I sidestep around him, my shoulder brushing his arm as I pass. Shuffling to my office, I know his eyes are still on me, watching my retreat. The continued attention makes it hard to breathe, my inhales becoming more ragged.

“Your zipper isn’t all the way up.” Henry’s voice carries down the desolate hall, a velvety softness behind the observation.

I freeze, shoulders tensing. “It’s stuck.”

“Would you like my help?”

“No. I can handle it.” I wince at the unintended sharpness.

“I didn’t mean to imply you can’t. Trust me,” he says mildly, a low chuckle occupying the gap between us. “I thought I’d offer since I’m here and readily available. It’s up to you.”

Making a split second decision, I nod twice, conveying my acceptance of his offer. “Okay. Yes. I’d like your help. Please.”

His approaching footsteps are heavy, magnified by the quiet stretch of space. I keep my back to him, focusing intently on the peeling paint on the wall. As he gets closer, I try my best to not dwell on the way his scent wraps around me like a vine clinging to a tree.

The aroma is comforting. Grounding. Familiar.

“I’m going to touch you now, okay?” An octave lower than before, his voice is gruff and full of steel while he patiently waits for my approval or refusal.

I nod feebly, enraptured by Henry’s desire for my consent before proceeding. His hands—the same ones that caught me moments ago—lightly graze my lower back over the fabric, tackling the snag I’ve created. There’s a slight tremor to his touch as he works skillfully, solving the problem in a few short seconds that stretch on for eternity, each one longer than the last, but somehow not long enough.

The gentle contact doesn’t linger anywhere excessively. Doesn’t explore or roam outside the strict boundary he established. Besides the slightest brush of his thumb against the base of my neck as he finishes zipping me up, you never would have known we had this moment.

The care hurts my heart, muscles constricting and coiling with a tidal wave of gratitude, awe and appreciation.

“There you go. Perfect.” His hands fall from my bare skin, taking the heat with them.

“Thank you,” I whisper, body shaking from standing still.

“My pleasure,” he rasps. The tone lacks his normal confidence, trading in swagger for unsureness. “I hope you have fun tonight.”

“You too, Henry.”

Being late to the event is no longer at the forefront of my mind; getting away from him is my only goal, afraid of what might happen if I stay.

And how much I think I’d like it.

“Hey, Emma?”