Chapter 13

The rain hasn’t let up, not even a little, like it’s been falling since… i don’t even know anymore, hours, since late afternoon, but what even is “afternoon” when you’re stuck here with fluorescent light buzzing and the smell of stale coffee and the windows rattling like they’re about to crack. it’s this steady hammer, not loud enough to drown out thought but constant enough that you can’t not hear it, like somebody tapping your shoulder every second—hey, hey, hey—you’re still here, you’re still stuck. everybody left. like smart people, they grabbed their bags and muttered about flooding and traffic and went home to dry socks and couches and tv. i stayed. i stayed because vincent said the numbers needed to be done before morning and i pretended that was why, but it’s not, obviously, because who cares if he yells? he always yells. i could’ve gone.

Dom’s in the back. i can hear him, metal against wood, that rasping scrape and his voice low, muttered cursing, not sharp cursing but almost like he’s talking to himself. he works slower in storms, i swear. more careful, dragging things out. like he needs to feel every second. i try to keep my eyes glued to the spreadsheet, tapping numbers in, double checking decimals (vincent would lose his mind if they’re off), but i’m not really seeing them. my phone’s beside me, black screen, and i keep looking anyway. like maybe i’ll see something. someone. i don’t even know who i’m expecting.

i tell myself i’m just tired. that’s why i keep getting up. i went to pour more coffee—pointless because i already hated the first one, it just tastes like cardboard, but i needed to stand up, to move, to do something—and then he’s there. just suddenly there in the doorway like he’s been waiting for me to notice. invoices against his arm, shirt damp across his shoulders, clinging in places i didn’t want to notice but i did. rain at the seams, dark patches spreading down his chest. i know he went out to his truck because the smell of wet air clings to him still. he asks why i’m still working, like he doesn’t already know.

and i say the safe thing, i say vincent and decimals, because it’s easier to blame the boss than admit i can’t make myself leave while he’s still here. dom smirks, just a little. that half-curve of his mouth like he’s already figured me out. then he steps into the kitchenette and he’s close enough that i see drops of water clinging to the hair on his arm when he reaches past me for a pen. his arm brushes mine. nothing, just a brush. but i froze, fingers stiff around the mug like a complete idiot. i wanted to say something but didn’t. i wanted to move but couldn’t.

and just like that it’s gone. he leaves. and i go back to my desk, pretending nothing happened but i can feel him everywhere now, like he left part of himself behind in the air, in the hall, in the sound of footsteps going past. every time he moves, i notice. every time he breathes too close, i notice. it’s like a thread snagging, catching, not ripping but pulling, pulling until you’re frayed.

i last maybe half an hour before i make up an excuse. the storm’s worse now, the radio angela left on sounds like it’s drowning in static and rain noise, windows fogging at the corners. i grab the updated file, pretend it’s urgent, and walk over to him. he’s bent over the drafting table, hand flat on the wood, pencil scratching, the back of his shirt stretched in ways that make me want to close my eyes just to stop looking. i hand him the folder. he doesn’t even look up, just asks if it’s the budget. i make a joke about red numbers. he smirks again, takes it, fingers brushing mine.

and that’s it. that’s all it takes. everything flips inside me like a switch.

the silence feels heavy, real heavy, not empty silence but thick, like there’s something in it. outside the gutters choke and spit water, and i swear it makes me feel like we’re the last two people alive, cut off. he tells me i should leave before the roads flood. i shoot back that maybe i like the storm. i don’t even know why i said it. maybe i wanted him to call me out. maybe i wanted him to hear what i wasn’t saying.

and he doesn’t step back. not this time.

the folder’s forgotten, dropped, whatever. next thing i know i’m against the wall beside the table, his arm braced just over my head, and he’s close, too close, and i can feel the heat off him. not touching but almost, enough that my body doesn’t know the difference. he says i keep doing this. i play dumb, i ask what. he says i make it impossible to think straight. my stomach twists, my chest is loud with heartbeat, i smile like an idiot and say maybe i don’t want him thinking straight.

and then he looks at my mouth. i know he does. i feel it. his breath on my cheek, his smell—rain, wood, sweat maybe—fills my head. i curl my hands into fists so i don’t grab him right then and there.

he leans in slow. so slow i can count the inches disappearing. and i swear it’s happening. i swear. my heart’s right there in my throat.

and then the buzz.

his damn phone.

he jerks back like he’s been caught. glances at the screen, mutters vincent like it’s poison. i want to scream. he answers anyway, clipped voice, “yeah we’re still here, storm’s bad, nothing leaking inside, we’ll lock up, see you in the morning.” and that’s it.

moment gone. torn to pieces.

he hangs up and doesn’t look at me. just turns back to the table, pencil scratching again, like nothing, like none of it was about to happen. tells me i should leave before the roads flood. like i’m not already flooded with whatever this is.

i don’t move right away. i wait. i stand there like an idiot hoping he’ll glance up, say something else, anything, but he doesn’t.

so i grab my jacket, say goodnight, and he nods without looking up.

door sticks when i push it open and the rain’s colder than i thought it’d be, slamming down into my hair, sliding under the collar of my jacket. the street reeks of wet asphalt and diesel. a truck idling somewhere nearby spits fumes. i look back once, and the window’s fogged but i can see him still, shoulders bent, body tense, head down like he’s carrying something he can’t set down.

the storm swallows the sound of the door shutting. the rain drowns everything. but the heat in my chest doesn’t go anywhere.

and i don’t know what’s worse—wanting him to follow me out into it, or knowing he won’t.