The faintest smile tugged at her lips, but it didn’t hide the exhaustion in her eyes. Her movements were careful, precise, like she needed something steady to hold onto.
I swallowed. “That why you keep finding excuses to fix it?”
Her gaze flicked up just briefly, the corner of her mouth curving. “Maybe.”
Her voice had gone quieter now, her hands working at the knot with small, practiced motions. I could smell the faint trace of her perfume—champagne and gardenia, soft and dizzying. The scent hit me harder than it should have. She was close enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath against my throat, close enough that I could see where a single strand of hair had escaped its pin and curled against her cheek.
Her fingers trembled once—barely noticeable, but I caught it.
If she looks up right now, I’m gone.
I tried to breathe evenly, tried to think of something sharp to say, something that would break the spell. But the world had narrowed to her touch—the brush of silk against my collar, the whisper of her skin against mine, the space between us thinning to nothing.
“You’re still fidgeting,” she said softly.
“Maybe I’m allergic to being this close to you,” I managed.
She laughed quietly; the sound vibrating in the small space between us. “You’re impossible.”
I smiled, even though my pulse was hammering. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.”
Her fingers stilled on the knot. For a long, suspended heartbeat, neither of us moved. The air between us shifted—less teasing now, heavier. The kind of quiet that hummed before a storm.
When she finally looked up, it was like being hit with the full force of something I’d been pretending not to feel. Her eyes found mine—wide, uncertain, searching—and I knew that if I didn’t step back right then, I wouldn’t.
“You, uh—” she cleared her throat, dropping her hands quickly. “There. Perfect.”
Her voice sounded steadier than mine would’ve.
“Thanks,” I said, low. “Guess I’ll try not to ruin it.”
She smiled again—soft, brittle around the edges. “Good luck with that.”
We both knew we weren’t talking about the tie anymore.
I shoved my hands in my pockets just to keep from reaching for her again, from brushing that stray curl off her cheek, from doing all the things I’d been holding back for weeks.
“Ellery,” I said quietly.
She blinked. “Yeah?”
But before I could say it—before I could let the truth slip past the thin line I’d drawn between us—someone called her name from down the hall.
She stepped back, already slipping her professional mask into place. “I should go.”
“Yeah,” I said, forcing a smirk I didn’t feel. “Go save the world, James.”
She looked up.
And that was it.
Whatever she saw in my face—whatever I’d been too tired or too careless to hide—stopped her movement cold. Her fingers froze on my tie, the silk half-twisted between us, her breath catching in the space that suddenly felt too small to hold.
“Ellery—don’t—” I said, but it wasn’t a warning. It came out quiet, rough—more plea than protest. Because part of me didn’t want her to stop.
She hesitated for half a second, eyes searching mine. Then she rose onto her toes and kissed me.
It was soft at first, almost uncertain, like she was testing if it would break us. Then it deepened, slow and deliberate, and the air went out of my lungs. I didn’t think—didn’t have time to. One heartbeat of shock, and then every wall between us just gave way.
