Page 25 of Crawl for Me
Noah
“ C hange of plan today, Noah.”
I glance up from my laptop, fingers hovering over the trackpad. Marla’s standing at the doorway to my office, tablet in one hand, coffee in the other, expression somewhere between exasperated and bored.
“With what?” I ask, sitting back.
“The introductory meeting with Lark the wipers drag a slow heartbeat across the glass, a horn bleeds thin through the rain, and I bite down on the next words, fingers whitening around the file—wanting to press, to push, to do anything but drown in this—until the queue loosens and we creep forward, brake lights smearing red over wet asphalt.
She lets out the smallest breath—the slightest sigh. “Because looking at you makes it worse,” she mutters to the road.
Worse? Worse like a headache, like noise?
Or worse like I make you reckless—like Sam and Eleanor and the fucking closet flash behind your eyes every time you see my face?
Worse like HR policies and write-ups and you forgetting you’re careful?
Or worse like wanting—like you’re fine until I look at you and you remember exactly how you sounded in my ear?
“Worse how?” The words slip out, thin and hoarse, before I can bite them back.
She shifts her grip on the wheel. “Just—worse.”
Fuck, that isn’t an answer.
The queue creeps a car length and I press my thumb into the paperclip wedged between the papers, nerves chewing right through the metal.
“Tell me what to do,” I say, quieter. “If there’s a way to not make it worse—tell me.”
“Keep it professional during the meeting. And stop looking at me like—” She gestures vaguely in the direction of my face. “Like that.”
I huff a resigned breath through my nose. “I don’t know how not to.”
“Try. Please . It started costing us, Noah. I’m only doing what we said we would.”
I count the clicks of the wipers as they sway in front of me, but I can feel the tension rising and rising in my gut.
“Say you don’t want me,” I blurt. “If that’s what this is. Say it and I’ll shut up.”
Her fingers flex once on the leather. She doesn’t say it. She doesn’t say a word.
Right. Okay. So it isn’t that.
The tension swells, thick and electric. Her throat works—one small swallow—and then nothing. No mercy kill. No let’s drop it. Just the fact of her not saying it hanging between us like a live wire.
If you could say it, you would. If you wanted me gone, you’d bury me in one damn sentence.
I can live with rules. I can live with pretending. I’ll stop looking. I’ll take the stairs— everywhere . I’ll time my coffee breaks around yours. I’ll be air if that’s what keeps you feeling fine. I… I want to know… That’s all.
Her knuckles are pale on the wheel, mouth set hard enough that it must be hurting her molars. I want to reach across and cover her hand, stroke her fingers and tell her it’s fine. I want to keep my hands to myself. I want both things at once.
We inch forward until the building materializes out of the weather—glass and steel ghosting in the mist, filling the windshield. She signals, slips across two lanes with clinical precision and slots us into a space.
The engine goes quiet, the wipers freeze mid-arc, and the heater gives one last sputter before it dies.
She rests her forehead to the wheel for a few seconds, eyes squeezing shut. Then she straightens, palm skimming an invisible crease down the front of her coat. “Good to go?”
“Yep. Yep.” I nod quickly, tugging the knot of my tie until it’s in line.
She doesn’t wait for me to gather the rest of my dignity—just pops her door and steps out, coat tugged tight against the wind and rain, bag tucked under her arm. I scramble after her, pulse thundering as the glass doors loom ahead.
She didn’t say she doesn’t want me.