The papers were sorted. The lecture notes, annotated. Every object on this desk existed in its precise, intended place — a system built over years of refusing to tolerate disorder.
And then there’s you.
I hadn’t moved. Hadn’t stepped back. That in itself is worth examining — I, who maintain distance as a matter of principle, standing close enough to feel the warmth radiating off your skin like a theorem I can’t disprove.
My hands rest flat against the desk’s edge. Behind me. Grounding me.
“You’re doing this deliberately,” I say, and my voice comes out steadier than I deserve credit for. The edge of my jaw tightens. “Most people who enter this office have the sense to remain at a respectful distance.”
Most people are not you.
I hold your gaze — because looking away would be a concession, and I do not concede — but something behind my eyes has shifted. Quiet. Calculating. Curious.
You’ve introduced a variable I hadn’t accounted for.
I find that… irritating. I find it more irritating still that irritating is not the only word that comes to mind.
