The room felt smaller now. Quieter. Just the faint hum of the old air conditioner and our breathing.

Aria was still pressed against me, her face tucked into my shoulder, hands gripping the back of my shirt like I was the only thing keeping her grounded. I could feel the quick, shallow rise and fall of her chest against mine, the warmth of her body seeping through both our clothes.

"Hey," I said softly, pulling back just enough to look at her. "You're okay. We're okay. He'll be back eventually, or someone will notice the door's locked."

She nodded, but didn't let go. Her eyes were glassy, a little wide, lips slightly parted. "I know. It's just… I hate feeling trapped."

I glanced around the office. There was a small leather sofa against the far wall, probably for waiting parents or tired faculty. Dark brown, worn in just right.

"Come on," I said, gently guiding her with a hand on her lower back. "Let's sit down. Standing like this isn't helping."

She let me lead her, still holding onto my arm like she was afraid I'd vanish if she let go. We moved slowly across the room, her hip brushing mine with every step.

I sat first, on the edge of the sofa, and tugged lightly on her hand. "Here. Sit."

She hesitated for half a second, then sank down beside me—close. Really close. Her thigh pressed against mine, warm through the denim. She didn't pull away.

"Better?" I asked.

"A little," she murmured. She took a deeper breath, like she was trying to calm herself down. "Thanks for not… freaking out."

I smiled faintly. "I've been locked in worse places."

She turned her head to look at me, one eyebrow raised. "Oh yeah? Like where?"

"Storage closet in high school. With a girl. Different circumstances."

A small laugh escaped her—soft, surprised. "Of course you have."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," she said, but her smile grew, teasing now. "Just… you seem like the kind of guy who ends up in situations."

I leaned back slightly, letting my arm rest along the back of the sofa—behind her, but not touching. Yet. "And you seem like the kind of girl who asks strangers for help and ends up locked in offices with them."

She bit her lip, looking down at her hands in her lap. "Maybe I wanted to end up locked in an office with you."

The words hung there. Quiet. Playful. But heavy.

I felt my pulse kick.

"Did you?" I asked, voice lower.

She glanced up at me through her lashes. "I don't know. You were the only one who didn't stare at me like I was a menu item."

"I stared," I admitted.

She laughed again, softer this time. "Yeah, but… different. Less obvious."

I let my fingers brush the back of the sofa, just inches from her shoulder. "I'm trying to be good."

"Are you?" she whispered. She shifted slightly, turning toward me more. Her knee bumped mine. Stayed there.

"Trying," I repeated.

She looked at me for a long moment, eyes searching mine. Then she leaned in—just a little. Not enough to close the distance, but enough that I could feel the warmth of her breath.

"You're warm," she said quietly.

"You're shaking again."

"Not from fear this time."

Silence stretched between us, thick and electric.

Her hand moved—slowly—resting on my thigh. Light. Barely there. But enough.

I didn't move. Didn't breathe too loud.

She watched my face, waiting. Testing.

I let my fingers finally drop from the back of the sofa to her shoulder. Just a graze. Bare skin where her shirt had slipped slightly.

She inhaled sharply. Didn't pull away.

"Still scared?" I asked.

"A little," she admitted. "But not of the room anymore."

I smiled, slow.

"Good."

And we stayed like that—close, touching just enough to feel it everywhere, neither of us moving to break the moment.

We stayed like that for what felt like minutes—maybe longer—just breathing together in the dim room. My hand kept moving in those slow, absent circles on her back, light enough to soothe, firm enough to let her know I wasn't letting go.

"You're relaxing a little," I said quietly against her hair.

She made a small sound—half agreement, half something else. "Yeah. You're good at this."

"At what?"

"Making things feel… less scary."

I smiled into her shoulder. "Happy to help."

Her head shifted slightly, nestling closer, and her hand on my thigh loosened—just resting now, palm flat, fingers spread. Warm. Steady.

But then she moved again. Barely. A tiny adjustment as she got more comfortable, her body settling deeper into the sofa, into me.

Her hand slid maybe an inch. Not on purpose. Just natural, following the shift of her weight.

And that's when her fingertips brushed it.

My bulge.

I felt it the second she did—her hand freezing, just for a fraction of a second. Not pulling away. Just… pausing.

I tensed. Couldn't help it. Blood was already rushing, had been for a while, and there was no hiding it now. Not this close. Not with her pressed against me.

Shit.

I tried to shift my hips back—just a little, subtle—but the sofa didn't give much room. And honestly? I didn't want to move away. Not really.

She didn't say anything.

Didn't move her hand.

But I felt her breath change—deeper, then shallower. A soft inhale against my neck.

Her fingers stayed where they were—light, still, right at the edge of where denim stretched tight.

I swallowed.

"You okay?" I asked, voice rougher than before.

She nodded slowly. "Yeah," she whispered. "Are… you?"

I let out a quiet breath. "Trying to be."

She didn't laugh. Didn't tease. Just let her hand rest there—barely any pressure, but enough that we both knew exactly where it was.

Enough that I felt myself twitch under the fabric. Once. Unmistakable.

Her fingers flexed—just slightly. Not exploring. Not pulling back. Like she was feeling it happen. Like she couldn't help noticing.

Like it made her own breathing hitch again.

"I didn't mean to—" she started, so soft I barely heard it.

"I know," I said quickly. "It's okay. You didn't do anything."

She was quiet for a second. Then: "It's… because of me, isn't it?"

I didn't lie. Couldn't. Not with her this close.

"Yeah," I admitted, low. "It is."

She didn't move her hand away.

If anything, her palm settled a little warmer. Still careful. Still light.

But present.

And we both felt it—the slow, heavy pulse under her touch.

Neither of us said another word.

We just sat there, tangled close, breathing through the warmth, the tension, the quiet truth neither of us was ready to name yet.

But both of us felt.

The silence wrapped around us like the dim light filtering through the blinds, thick and humming.

Her palm stayed there, warm and unmoving, but I could feel the tiniest tremor in her fingers—like she was surprised by her own bravery. Or maybe just by how obvious it was.

I shifted my arm along the back of the sofa, letting my fingers brush the ends of her hair. Soft. Silky. I didn't pull her closer; I didn't need to. She was already leaning into me, her body soft and trusting against my side.

"You don't have to keep it there," I said quietly, giving her the out. "If it's weird."

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