He’s there.
Damp hair. Towel across his shoulders. Walking down the hall like he knows exactly where he’s going and has never once needed to second-guess his place in the world.
I almost plow right into him.
His hand comes up—automatic, fast—one palm on my upper arm, steadying me before I fully register what just happened.
We’re close. Closer than the boards. Closer than the grocery store.
The hall is narrow. There is nowhere to put a polite amount of distance.
His hand is on my arm.
Neither of us moves.
I look up.
He looks down.
One second.
The hand doesn’t move.
Two seconds.
I am very aware of exactly where his hand is.
Which is not helpful.
It is in fact, the least helpful thing my brain could be doing right now.
Something in the air between us shifts in a way I am going to need several hours and a different notebook to deal with.
I say something — sharp, probably funny, I couldn’t tell you what, because the part of my brain that does that runs completely independent of the part currently fixating on the exact placement of his hand.
It lands. He almost smiles.
And I file that away as a win I absolutely do not need it to be.
Then he says my name.
Just my name.
One syllable.
Not a question. Not a greeting. Just—Nova.
Like he’s confirming something to himself.
That is not a normal way to say someone’s name.
I would like to return to normal immediately.
His hand is still on my arm, and this is the real problem — not that he’s touching me, not even that I like it, but that nothing about it feels accidental or careless or casual in the way I’ve trained myself to dismiss the rest of it.
It feels deliberate. Steady. Like he’s been paying attention this whole time and only just let me catch him at it.
That’s so much worse.
