Rowan Ellis sat hunched over his desk, the low hum of the office dissolving into white noise around him. The numbers on his screen swam as he peered over the rim of his glasses, his attention drifting—not to the report—but to the corner of the room where she sat. The new copywriter. She laughed softly at something on her screen, a sound that seemed to warm the air, and when she read, her eyes always caught the light just right, sparkling with quiet delight.

Today, she held a familiar paperback. His paperback. The one he’d accidentally left in the break room two days ago. Watching her thumb through its dog-eared pages, a smile ghosting across her lips, Rowan felt strangely bare—as though she were leafing through a part of him he hadn’t realized was visible, let alone offered.

He nudged his glasses up his nose. Again. His palms were slick, his pulse skittering beneath his skin as the urge to speak crackled inside him, restless and electric. Just say something, he urged himself. It’s a book. You like books. She likes books. That’s enough. That’s something. He stood, legs stiff and uncooperative, breath shallow as he took one step, then another—

“Hey, you gonna ask her out or keep staring like a lovesick puppy?”

The voice shattered the moment. Rowan froze. A couple of coworkers leaned over their cubicle walls, grinning. One of them snorted, “Careful, Ellis—don’t forget your inhaler.” Heat flooded his face. He managed a smile that felt brittle, already breaking. “I was just… getting coffee,” he muttered, too quiet, too late. They were already walking away, laughter echoing down the hall.

Rowan turned back toward her. She hadn’t looked up. Maybe she hadn’t heard. Maybe she had—and chose not to. Either way, the moment was gone. He lowered himself into his chair, staring hard at the spreadsheet he couldn’t see, his cheeks burning as his heart stayed behind—still caught between her hands and the pages of his book.