EDEN
She's annoying.
She's loud.
She smells like vanilla lip gloss and ambition.
But when she leans over her laptop and starts talking about stage blocking and lighting cues, I watch her hands move—fast, full of purpose—and something weird happens in my stomach.
Like I swallowed a camera flash.
I look up. She's still talking, but our faces are close now—too close. The kind of close that makes the air feel magnetic.
Savannah freezes midsentence.
Our eyes lock.
Her voice drops. "What?"
"Nothing," I lie.
But neither of us moves.
The space between us buzzes like a snapped wire.
I wonder—just for a second—what would happen if I leaned in. Just an inch. Just to see.
Her eyes flick down, just barely. Lips part. And then—
The door creaks open.
We both jump back like we've been caught stealing secrets.
Milo pokes his head in. "Whoa. Sorry. Didn't know this was occupied by—uh—intense creative vibes."
Savannah clears her throat. "We were working."
I nod quickly. "Working."
He raises an eyebrow but walks off.
Savannah gathers her things without another word. The silence is louder than any fight.
As she leaves, she pauses at the door. Her voice is soft:
"Same time Thursday?"
I nod.
But neither of us says what we're thinking.
What just almost happened?