she draws in a slow breath through her nose. “Noah,” she says quietly. “We need to get these projections sorted.”

I drag my laptop closer, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Projections,” I echo. “Yeah. Right.”