hurricane🪽

You’d been at AIR barely two months when you realized that Paul McCartney... had taken a liking to tormenting you gently over tea. The studio air always hummed with reverb and cigarette haze; that distinct blend of stale coffee, tape oxide, and a little nervous ambition. You ran errands, fetched lunches, carried reels, handed out lyric sheets, and somehow always got roped into tea duty. Which you were apparently terrible at.

“Milk first again, love?” his voice would come from behind you, that lilting Liverpool tease in every syllable. “You’re meant to pour it after the water. Don’t they teach you that before letting you near Englishmen?”

You’d jump, sloshing a bit of the offending brew onto the counter of the small kitchenette. Cheeks burning, you’d turn to face him. He’d be leaning against the doorframe, a veritable rockstar even in his worn jumper and comfortable-looking trousers. The lines around his eyes would crinkle as he smiled, a gentle, knowing sort of smile that did absolutely nothing to calm the frantic bird fluttering in your chest.

“Sorry,” you’d mumble, wiping the counter with a cloth. “Habit.”

“A bad one,” he’d chuckle, pushing off the frame and walking over. He’d take the mug from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours for a fraction of a second too long. It was an electric little shock, a spark in the humid studio air that you felt all the way down to your toes. “No matter. Let’s see the damage.” He’d take a sip, his eyes, those famous, soulful, doe-like eyes, watching you over the rim. He’d make a thoughtful noise. “A bit weak today. Yesterday’s was strong enough to dissolve the spoon. Keeping me on my toes, are you?”

It became your ritual. A strange, unspoken dance choreographed around PG Tips and a kettle. You tried, you really did. You watched the engineers, you asked the receptionist, you even bought a book on the proper etiquette of tea making. You tried pouring the milk after. You steeped the bag for precisely four minutes. You warmed the mug beforehand.

Nothing was ever quite right for him. Which angered you a bit... but with each flawed cup, his attention on you seemed to grow.

He started seeking you out. If you were busy hauling a heavy box of two-inch tape, he’d suddenly appear. “Here, let me get that. You’re only a little thing, you’ll do your back in.” He’d take the weight from you, his arm brushing yours, and you’d be enveloped for a moment in his scent... a clean, expensive smell of sandalwood and something uniquely him. He wouldn't treat you like an inconvenience or an underling; he'd treat you like a person, asking your name again even though you were sure he knew it, asking where you were from, what music you liked.

One rainy Tuesday, the studio was quiet. The rhythm section had been laid down, and Paul was in the control room with George Martin, listening back to a bass line, his head nodding in time. You were tasked with organizing the tape library, a dusty, forgotten corner of the studio. You were humming to yourself, a little melody from a song you’d heard on the radio, while sticking labels onto white cardboard boxes.

The door creaked open.

“That’s a nice tune.”

You nearly fell off the small step-ladder, grabbing a shelf to steady yourself. It was him, of course. He was holding an empty mug. Your mug.

“Oh! God, sorry. Didn’t hear you.”

“My fault. Soundproofing’s a bit good in here, isn’t it?” He gestured vaguely at the acoustically treated walls. He stepped further into the small room, and it suddenly felt ten times smaller. “Was just thinking… it’s about that time.”

His eyes twinkled. Tea time.

“Right. Of course,” you said, your heart starting its familiar gallop. You wiped your dusty hands on your pants and started for the door.

“Wait,” he said, his voice softer now. He gestured to the tape you were holding. “What track is that?”

“Oh, it’s… ‘Ballroom Dancing,’... take... four.”

He smiled, faraway look in his eyes. “Right. That one was fun. Ringo was on fire.” He took another step closer, peering at the label you’d just written. He was so close you could see the grey threaded through his brown hair. “Your handwriting’s nice. Mine’s a proper scrawl.”

“Just part of the job,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. You were acutely aware of his shoulder almost touching yours, of the warmth radiating from him. The air felt thick, charged with something you couldn’t name. It was more than just being star-struck; that had faded after the first few weeks. This was something else, something quieter and far more potent.

“Everything’s ‘just part of the job’ with you, isn’t it?” he mused, his gaze drifting from the tape box to your face. His eyes were impossibly kind, but there was a flicker of something else in their depths... curiosity, maybe. Or something warmer. “You work hard. Scurryin’ about all day.”

“Trying to be useful.”

“You are,” he said simply. The words hung in the air between you, heavy and meaningful. He held your gaze for a long moment, and the entire world seemed to shrink down to the two of you in that dusty little room, surrounded by the ghosts of songs past. He finally broke the silence, his smile returning, though it was softer this time. “Well. Don’t let me stop you. But that kettle’s not going to boil itself, is it?”

—

Later that night, the session ran late. The other runners had gone home, but you’d stayed, lingering in the lounge, ostensibly to clean up, but really because you couldn’t bring yourself to leave. The sound of a lone acoustic guitar drifted from the studio. It was a beautiful, melancholic melody.

You pushed the door open just a crack. He was sitting on a stool in the center of the vast, dimly lit live room, hunched over his guitar. He wasn’t singing words, just humming, shaping the tune with his voice. The sight was so intimate, so raw, it felt like you were intruding on a private prayer.

You started to back away, but the floorboard beneath you gave a loud groan.

He looked up, his fingers stilling on the strings. He didn’t look annoyed. He looked… lonely.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the big room.

“Something like that,” you answered, stepping fully into the room. “It’s nice.”

“Just a little idea.” He patted the stool next to him. An invitation.

Your legs felt like they were moving through water as you crossed the room and sat down. The silence was comfortable, filled only by the low hum of the amplifiers.

“People give me stick for it, you know,” he said quietly, looking at his hands. “Writing silly love songs.” He glanced at you, a wry, almost vulnerable look on his face.

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, your throat tight.

He started to play again, the melody from before. But this time, he looked at you as he played. His eyes traced your features in the dim light, from your hair to your lips to your hands clasped in your lap.

After a minute, the music trailed off into silence.

“I’m knackered,” he finally sighed, setting the guitar carefully on its stand. “Think I need one last cuppa for the road.”

He stood up, and you stood with him. Back in the kitchenette, you moved with a practiced, nervous energy. You filled the kettle, got out his favourite mug. You were on autopilot, your mind still swirling with the music and the look in his eyes. You put the teabag in, poured the water, and then, without thinking, reached for the milk. Habit.

His hand closed gently over yours, stopping you.

His skin was warm, his grip firm but soft. He didn’t let go. He simply held your hand there, his thumb stroking softly over your knuckles. The kettle clicked off, the silence rushing back in.

“Let’s just leave it,” he said. His voice was husky, low. “Let’s just… see how it is.”

He was looking down at your joined hands, then up at your face. His expression was open, unguarded.

“I’ve started to like it your way,” he confessed, his voice barely audible. “A bit wrong. A bit… different. It’s our thing, isn’t it?”

Your brain struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone a word. All you could do was nod, your gaze locked on his. His thumb continued its impossibly soft caress over your skin, a tiny, repetitive motion that sent shivers all the way up your arm.

Slowly, reluctantly, he released your hand. The absence of his warmth was immediate and sharp. He picked up the mug of black, milk-less tea and took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours.

“See? Not so bad,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Maybe you were right all along.”

“I… doubt that,” you managed to say, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

He chuckled, a low, intimate sound that vibrated right through you. “Come on. Let’s not stand in here all night.” He gestured with his head towards the lounge, where a couple of worn, comfortable sofas faced the large window overlooking the street. “Keep me company for a bit.”

You followed him, feeling like you were in a dream. He sank into one end of the leather sofa, patting the cushion next to him. You sat, careful to leave a respectable distance between you, a distance that felt both chasmic and laughably small. He stretched his arm out along the back of the sofa, his fingers just inches from your shoulder.

The silence settled again, but this time it felt different. It was charged with all the things you’d both left unsaid. The city lights outside painted shifting patterns on the walls.

“So,” he began, turning his body slightly to face you better. “You never did tell me. The music you like. What is it?”

You reeled off a few names. Some newer, more obscure bands he probably hadn't heard of. You expected him to laugh, or at least be dismissive of the spiky, synthesized sounds of your generation compared to his own melodic legacy.

Instead, he just listened. He nodded, expression serious, interested. “Sounds like you’ve got an ear for what’s real,” he said quietly. “That’s good. It’s important, y’know. Finding something that feels like you.”

His gaze was intense, and you had the distinct feeling he wasn’t just talking about music anymore.

“What about you?” you asked, feeling bold.

A real, genuine smile spread across his face, reaching his eyes. “Oh, all sorts,” he said after a beat. “Bit of everything, really. Sometimes the old stuff that made me fall in love with it all… sometimes just the sound of quiet.” He leaned back slightly, the corners of his mouth softening. “It gets a bit loud, my life.”

“I can imagine,” you said softly.

He finished his tea and placed the mug on the floor beside him. He didn’t move his arm from the back of the sofa. If anything, his hand crept a little closer, the tips of his fingers now barely grazing the fabric of your shirt. The contact was feather-light, almost imaginary, but it set your entire nervous system on fire.

“It’s late,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Proper late. How are you getting home? Night bus?”

“Usually, yeah. It’s not too bad.”

He shook his head, a decisive little movement. “No, you’re not taking the bus. Not this time of night. I’ll run you home.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. Really. I’m fine.” The words tumbled out, a protest born of politeness and the sheer, overwhelming absurdity of the idea.

“I want to,” he said, and his tone left no room for argument. He finally moved his hand, but only to rest it gently on your shoulder. His thumb pressed lightly into the muscle there, a gesture that was both comforting and deeply intimate. “Let me get my coat. Don’t move.”

He stood and disappeared for a moment, leaving you alone on the sofa with your heart hammering against your ribs. He returned wearing a dark wool coat that made him look even more distinguished. He was holding your jacket.

You stood, and he held it open for you, helping you into it like a perfect gentleman. His hands lingered on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary after you’d slid your arms through. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric.

You knew for a fact he lived in a completely different direction, but you didn't have the will to argue. The thought of a few more minutes in his company was a pull too strong to resist.

The walk to the car park was a study in quiet awareness. The echo of your footsteps and his bounced off the concrete walls. He walked close beside you, not touching, but the space between you felt alive, electric. He unlocked his car. It smelled of rich leather and that same sandalwood scent that clung to him.

He opened the passenger door for you with a little flourish. “After you,” he said, that unmistakable warmth in his tone that made the simplest words sound like an invitation.

Inside, the car smelled faintly of leather and smoke, and the dashboard lights cast his profile in a soft amber wash... sharp jawline, dark lashes, a few faint creases of laughter at the corners of his eyes. When he turned the key, the engine purred, the radio flickering to life low and fuzzy, a Tears for Fears song playing somewhere in the background.

“Alright then,” he said, glancing over with that half-grin again. “Where to?”

You gave the name of your street, and he nodded, pulling smoothly onto the wet road. The city slid past in streaks of orange and red. For a while, you said nothing. The sound of rain on the windscreen filled the silence, rhythmic, almost musical. His fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel, keeping time with the song. He looked at ease, head slightly tilted, hair a little messy from the rain, the collar of his coat turned up just so. You found yourself watching the way his throat moved when he hummed along under his breath.

After a few minutes, he spoke again. “Y’know, I remember bein’ your age,” he said, his tone thoughtful, half to himself. “Didn’t have a clue what I was doin’. Still don’t, most days.”

You smiled faintly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He chuckled, a quiet, breathy sound. “Ah, that’s the trick, love. You just keep strummin’ and hope no one notices when you hit a bum note.”

Something about the way he said love made the air in the car shift, denser somehow. You could feel the warmth of the heater on your skin, the pulse of the wipers keeping time with your heartbeat. When you glanced at him, he caught your gaze for just a moment too long before looking back at the road.

“What about you?” he asked after a pause. “How’d you end up runnin’ around makin’ tea for daft old rockers?”

“Needed a job. Didn’t think I’d end up here,” you admitted. “Didn’t think I’d end up meeting you.”

“Ah, now that’s dangerous talk,” he said lightly, but there was something in his smile... self-aware, maybe a little shy. “You’ll give me an ego.”

“Pretty sure that’s already sorted,” you teased before you could stop yourself.

He laughed, a low, genuine sound that filled the car. “Touché. You’re cheeky, I like that.”

You looked out the window again, trying to hide the heat that crept up your neck. The rain had softened now, the city’s neon signs reflecting off puddles like oil paint. Paul reached down and adjusted the radio, switching to a cassette. A moment later, soft strings filled the car, one of his own songs, you realized, but a demo version, slower and rawer, his voice almost whispering through the speakers.

You turned toward him, surprised. “Is this…?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes still on the road. “Bit of a work in progress. Don’t tell anyone I’m torturin’ me passengers with unreleased stuff.”

“It’s good,” you said. And it was. There was a softness in his voice you hadn’t heard before, something unguarded.

He gave a small, almost bashful smile. “Ta. I was messin’ about earlier, tryin’ to get the bridge right. S’why I was still there when you were tidyin’ up.”

You didn’t say anything; the truth of it was, you liked the idea that he’d stayed for more than the song.

The car turned down quieter streets, the lights dimmer now, the hum of the city fading. Your flat was just ahead, a small row of terrace houses tucked behind a line of shops. He pulled up to the curb, shifting into park, but didn’t cut the engine right away. The cassette was still playing, his voice threading through the hush like a heartbeat.

He turned to look at you fully then. For a moment, neither of you spoke. His eyes were darker now, thoughtful. You could feel the weight of the silence between you, the way it wasn’t empty but charged, like the split second before a song begins.

“Thanks for the lift,” you said softly.

He nodded once, then leaned back slightly, resting one arm on the wheel. “Any time. Though, if I’m honest…” His gaze flicked down to your mouth, then back up. “Bit of a selfish reason, really.”

“How so?”

He smiled, that small, slow kind that made your stomach flutter. “Get to stretch the night a little longer. Don’t fancy headin’ home to an empty house, not just yet.”

You didn’t know how to answer that. He reached out suddenly, not to touch you, but to brush a fingertip along the fogged glass near your shoulder, tracing idle shapes. The gesture was casual, but his nearness wasn’t. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of his cologne and tea still clinging to his coat.

He spoke again, voice lower now. “You’re good company, you know that? You’ve got this… thing. Bit shy, bit bold. Makes a bloke curious.”

Your pulse jumped. He looked at you again, and for a long moment, the air between you tightened... thick, suspended, humming with something neither of you dared name outright.

He shifted slightly closer, his hand still resting on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the soft glow of the dashboard. You could hear the sound of your own breathing, shallow and quick.

Then he chuckled, breaking the tension just enough to let you breathe again. “And here I am, chattin’ your ear off when you probably just want to get inside and sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” you said before you could think better of it.

His gaze lingered, amused, then softened again. “No?”

You shook your head, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “Not really.”

He laughed under his breath, head tilting, curls catching the dim orange spill of the streetlamp outside. “Not really, eh?” he said, mock-considering. “You young ones. Think if you stay up long enough, you’ll wring a bit more life out of the night.” He leaned a touch closer, voice dipping as though confiding. “Doesn’t work that way, love. Night always wins.”

Your smile flickered but stayed, stubborn, the same way you had all evening. The same way he liked it, because it made teasing you too easy. His gaze lingered, eyes half-lidded, the lines around them soft but edged with that mischief that made you dizzy. “You look like trouble when you smile like that,” he said, and the way he said it wasn’t accusation but appreciation.

"Maybe,” you said, quietly.

That grin spread slow across his face, teeth flashing in the dashboard’s amber glow. He clicked his tongue, almost to himself, then straightened in his seat and turned the key, the wipers sweeping once, steady. “Well, trouble or not,” he said, settling back into that lilting rhythm that could disarm anyone, “you’ve got work in the mornin’, don’t you?” His hand rested on the gear shift, thumb drumming. “Off to bed with you, then.”

The words hit playfully, but there was weight underneath. The way he said “bed” made heat coil somewhere low in your stomach, not because of what it meant, but because of what it didn’t... what he could’ve meant if he wanted to. You swallowed. “You’re sending me to bed?” you asked, light, pretending at defiance.

He gave a small, indulgent sigh, shaking his head as if you were being ridiculous. “’Course I am. Look at you. Eyes like saucers, pretendin’ you’re not knackered. Go on.” His tone softened around the edges. “Be good, yeah?”

That did it. The phrase sank under your skin. His gaze flicked toward you again, lingering a half-second longer than it should have. There it was again, affection cloaked in authority, teasing wrapped around something that might’ve been temptation if you both let it.

He watched you a second longer, then leaned just far enough for you to feel his breath ghost across your cheek. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He pulled back, eyes glinting. “Go on,” he said again, quieter this time. “Before I change my mind and keep you talkin’ all night.”

You stepped out into the rain, air cool against your heated face. He waited until you’d reached the door to your building before rolling the window down. “And make sure you dream about somethin’ good,” he called softly. “Preferably not me.”

You turned, smiling despite yourself, and he winked, just once, before the window slid shut and the car rolled away, tail lights glowing red through the drizzle. The sound of his engine faded down the street, leaving you standing there, pulse still racing, the echo of his voice tangled in your head like a melody you couldn’t stop humming.

—

You came in the next morning still humming with last night’s ride home, the smell of rain and leather stuck under your skin like a fingerprint. The studio had that strange mid-morning quiet... the engineers fiddling with cables, a muted bass line spilling from a half-shut door, but it felt different to you, like the whole place was holding its breath. You’d barely clocked in before you felt him.

Paul had already arrived. Not in the control room as usual, but leaning against the hallway wall opposite the tape library, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. He looked impossibly casual in yet another jumper and worn jeans, but there was something deliberate about the way he watched you walk down the corridor. His eyes found you instantly, and the corner of his mouth curved like he’d been waiting for you to appear.

“Morning, love,” he said, voice low and velvet-rough from too little sleep and too much singing. “You look...” a beat, eyes trailing from your hair down to your shoes, “...awake.”

You swallowed hard. “Morning.”

He pushed off the wall with that easy, catlike grace and closed the space between you in three steps. You could smell him again, sandalwood, tobacco, something warm and alive. “Did you sleep?” he asked, softer now, as if it were a private question. His hand came up, not quite touching, but hovering near your arm as though he had to stop himself at the last second.

“Some,” you managed. “You?”

He gave a small, wry laugh. “Not much. Kept thinkin’ about… things.”

His eyes dipped to your mouth before flicking back up, slow enough that you knew it wasn’t accidental. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken between you, that same magnetic pull from last night stretching, tightening, daring either of you to move first.

You shifted your weight just slightly, a tiny nervous motion that drew his gaze down again—this time tracing the angle of your throat, the collar of your shirt, the faint rise and fall of your breath. His jaw flexed once, subtle but visible.

“What kind of things?” you asked, voice softer than you meant it to be.

He smiled, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Ah, you know. Songs. Rehearsals. The usual.” A beat. Then quieter, rougher: “And a pair of eyes that wouldn’t get out of my head.”

You froze. His tone wasn’t teasing this time; it was honest, raw in a way that made your stomach twist. He stepped closer, so close you could feel the warmth coming off him, the faint brush of his sleeve against yours. “You’ve got those kind of eyes, love,” he said, his accent heavier now, words slower, like honey sliding off a spoon. “The sort that make a man forget what he’s sayin’.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. “You seem to be saying plenty.”

That earned a grin, sharp and warm. “Touché.” He leaned one hand against the wall beside your head, body angled toward you. Not trapping you, exactly, but close enough that his scent wrapped around you. “But it’s dangerous, isn’t it? Us talkin’ like this.”

“Dangerous how?”

He tilted his head, studying you like he was composing a line he didn’t want to ruin. “You’re young,” he said finally, almost a whisper. “Fresh-faced. Got the whole world waitin’ for you.” His gaze softened, but there was heat under it, restrained but alive. “And me… well.” He chuckled once, a low, self-aware sound. “I’ve seen a bit too much of it already.”

You could have stepped back. You didn’t. “You make it sound like a crime.”

He shrugged, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth again.

You felt your heartbeat quicken, a sharp flutter under your ribs. He noticed, of course he noticed, and his expression shifted, a quiet satisfaction blooming there, not arrogant, just certain. His fingers, the same ones that had plucked melodies out of strings the night before, lifted, barely touching your chin, tracing the faintest line along the edge of your jaw.

You drew in a shaky breath.

He smiled again, softer this time. “Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re thinkin’ about somethin’ you shouldn’t be.” His thumb grazed your skin. “’Cause I’m doin’ the same.”

The hallway felt suddenly too narrow, the air charged, the soundproofed walls pressing in around the two of you. He was close enough now that you could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the little scar near his temple, the flecks of green in his brown eyes. His hand slid up, resting against your cheek, and you leaned into it before you even thought about it.

“Paul…” you started, but his name came out as breath, not sound.

“Shhh,” he murmured, thumb stroking slowly once more. “Don’t ruin it with sense, yeah?”

It should have made you laugh, but it didn’t. The way he said it was tender and rough at the same time, his voice dropping lower with each word until it was little more than a vibration in the air between you.

He didn’t kiss you, not quite. His forehead rested against yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin.

You could feel his hand move from your cheek to the back of your neck, his palm broad and warm, fingers threading slowly into your hair. You didn’t move, didn’t even blink, afraid the moment would shatter if you did.

“Trouble, huh?” you echoed, voice trembling.

“Mhm.” He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “And I was doin’ so well, keepin’ myself out of it.” His nose brushed the side of yours. “Then you walked in.”

A beat passed, heavy, suspended. The studio hummed faintly beyond the door... voices, cables, music being born somewhere else... but it felt far away. The world had narrowed to the space between his mouth and yours.

He let out a slow breath. “You don’t make it easy, you know that?”

“Should I?” you whispered.

His lips twitched, almost laughing. “No,” he said, low and deliberate. “Don’t you dare.”

His hand moved again, down your neck, over your shoulder, his thumb catching lightly against the edge of your collar. He wasn’t pulling, just tracing, like he needed to feel the shape of you through the fabric. The sound that left him was barely audible, a hum of approval. “God, you’re somethin’.”

He let that hum vibrate low in his throat, the sound close enough that you could feel it through your skin. His thumb made another slow pass along the line of your collarbone, and you swore you could hear the faint catch in his breath when you tilted toward him, just enough that the space between you collapsed.

He just looked at you for half a heartbeat more, his gaze searching, almost asking permission, and when you didn’t move away, he dipped his head. The first brush of his lips was barely a kiss, a testing contact, warm and soft and gone again before you could react. Then he came back, firmer this time, a deep inhale through his nose as his hand at your neck tightened slightly, holding you there.

Your fingers found the front of his sweater without thinking, clutching the knit as you answered the kiss, slow and uncertain but hungry. The sound he made against your mouth, half sigh, half groan, slid right through you. When he moved, it wasn’t hurried; his mouth opened over yours, his tongue tracing the edge of your lower lip before he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Christ.”

He pressed his forehead to yours again, breathing you in, his hand still on your neck, his thumb still rubbing that small arc of skin. Then another kiss, softer now, deeper, with a patience that felt almost reverent. When he finally pulled away, the tip of his nose brushed yours, both of you still breathing the same unsteady air.

For a moment he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable except for the faint tremor in the corner of his mouth where a smile was trying to form. Then he stepped back, hand slipping away, leaving the place where he’d touched you tingling and warm.

Then, with a sudden breath, he straightened a little, though his hand didn’t fall away. “Right,” he said, trying for composure but not quite finding it. “If we keep standin’ here, someone’ll start wonderin’.”

“Let them,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

That pulled a real laugh out of him, short, surprised, delighted. “You’re cheeky,” he said, eyes glinting. His thumb brushed your throat one last time before he finally stepped back, hands sliding into his pockets. The loss of contact was almost dizzying.

He looked at you for a long moment, something unspoken passing through that glance, an understanding, a warning, a promise, all tangled together. “We’ll pretend we’re sensible,” he said finally. “At least till lunch.”

You smiled, trying to catch your breath. “And after lunch?”

His grin deepened, slow and wicked. “We’ll see if we can still manage it.”

And then he turned, strolling down the hallway toward the control room, leaving you standing there against the wall, skin still tingling, pulse still thrumming in your ears.

You exhaled shakily, the faintest trace of his cologne lingering in the air like a song that hadn’t quite ended.