I needed air.

That’s what I told myself, anyway.

Deal’s done, emails answered (or ignored), jacket slung over one shoulder. Should’ve gone straight to the car. Could’ve been halfway back to the office by now. But something pulled me — not a thought, not a plan. Just… something. Quiet and magnetic.

The side path behind the kitchens is all gravel and cigarette butts, a place the managers pretend doesn’t exist. And she’s there.

Leant against the wall, phone in one hand, a nearly-finished iced coffee in the other. Trainers kicked off, bare ankles, little red mark where the back’s rubbed raw. Her hair’s down now, a little windswept. Softer. Less tidy than inside.

She doesn’t see me at first. And I should’ve walked away right then.

But I didn’t.

She glances up, mid-scroll, and there’s a flicker across her face—surprise, not panic. Her brows lift just a little. No smile. Not yet.

“Didn’t think you were still here,” she says.

“Didn’t think you were either.”

She chuckles softly. “Staff don’t leave till the silverware’s counted.”

I nod. Not sure what to say next. Not sure I should say anything.

And then I do anyway.

“You always look at people like that?”

She blinks. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to decide whether they’re full of shit.”

Her lips curve, slowly. “Only when they are.”

God help me.

I step closer. Not too close. Not enough for anyone to say anything. Just enough to feel the heat off the bricks she’s leaning on. Enough to smell that same clean-sweet something she always seems to carry with her. Vanilla. Citrus. And something warmer.

She’s watching me now. Really watching.

And I feel it again—that tension in my chest like a string pulled too tight. A part of me wants to step back. Another part wants to step forward and ruin every carefully drawn line I’ve spent years learning how to keep.

“How old are you again?” I ask, quieter than I mean to.

“Nineteen,” she answers, just as soft. She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.

“Right,” I murmur. “And how old do you think I am?”

She grins, wicked and knowing. “Old enough to be asking that question.”

God. Christ. She’s dangerous.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you like this,” I say.

“But you are.”

That’s when it happens. Just a breath. A pause. A moment where everything feels too quiet.

I don’t touch her. I don’t move. But the look in my eyes must say too much, because hers drop to my mouth for half a second, and when she meets my gaze again, her pulse is jumping just below her jaw.

I could kiss her.

I won’t.

But the thought lands in my chest like a warning shot.