Chapter 26
Chapter twenty-six
Tom
My brain shorts out.
Do we kiss? Lips? Cheek? Do I take the coffee first? We just stand there, staring at each other across the threshold like two people who dismantled every boundary between us last night and now have to figure out how to exist under fluorescent hallway lighting.
After a few agonizing seconds, Sam breaks first. "So," she says, her voice dry. "Are we stalling until the cleaning crew scoots out the back door?"
A laugh punches its way out of my chest, the tension breaking. "No. And for the record, I don't have a back door."
She gives me a small, real smile and steps inside.
I close the door behind her, suddenly intensely aware that she is in my space. This isn't the site office. It isn't the Donut. It's the apartment I've lived in for two years but never quite bothered to fully move into.
She hands me one of the coffees and looks around. I follow her gaze, seeing it through her eyes—functional, minimal, completely bare.
"I expected you to have more artwork up," she says, turning slowly.
I gesture to the corner, where a stack of framed prints leans against the baseboard, still wrapped in brown paper. "Yeah. I keep meaning to."
Her eyes land on the one piece I did bother to hang—a small, framed print above the couch. She steps closer to it, her posture shifting as she studies the image.
"Japanese Bridge," she says softly.
I watch the line of her profile soften as she takes it in.
She glances back at me over her shoulder.
"That has a special place in my heart." She turns back to the print.
"I saw the full series at the Met a few years ago.
Early in my career. I'd had a rough week—a project didn't go well, and I was spiraling.
I read that Monet painted this bridge something like a dozen times, maybe more.
And I remember thinking, 'If Monet has to take twelve tries to get it right, I guess I can do a second version. '"
I smile, moving a step closer into the room. "I saw that exhibit too."
She turns to look at me, surprised.
"I read that Monet painted the Japanese bridge many times throughout his life," I say quietly. "He created it 'over and over again, catching it in different moods and lights.'" I pause, letting the memory settle between us. "It's what gave me the idea to shoot at different times of the day."
Sam stares at me. Then she looks at the print. Then back at me.
The hum of the hallway fluorescents fades. I can hear her pull in a slow breath.
"I wonder if we were there on the same day," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.
I shake my head. "I don't think so."
Her brow furrows. "Why?"
"I would have remembered seeing you."
Sam steps toward me. Just one step, closing the distance.
She lifts her hand, her fingers brushing the line of my jaw—a touch so gentle it makes my breath catch.
Every muscle in my body goes completely still.
I don't want to move. Every instinct I've ever had to leave dissolves. I am exactly where I'm supposed to be.
She takes a deep, uneven breath, holding my gaze for a split second before letting her hand drop. She steps back, the air between us suddenly too thin to breathe.
"Can I sit down?" she asks.
I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Yeah," I say, finding my voice. "Of course."
We move to the couch. It feels like a necessary retreat, a neutral zone. We sit close but not touching.
"So," she says, looking straight ahead at the blank wall opposite us. "Last night."
I trace the edge of the cardboard cup with my thumb. "Yeah. Last night."
"I don't want to pretend it didn't happen."
I set the coffee on the table and reach across the space between us, finding her hand. I lace my fingers through hers, my thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. "Me neither."
She looks down at our hands, then up at my face. "But we can't let it mess with the Harbor project."
I exhale, the weight of the last two weeks pressing down on me. "Listen. I know why you're concerned." I stop, forcing myself to look her in the eye.
"That night we worked late." The words feel like pulling teeth. "When the security guard chased us out of the office." I swallow hard, my thumb stalling against her knuckles. "I wanted to kiss you. I probably would have, if he hadn't interrupted us."
Sam gives me a small, understanding smile. She brings her free hand over, covering our joined hands so I'm anchored between her palms.
I run my free hand through my hair, a harsh, self-deprecating laugh slipping out. "I just—I panicked, I guess. I mean, we're in a professional relationship. I didn't want it to get complicated."
Her smile shifts, turning gentle, but knowing. "So you blew up the professional side to avoid the personal one."
I wince. "Ouch."
She laughs, a real, bright sound that fills the quiet room.
I shake my head, smiling despite the knot in my stomach. "Wow. That does sound pretty bad when I hear someone else say it." I look down at our hands. "Stupid, huh?"
Sam squeezes my fingers. "No," she says quietly. "Just human."
I look back up. "So, what do you want to do?"
"The work comes first," she says, her tone shifting into something firmer, more resolved. "We can't let this—" she tips her chin toward our hands "—bleed into the Harbor project."
"Agreed. And outside of work?"
"When we're not working?" She takes a steadying breath. "I want this. Whatever this is. But slowly. We can't afford to screw this up—professionally or personally."
"We won’t screw it up."
"You don't know that," she says softly.
"No." I tighten my grip on her hand. "But I know I want to try. So we're doing this. The personal relationship. Even though it complicates everything."
Sam searches my face for a long second. "Yeah. We're doing this."
There's a beat of quiet. Then Sam shifts on the couch, her shoulders pulling back, her spine straightening. I can practically see her planning brain coming online.
"Okay," she says. "So we need ground rules."
My mouth twitches. "Of course you want ground rules."
"You know you love my extraordinary planning skills," she says, raising an eyebrow.
I glance toward the kitchen island, where the pale blue sticky note is still resting on my laptop. A year ago, the phrase ground rules would have sent me looking for the nearest exit. I've spent my entire adult life avoiding structure, avoiding commitments that required bullet points.
I look back at her, a genuine smile breaking across my face. "Yeah. I really do."
She pulls her phone out of her pocket—because of course she does—and opens her notes app with her free hand. She doesn't let go of my right hand, just adjusts her grip so she can type with her thumb. "Okay. First: who do we tell?"
"Wren," I say immediately. "She already knows something's up. And she'll kill me if I don't tell her."
"Boss Babes," Sam adds, typing quickly against my palm. "Same reason. They've been watching this unfold for weeks."
I shift slightly, angling toward her. "Anyone else?"
"No, I don’t think so. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
She types for another second, then looks up, her expression turning serious. "What about when things get hard? Professionally or personally. How do we handle that?"
I pause, thinking about the last two weeks. The silence. The pulling away. I can't do that to her again. I won't. "We need a sign. Something one of us can say when we're struggling and need to talk."
"Like a safe word?"
I laugh. "Kind of. But less weird."
She taps her thumb against the edge of her phone case, thinking. "What if one of us just says 'I need five minutes'? No explanation required. The other person gives space, and then we regroup."
I let the idea settle. Reaching out with my free hand, I grab my coffee from the table.
My thumbnail digs into the coffee cup seam, creating a small dent in the cardboard.
It gives me a net when my instinct is to bolt.
I look at the stack of framed prints still leaning against the wall, then back at her. "Yeah. That works."
She types it in, the screen glowing against our joined hands. "And if we're fighting—personally—we don't bring it into Wednesday prep or Board meetings. We table it until we're off the clock."
"Deal."
Sam stops typing and lowers the phone. She looks at me, her sharp, analytical edges softening entirely. "This is a lot of rules."
I squeeze her hand, my thumb finding the pulse at her wrist. "It's a lot of stakes."
She sets the phone down on the couch cushion beside us. "Are you sure you're okay with this? With... all of it?"
I look at her. Sitting on my couch with her phone out, organizing our relationship into a project deliverable because she needs the structure to feel safe. She's sitting in my half-empty apartment, trusting me with the biggest project of her career because she wants this, too.
The old me would have suffocated in this room. The current me feels like he just found gravity for the first time.
I'm so in. I'll do whatever it takes.
"Yeah," I say softly. "I'm sure."
Her phone screen lights up on the cushion beside us. A calendar notification.
Board Meeting - Wednesday 2pm - Weekly Harbor Project Presentation
Sam's eyes drop to the screen, then back to me. I watch her jaw tighten slightly.
"We can do this," I say, as I slide my thumb over her knuckles once.
She picks up the phone and dismisses the notification with her thumb. "We have to."
Her screen goes dark.
She exhales.
“Come here,” she says quietly.
I lean across the few inches of cushion separating us. She presses a soft, perfect kiss to my lips.