Page 9 of Crawl for Me

Noah

O h, fuck.

She’s bent over the printer, sleeves shoved to her elbows, blouse tugging tight across her back, the full curve of her ass on show under a tight pencil skirt as she wrestles with a half-chewed sheet of paper.

The machine whines like it’s on its last breath, buttons flashing, and she’s muttering curses under her breath while jabbing at them like it might finally submit if she hits it hard enough.

And I’m just—standing here. In the doorway. File clutched to my chest like a goddamn schoolboy with a book report, too scared to clear my throat in case I startle her, too terrified to stay silent in case Marla herself materializes and skins me alive.

Speak, moron.

“Uh—hey,” I manage, voice cracking halfway out of my throat. “So—um. The client emailed, the meeting’s been moved forward to eleven instead of one.”

She groans, pushing up off the printer. “Seriously?”

My stomach lurches. Christ, that sound. She’s annoyed, and my chest’s already folding in on itself like I’ve personally ruined her week.

“Y-yeah,” I stammer, clutching the file tighter so it doesn’t slip out of my hands.

“Eleven. I know. I’m—uh—I’m sorry. I mean—it wasn’t me, obviously, it’s just?—”

Shut up. Shut the fuck up.

Her eyes flick over her shoulder at me, and I swear every molecule of oxygen leaves the room. My heart’s pounding so hard I’m convinced she can hear it over the grinding printer.

Don’t look at her mouth. Don’t.

I look at her mouth.

Fuck.

She finally wrenches the jammed page free, crumpled and half-burned at the edges, and dumps it straight into the recycling bin without so much as a glance.

Then she turns—fully, sharply—and it hits me like a punch.

Stray strands of hair have fallen loose, brushing against her cheek, catching the flicker of the overhead light as she blows them away with an impatient huff.

“For fuck’s sake,” she mutters.

And then she’s gone—storming out of the printer room, right through the bullpen, cutting a fast path between cubicles. I scramble after her, file jammed against my chest.

She cuts a straight line to her cubicle, snatches her tablet off the desk, then leans over the partition to the next. “Sam—Cos Solutions is bumped to eleven. Pull Eleanor and Mike for me, will you? Twenty minutes.”

Sam blinks up from his monitor, halfway to a mouthful of chips, then nods fast. “Gotcha.”

And then she’s moving again. No pause, no glance back. Just heels hammering a path toward the stairwell. I stumble after her, pulse in my throat, trying not to look like a lost intern trailing his handler.

“I’m assuming you’ve prepped,” she says as we step onto the next floor. “But the Cos team like it tight—numbers first, strategy second. Clean, quick. Don’t bother dressing it up— outcomes sell better than pretty language with them. Approvals, we’ll tag-team. Got it?”

She glances over her shoulder at me, brow raised.

“Y-yeah,” I stammer. “Got it.”

“Good.” She doesn’t wait—just pushes through the door of the glass conference room, and strides straight in.

I follow, fumbling in behind her.

“Feeling nervous?” she says, rounding the table.

“No,” I blurt a little too quickly.

She drops her tablet onto the table with a thunk , then looks up at me. “Breathe,” she says. “You’ve done loads of these before, right?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

It isn’t a lie. I’m not nervous about the meeting. I’ve done a hundred of these—clients glaring, deadlines impossible, projections stacked like houses of cards ready to collapse. That stuff’s fine. Numbers, words, charts. I can juggle all of it without breaking a sweat.

What’s got me twisted up is her.

I can’t seem to exist within thirty feet of Sable without my brain short-circuiting, some internal fucking alarm blaring like I’ve broken the rules by breathing near her.

And she’s right opposite me—sleeves shoved up like she’s ready to wrestle the whole board into submission, a stray piece of hair sliding across her cheek, the entire room tilting around her, oxygen bending her way.

And here I am—the shiny new account lead—looking like I’m about to choke because I can’t keep my pulse under control. She probably thinks I’m just crumbling under pressure.

When the truth is, I’m only falling apart because of her.

The door opens behind us as Sam, Mike, and Eleanor file in, easy chatter spilling between them as they claim their seats.

I sit beside Sable, close enough that I can smell the faint ghost of her shampoo every time she shifts.

I crack the folder open just to have something to do with my hands, eyes dragging over the client notes I already know cover-to-cover.

Anchor yourself, Noah. Words. Numbers. You know this part.

Footsteps echo down the glass corridor minutes later, and the Cos Solutions team files in—expensive coats, tailored shoulders, leather portfolios tucked under their arms. And then one of them breaks from the pack.

“Ah—Sable.”

He’s tall, broad, salt-and-pepper hair combed back. An expensive watch catches the winter light, flashing gold as he extends his hand. Sable rises smoothly, slipping into her professional smile. His hand clasps hers, warm and firm. And then his gaze swivels to me.

“And you must be the new account lead.”

Right. Yes, that’s me. Stop staring at Sable. Say your name. Say it normally. Like a functioning adult, not a lunatic.

“Noah Calloway,” I manage, pushing up to grip his hand, voice holding steady by some miracle.

“Good to meet you, Noah,” he says, giving it a firm shake. “Simon Florensen, Senior Director at Cos.”

Something shifts in me. Not calm— God, I wish —but something steadier. This is my territory. A table, a file, numbers that make sense even when the rest of the bullshit in my head doesn’t.

Everyone settles in—their six across the table, our side stacked with five—and Simon clears his throat.

“Thank you all for making the time. We’ve got a compressed window now that our deadline’s been moved up, and today’s about confirming deliverables—making sure both sides are aligned before rollout. ”

Nods ripple around the table. I force mine to join them, flipping the file open in front of me.

Pages smooth, pen in hand. And just like that, we’re in it—client notes spread like hurdles waiting to be cleared, projections stacked like dominoes begging not to fall.

I lean forward, and the rhythm finds me.

Words flow clean, steady. I’m confident, answering questions before they can harden into doubts.

One of them leans in, eyes meeting mine. “And what if engagement doesn’t climb with the first phase? What’s your contingency?”

I don’t hesitate. “We’ve already drafted tiered content streams. If the first wave underperforms, we pivot to reactive pushes—optimize targeting, adjust tone, test higher-frequency micro-ads. That way we don’t lose momentum, we just redirect it.”

A ripple of nods passes down the table. Relief softens their faces. Good. Solid ground.

“And we don’t wait until the metrics tell us to panic,” Sable cuts in smoothly. “We’ll be monitoring live sentiment—social chatter, brand mentions, comment ratios. If the tone shifts even half a degree, we’ll feel it first and move before the numbers tank.”

She slides the words into the conversation and then sits back, worrying her lip between her teeth, pen tapping idly against her tablet.

Christ. If she keeps biting that lip while she waits, I’m going to forget the word quarterly.

Simon nods from across the table, jotting it down. “Good. That’s exactly what we wanted to hear.”

The air shifts, and the tension around the table ebbs. Pens scribble, heads nod, coffee cups lift.

I grin to myself, riding the high. There we go. We’ve nailed it. One week into the new job, and I’m getting through my first client meeting without stuttering at them. That’s basically smashing it, right?

But then Sable shifts in her chair. It’s the smallest movement, legs crossing slightly, but her knee slips to the right, pressing against mine under the table. The warmth from her skin seeps straight through my slacks.

My grin falters, breath stuttering, grip on the pen tightening until it carves plastic lines into my fingers.

But I keep the practiced smile fixed on my face for the clients, nodding along like I’ve heard every word they’ve said in the past thirty seconds, but inside— fuck . I’m coming apart at the seams.

Don’t move, Sable. Please, don’t ? —

No. Move. Before I get a hard-on and a heart attack and this whole meeting derails from marketing strategy to someone calling an ambulance.

Move your leg, idiot. Just shift an inch, pretend it’s nothing.

I can’t. If I nudge left, I’ll end up plastered against Sam, and that’s a whole other violation there. If I lean right, I’m back in her space, and—Christ—my body’s already threatening mutiny just from the brush of her knee.

So I sit frozen, pulse jackhammering, praying no one around this table notices that the new account lead is seconds from short-circuiting over a fucking leg.

She doesn’t even glance down. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t acknowledge .

Does she even know her leg’s pressed against mine? Or is she sitting there oblivious while I’m over here losing the ability to breathe?

Simon’s palms slap together, snapping me out of my haze. “Excellent. That’s where we’ll leave it for today. We’ll circulate the notes by end of week and touch base Monday to confirm the rollout schedule.”

Chairs move, the scrape of metal legs against marble grating through my already frayed nerves. Pens click shut, papers shuffle, voices dip back into polite chatter.

Sable’s leg shifts, sliding away like it was never there. No look , no flicker of awareness—nothing. She definitely didn’t notice.

I drag in a jagged breath, snapping the folder shut with a hand that won’t stop trembling. I tuck it under my arm, knuckles still twitching, and force myself to stand and act like a functioning adult.

Round the table, Noah. Shake hands. It isn’t over yet.

So I do—grip after grip, polite smiles. Simon claps me hard on the shoulder. “Strong first showing, Noah.”

I manage a nod and a thanks, and keep moving.

By the time I circle around, Sable’s already sliding her tablet into her bag, that polished smile still plastered on as she thanks one of the Cos guys.

And I’m just—what? Hanging back? Loitering like some awkward pervert in a suit?

What am I even going to say?

Hey. Do you know your leg touched mine? Did you mean for that to happen? Was it nothing? Was it an accident? Do you know I’ve been half-hard ever since? That I can still feel the heat of your skin brushing mine? Do you have any idea there’s a damp patch in my boxers because you touched my damn leg?

Jesus. Get it together.

Finally, he peels away and she pushes her chair in, ready to move.

“Uh—thanks,” I blurt. “For the live sentiment thing. You—uh—you made it smooth.”

Her brow lifts as she meets my eyes. “That’s what I’m here for.”

“Right, yeah, I know, I just—” Christ. Spit it out. “I meant it was… the way you put it… it was good.”

Her mouth quirks like she’s holding back something, and she tilts her head. “You did well, too. Not bad for a first meeting.”

Oh. Fuck.

My chest caves in at those words. You did well . Like I’m some rookie desperate for a sticker chart. My jaw locks, pulse roaring—because there it is, that low thrill winding through my spine at her praise. I hate how much I like it. I don’t hate how much I like it.

I want to drop to my knees, and ask her to say it again, even though it was only light praise for actually doing my job, but instead, I force a tight nod.

Say something back. Thank her. Make a joke. Anything.

She shifts, sliding the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, and for a breath it looks like she might actually say something else. My throat works uselessly, braced for whatever it is?—

“Hey, Sable.” Sam’s head pops around the conference room door. “We’re heading down to Miller’s for lunch. You coming?”

“Yeah,” she says, glancing over to him. “Be there in a sec.”

Sam’s gaze flicks to me. “You’re welcome to join, Noah. Everyone’s going.”

Oh, God. Lunch. Sitting across from her at some cramped table while they probably try to talk sports and I try not to visibly combust while she breathes near me. I’ll die. I’ll actually die.

My stomach lurches. Lunch. With her. Sitting across from her in some cramped booth, nowhere to hide while I choke on my words and probably my water too. Christ, no. I clear my throat and force a polite smile. “Uh—I’d love to, but I’ve got… reports to get through before the afternoon.”

Turning down lunch with your new colleagues because you’d rather hyperventilate alone at your desk? Perfect.

Sam shrugs, already halfway gone. “Suit yourself, man.”

Just before she follows him out—she glances back at me.

Half a second, maybe less. Eyes catching mine.

And then she’s gone. Clean exit, no fuss.

Meanwhile, I’m stuck here, rooted to the spot, praying nobody wanders in and asks why the brand-new account lead looks two seconds from dropping dead in an empty conference room.