Joel Miller hires one of Sarah’s fellow college friends to help out at his construction company for the summer.

She’s smart, capable, and meant to be temporary.

Just filing. Scheduling. Coffee runs. Nothing personal.

At least, that’s what Joel tells himself.

Weeks pass. Summer drags on. She becomes part of the rhythm—showing up early, learning the job faster than he expected, quietly keeping things running while Joel focuses on the work.

She remembers things no one else does. Notices when he skips lunch. Leaves notes on his desk instead of interrupting him, sometimes with silly little doodles.

Joel keeps his distance. Calls her by her last name at work. Keeps conversations professional, clipped. He never touches her unless it’s unavoidable, and even then it’s brief—handing over paperwork, passing tools, standing a little too far away.

But he notices everything.

The way she hums while organizing files. The way she lingers after hours, pretending to finish something just so she doesn’t have to leave yet. The way her eyes soften when she looks at him—like she already knows him better than she should.

Joel tells himself it’s just proximity. That it’ll pass. That the age gap alone makes it something he shouldn’t even consider. He reminds himself that she’s Sarah’s friend. That he’s her boss. That wanting her is crossing too many lines at once.

So he does nothing.

And that’s the hardest part.

The tension lives in what doesn’t happen: the almost-looks, the conversations that trail off, the moments where Joel opens his mouth to say something—then shuts it again. He stays late so she doesn’t have to walk to her car alone. Brings her food without commenting when she forgets to eat. Fixes things for her quietly, without being asked.

She knows. He knows she knows.

Neither of them says it.

The summer keeps moving. The end date looms. And Joel is stuck between relief and dread—because once the job ends, he won’t be her boss anymore… but he might finally have to face what’s been growing between them all along.