Her breath falters. I can feel it through the space where our bodies nearly touch.
"Try easing up the throttle. Gradually."
Under our joined hands, the drone rises. Smooth. Steady. No misfires this time.
"There you go," I say. "See what happens when you lead instead of chase?"
She doesn't answer, but I can feel it. Her focus sharpening, her muscles gradually easing under my touch. The drone hovers, and for ten full minutes, we fly it together. No stumbling. No fighting. We fly loops. Figure eights. A slow turn around the barn rafters like we're tracing the edges of everything we've been avoiding.
We don't speak. We don't need to. Her instincts and my control line up without effort, like we've done this a hundred times.
It's terrifying. And exhilarating.
Because it proves what we've been denying. We don't cancel each other out. We amplify.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Bring it in. Light on the throttle."
We land it clean. A perfect touchdown.
Neither of us moves.
My hands are still over hers.
My chest still brushes her back.
The drone might be grounded, but nothing between us feels settled.
She turns enough to glance up at me. Her eyes are dark and wide, filled with nervous triumph that mirrors my own.
"I…" she starts, her voice a whisper. "We did it."
"Yes," I say, my voice strained. "We did."
I should step back. I should break the contact and retreat to the safety of my loft. But I can't. I'm trapped in her orbit. She turns fully then, inside the circle of my arms. She's so close. All I have to do is lower my head. All I have to do is close the few inches separating us and I could find out if her lips still taste like possibility. The moment stretches, taut and fragile. Then,with an effort of will, I drop my hands and take a step back. The cold air that rushes into the space between us leaves me feeling strangely hollow.
She studies the drone on the floor, then meets my gaze, a new understanding dawning in her expression. The story we told ourselves, one of mess versus order, glitter versus spreadsheets, that's finished. She knows it. I know it.
"So," she says, her voice a little shaky. "I guess you're good for more than legal advice and fancy office equipment."
"And I guess," I say, quieter now, "that your whirlwind isn't as directionless as I thought."
Our so-called agreement is little more than a footnote now. The barn isn't a battleground. It's home turf. And the biggest threat isn't a mishap or malfunction. It's how seamless this has become. How effortless it feels to forget we ever promised to stay apart.
CHAPTER NINE
MADDY
The drone disaster leaves an unfamiliar stillness between us, thick with everything we're not saying. A tension has settled that neither of us is ready to name. We don't talk about it. We don't need to. Whatever this is, it's settled between us. And we both know it.
Still, every morning, I come down to the barn to find two mugs on the kitchenette counter, one for him and one for me, steam curling from the coffee in an unspoken truce
I, in turn, start picking up an almond croissant for him on my bakery runs, along with my usual blueberry muffin, leaving it on a napkin by the coffee machine. No notes are exchanged. No thanks are necessary. It's a ritual, a shared understanding that we've stepped into new territory.
He's no longer only the man in the loft. He has descended. First to wrangle doves, then with calm purpose to tame a drone. He put his hands over mine, and that single moment of shared control seemed to rewire the entire barn.
Now, when a problem crops up, a short in the lights, a jammed staple gun, I don't have to say a word. I hear hisfootsteps on the stairs, and then he's beside me. Focused. Calm. Already diagnosing the issue with that intense gaze and offering a solution in the kind of voice I imagine gets used in million-dollar mergers.
I'm beginning to rely on him. And that truth lands like a warning bell.
