It started happening everywhere.
Not just on his porch or in the heat of his kitchen. It became a game neither of us acknowledged out loud. A look from him in the hallway. A brush of his hand when no one was watching. The way his voice slid under my skin like silk every time he said my name.
By the third night, the air between our houses felt charged, thick enough to taste. I told myself I wasn’t waiting for him. But when I stepped into the elevator in the lobby and found him already standing there, leaning casually against the mirrored wall in a black shirt with the top buttons undone, my pulse betrayed me instantly.
“Going up?” he asked.
I nodded. My voice wouldn’t work.
He reached forward, pressing the button for my floor without me asking. The elevator doors slid shut, trapping us
