Page 55 of For the Plot

Maya:Want me to come over tomorrow and debrief? I’ll bring caffeine and zero judgment.

I smile at the screen.

Me:Maybe. I’ll let you know in the morning.

I set the phone back down and stare at the ceiling. This can’t be one-sided. It’s not. I know what I saw. The way his handscurled into fists like he was holding something back. The muscle in his jaw that jumped when I turned around.

Maybe he’s still trying to figure out what this is. Hell,I’mstill trying to figure out what this is. But tonight felt like the beginning of something. Like a door opening. And I’m already walking through it.

I tellmyself I’m not waiting for anything.

I even pack up like I mean it. I shut down my computer, slide my charger into my bag, and make a show of stretching my arms over my head like a woman ready to call it a day.

But then I check the time and glance toward his office. Still here. And so am I. I sit back down slowly, convincing myself I should finish one more report. Or reply to one last email. Something responsible. Something that makes staying late seem like anything other than what it is.

The frost routine was back in place today. There were no stolen glances, noI can’t stop thinking about you in that dressconfessions. Just another day at the office with a man who is not only a workaholic but seems to have ratcheted it up just to avoid spending a single second alone with me.

I sigh, glancing toward his door one more time, making a deal with myself in my head that I’ll stop with the silly fantasy stuff if he doesn’t address it today.

Because if last night meant nothing to him, if it was a fluke, a flicker, some illusion conjured by gallery lights and too much space between us, then he’ll walk out of his office without a word. He’ll leave me sitting here, alone and slightly overdressed,with nothing but my overactive imagination and the ghost of something that never really existed.

But if itdidmean something… If he saw me the way I saw him… Maybe he’ll say something. Maybe he’ll finally break the silence.

I open the spreadsheet again, though I don’t look at it. I can feel him on the other side of the glass like I cansensehim. That coiled restraint, that presence that fills every square foot without making a sound.

I’ve taken off my shoes. My blazer is draped over the back of my chair. I undid the top button of my blouse twenty minutes ago in a desperate attempt to breathe a little easier, but it hasn’t helped. My body feels too hot and too tight, like it’s trying to warn me I’ve crossed into dangerous territory.

I stare at the screen and pretend not to notice when he steps into the doorway of his office.

“You planning to move in?” His voice is quiet.

I twist in my chair to face him. “Didn’t realize I was on a timer.”

“You’re not.” He leans against the doorframe, one hand in his pocket, his tie gone and sleeves rolled, that last layer of polish stripped down to something far more dangerous.

“Well then.” I gesture vaguely at the screen. “Just trying to earn my keep.”

“You’ve done more than that already.”

There’s a beat of silence, not awkward but thick with subtext. I close the spreadsheet, suddenly aware that the excuse is flimsy at best.

“I should go,” I say softly.

“You should,” he agrees, but he doesn’t move. Neither do I.

We just watch each other. The distance between us feels like it’s shrinking, even though neither of us has taken a step. The airhas changed. Not charged, exactly. Not yet. But expectant. My pulse flutters in my throat.

“You’re not making this easy,” I say, unsure whether I’m teasing or confessing.

He doesn't flinch, doesn’t look away. “It’s not supposed to be.”

His answer knocks the air from my lungs a little more than it should.

I stand, smoothing my blouse, not because it needs it but because I need something to do with my hands. My heels are tucked under my desk, but I don’t reach for them. I take a step toward him instead.

“I’ve been trying to decide if I’m reading too much into this,” I say. “If maybe you’re just naturally… intense.” He says nothing, but his jaw tightens. “I keep thinking maybe I imagined it,” I continue. “That it’s all in my head. The way you look at me. The way you go quiet when I speak.”

He exhales, like he’s trying very hard not to let something slip. “You didn’t imagine it.”