Nanami stood behind her, one hand resting lightly on the back of her chair, the other reaching across her shoulder to point at the screen. His voice was low—measured—but there was a quiet intensity behind each word that made her sit just a little straighter.

“Start with this column,” he said, his tone smooth and deliberate, the warmth of him bleeding into the air around her. “You’ll calculate based on projected revenue, not last quarter’s performance. That number—here—is a placeholder. Replace it.”

His fingers moved with precision, brushing the keys just enough to make her pulse stutter. He didn’t look rushed. Nanami never did. He explained like he had all the time in the world, like she wasn’t affecting him more than she should.

“You’ll want to cross-reference those figures with the second file. It’s buried in the shared folder—labeled inconsistently, as usual,” he muttered, half to himself, frustration muted but present. Then he paused, and without saying anything, reached for her mouse hand. His touch was firm, careful, entirely professional—except that he didn’t let go right away.

“Don’t click here. It’s a redirect,” he murmured near her ear, thumb grazing the back of her palm in a way he probably didn’t mean to. “You’ll lose the file if you do.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

He guided her fingers, navigated the mess with her wrist under his hand like it was the easiest decision he made today. And when the final cell adjusted and the sheet corrected itself, he lingered just a second longer.

“You’re catching on fast,” he said quietly.

Then stepped back.

Too soon.
Too far.
Too professional.

But not enough to make her forget how close he’d been.
And not enough to stop him from watching her out of the corner of his eye on his way back to his desk.