Page 7 of Crawl for Me

Noah

I drag a hand over my face, trying to scrub some sense into myself. I’ve got work in an hour. New systems to learn, new clients to get familiar with, deadlines, actual responsibilities.

My gaze lifts back to the mirror, to the ties draped around my neck. Do I go for the blue one, or the grey one? Which one will make me look less like an idiot? Can ties even do that?

“Hey, good morning, Sable,” I mutter at my reflection. My voice comes out too stiff and strangled, so I clear my throat and try again.

“Morning.” No, that sounds too flat. Like I’m accosting her in the cubicles and I’m about to file a report.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Okay. Softer. Friendlier. Normal people can do this.

“Morning, Sable. How’re you?”

Nope. Too chipper. That sounds like I’m trying to sell her life insurance.

Jesus Christ.

It’s just a greeting. A few words that any functioning adult can manage. But everything that falls out of my mouth makes me feel like a neighbor with too much time on his hands—or worse, her technical boss who can’t keep his head out of his dick.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, head bowed.

The one woman who’s had me shaking apart with nothing more than a look—the one who made me forget my own name while her thighs locked around my head—and I happen to be her account lead. Perfect. Couldn’t have scripted a bigger clusterfuck if I tried.

Just pick a damn tie, Noah.

I shove off the mattress and stalk back to the mirror.

Grey. Grey’s safer. Less like I’m trying too hard.

That’s the goal. Except the tie knot keeps slipping crooked under my fingers, too loose one second, strangling me the next.

I pull it tight until it digs into my throat, then swear under my breath and tug it loose again.

Two sharp sprays of cologne choke the air, clinging heavily to my shirt, and I’m already regretting it.

My reflection glares back at me from the mirror—hair slicked too flat on one side, so I rake my fingers through, ruffle it up, smooth it back, ruffle it again.

Nothing looks right. Nothing feels right.

What the hell is wrong with me? It’s just a Tuesday. Just another day. I’m fine.

I check the time on my phone, shove it into my slacks, grab my bag off the dresser, and sling it over my shoulder. The lock to my apartment clicks behind me, echoing through the empty space as I step out and head down the hallway. The carpet muffles my footsteps, bag strap biting into my shoulder.

I round the corner, and stop dead.

Fuck me.

She’s there. Waiting at the elevator. Back straight, blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, one heel tapping an impatient rhythm. My chest cinches tight— stupidly tight—and a tremor runs down my arm. I fist the strap of my bag to keep it still.

I should turn around. Take the stairs, run down all fifteen flights, break my goddamn legs if I have to. Anything but this.

Yesterday I’d left early—first-day nerves, Marla had me in before half the office arrived.

Today’s different. Right in at the deep end with normal start time.

Today, I’ve landed right in her orbit. What was I expecting?

Of course I’d run into her. Same building, same floor, same workplace.

Just a matter of time. There’s no escaping it. No escaping her.

Except yesterday, she sure as hell managed it.

Every time I surfaced for a break from my induction with Marla or an introductory client call, she was gone.

Ducking into offices, vanishing into meetings, tethered to her headset as if she was actively avoiding me like the plague.

And Marla’s already on my ass about today.

Said Sable’s supposed to walk me through the coordination processes— “to help you get your footing in this branch” —her exact words.

Translation—babysit the new guy. Which means I don’t just have to face her, I have to follow her.

Suck it up.

I suck in a heavy lungful of air and shake out my hands before dragging myself to the elevator on slightly unsteady feet, closer, closer, until I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with her, staring up at the ascending floor numbers.

The doors slide open with a chime almost immediately, and we step into the mirrored box together. I press the button for the ground floor, and they seal shut. Just me. Just her. Four walls and nowhere else to run.

My throat works uselessly, pulse thundering like it’s going to punch straight through my tie.

Say it. Fucking say it. Just like you practiced in the mirror.

“Good—” The word tangles, tumbling out all wrong. “Good morning.”

Smooth, Noah. Real smooth.

“Morning,” she says flatly, eyes locked on the seam of the doors like I’m not even here.

The silence stretches thin, unbearable. My palms sweat against the strap of my bag, my throat too tight to swallow or breathe. Each passing second grates. The numbers tick down overhead, mechanical and merciless.

Has the elevator shrunk?

The doors shudder open and relief surges through me, cut by the sharp rhythm of her heels as she steps out. Each click against the polished lobby floor feels like a hammer to my ribs as I trail behind her, every nerve stretched taut, pulse still thundering in my ears.

My tongue’s dry as dust, but the words scrape out anyway. “I’m—uh—I’m driving in. If you… want a ride?”

She stops in her tracks, head snapping toward me, one brow arched high.

Oh my God. Why would you say that? Why the fuck would you say that? Of all the things you could’ve said, and that’s what you went with?

She doesn’t answer—just looks at me with an expression caught between deciding to laugh, slap me, or pick up her pace.

My ears burn as I gesture helplessly toward the parking lot past the glass doors. “I just figured… since we live in the same building, and we’re both going to the same place. It’s not—it’s not a big deal. Thought I could give you a ride. Totally fine if not.”

“What, are you working as an Uber driver now as well as my account lead?”

An awkward laugh scrapes out of me as I rub at the back of my neck. “Guess so. Just—uh—less surge pricing.”

She doesn’t bite. Simply turns and keeps walking. I jog half a step to catch up, pulling the door open for her, the cold morning air smacking my overheated face.

“So, uh…” I swallow, throat desert-dry, the words scraping up before I can stop them. Christ, we’re already here, already doing this, I might as well go all in, right? Except every nerve in my body’s screaming ‘shut the hell up, Noah, stop talking, turn around, run.’

But my stupid mouth opens anyway. “What do you say? We could grab coffee on the way if you want?”

The second it’s out, I want to slam my head into the nearest wall. Why can’t I leave well enough alone? Why can’t I stop piling more words onto the fire?

She huffs out a short laugh, stepping clean through the door without breaking stride. “I’ve got my own car. Thanks, though.”

Of course she does. Of course she’s got her own car, her own everything—why the hell would she ever need me for something as basic as a ride? I’m not just embarrassing myself now, I’m moonlighting as a goddamn chauffeur in my imagination.

I trail after her, chasing the click of her heels across the lot.

Apologize. Say sorry. Tell her you’re not usually this weird, that you didn’t mean to make it awkward. Fix it before she writes you off completely. Open your mouth, Noah. Say something—anything ? —

She stops at a car, one hand on the handle, tilting her head enough to catch me over the roof. The locks chirp as she taps the fob. Her eyes flick to mine, sharp but unreadable. “See you at the office. Marla said you’ll need me for the coordination walkthrough today, right?”

I manage one single, shaky nod. Then she slips in, the door shuts, the engine turns over, and she pulls out, taillights bleeding red across the lot, leaving me rooted to the spot.

And I’m left standing there, bag hanging limp off my shoulder, pulse hammering like I just ran a sprint. One night, and she’s got me pacing mirrors, tripping over my own tongue, and chasing her across parking lots like a fucking idiot.

Christ. If this is day two, I’ll need a helmet, a gag order, and a divine intervention just to make it to Friday.