They were close enough to share a breath. Their banter had stopped. Their laughter had slipped into something heavier. And now they were here — one almost-kiss away from a choice she couldn't unmake.

It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't a touch. It was a sentence — the way he said her name like he'd already memorized it. Some people leave marks that don't fade. He was one of them.

Not his smile — everyone notices that. It's the small, stupid details that get me. The way he chews pens. The way he rolls his sleeves. The way his eyes give him away.

She planned to keep her distance. Keep her cool. Keep her heart locked behind fourteen emotional deadbolts like a responsible adult. Then he laughed.

They've been doing this dance for months. Tonight something cracks. A short fiction piece on the moment two people stop pretending they're not drawn to each other.

She keeps the secret tucked under her tongue like a spell that might break if she speaks too loudly. He thinks he knows her. He doesn't know she's already in love with him.