“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you were touching me.”
Noah’s mouth curved.
“I told you kissing me would be a terrible professional decision.”
“Did that stop me?”
“No.”
“Did you kiss me?”
“You kissed me first.”
His eye closed.
“Good.”
I laughed softly.
“You were very pleased with yourself.”
“Was it good?”
“Yes.”
“How good?”
I looked at his tired face, the scar at his temple, the hand still holding mine.
“Good enough that we spent the next hour discussing why we could never do it again.”
“And then?”
“You did it again.”
His smile deepened.
“Tell me more.”
I spoke until his breathing changed.
I told him about the first breakfast we shared in the office because neither of us had slept. I told him how he pretendednot to know the mug beside my sink had become his. I told him about the afternoon he brought Marlowe home without asking and claimed the dog was only staying one night.
I did not tell him everything.
I gave him small pieces.
Safe pieces.
By the time I reached the night he moved into the apartment, Noah was asleep.
His fingers remained wrapped around mine.
The strip of photographs rested between us.
