Maya hands me a forecast page. “She wouldn’t let me carry anything. Said my hands were full.”
“Which is why neither coffee is on the floor.” Elena gathers the operating summary and puts it back in order. “My decision was sound.”
“Your execution needs work.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I’m sure you’ve been waiting years to say that.”
I have. Just not about binders.
The last page lies between us. We reach at the same time, and her fingers slide over mine.
Elena jerks her hand back so quickly that the side of it hits the metal wall.
“Careful.” I catch the page and look at her knuckles. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No.”
She curls her fingers into her palm after yanking them away hard enough to hit the wall. We’ve touched in her bed, on her couch, and in the clinic while we waited for a result neither of us wanted. Yesterday, we agreed that touching at work was off limits.
Now one accidental brush of our hands has her pressed against the elevator wall, breathing as if I’d done something far more deliberate.
The doors open two floors below ours. A junior analyst steps forward, sees the three of us on the floor, and stops.
“We’re fine,” Elena tells him.
He looks at the loose pages. “I can wait.”
The doors close again.
Maya purses her lips.
“Don’t,” Elena warns.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
We finish stacking the papers. I stand, put the recovered binder on top of the other two, and lift the entire pile.
Elena holds out her hands. “Give me those.”
“No.”
“Dominic.”
“You can carry your laptop.”
“I am capable of carrying four things at once.”
“The evidence is all over the elevator.”
Maya makes a quiet choking sound behind her coffee cup.
Elena gives us both a hard look, then takes her portfolio off the floor. “This is why I don’t ask either of you for help.”
“You were offered help,” Maya says. “Repeatedly.”
The elevator reaches our floor. Elena walks out first, spine straight and pace brisk, as if leaving me behind could erase her hand, still curled against her palm.