Behind me, something slides softly across the counter. Paper. A drawer. The small, familiar sounds of Mel moving through the room. They land close, just at the edge of where he stands, threading into the space between us.
I swallow and fix my gaze on the wall across the room, holding it there, not moving, not turning.
His hand doesn’t lift.
The sounds at the counter don’t stop.
I sit between them, arm braced where she left it, Tom’s touch steady on my shoulder, and the space between us holds.
All of a sudden, my chest feels too tight, breath coming in slower, deeper, like I have to think about it to keep it steady. The ache in my arm pulses in the background, dull and constant, but it’s not what has my attention anymore.
I shift my weight a fraction, like I’m settling more comfortably on the table, testing whether he’ll move with it.
He does.
Tom’s hand stays where it landed on my shoulder, and the longer it rests there, the harder it is to ignore.
The heat of his palm seeps through my shirt, slow and steady, until it settles into my skin like it belongs there. His fingers aren’t gripping, not even close, but they aren’t careless either. They rest with intent, curved just enough that I can feel the shape of them, the quiet readiness in the way they could tighten if I gave him a reason.
My body registers that before my brain catches up.
Tom’s hand stays on my shoulder.
I hadn’t noticed it while she worked. Now it sits there with a weight that doesn’t shift, doesn’t ask, doesn’t give anythingback. My muscles draw tight under it before I can stop them, the reaction running deeper than the pull in my arm.
I don’t move.
His thumb shifts, dragging once along the line of my shoulder.
My breath catches and stays there.
Behind me, something moves at the counter. Not the quick, clipped rhythm from before. Slower now. Metal touches the tray without the sharp edge it had earlier, set down instead of dropped. A drawer slides in, the last inch guided by hand.
I don’t turn.
But I hear it.
My chest tightens, breath coming in shallow before I force it deeper, steadying it against the weight of his hand. The ache in my arm pulses once, then fades again, pushed out by everything else pressing in.
I shift my weight a fraction.
He moves with me.
The contact holds, adjusting just enough to stay where it is, like it belongs there more than I do. My shoulders lock under it, the tension settling into muscle and bone before I can shake it loose.
Another sound behind me. Paper sliding. A pen set down. Not rushed. Not distracted. Each movement placed where it lands.
I sit there with my arm braced where she left it, his hand steady on my shoulder, and nothing in the room breaks the line between us. Not her movement. Not his touch. Not even my own instinct to step out of it.
My fingers curl once against my jeans, then flatten again.
Tom steps closer.
The space at my back disappears, the heat of him settling in without warning, and my body answers before I can decide whatto do with it. My breath stutters, then evens out again, slower this time, like I have to control it or it’ll give something away.
“Up.”
I move.
