Noelle’s POV:

“Need a partner?”

I turn to find Elliot beside me; his hands are in his pockets.

“Shouldn’t you be with one of your guys?” I ask and gesture toward where Danny and Michae are walking out the door together.

“Ethan’s with Lainey,” he explains, “And some of the other guys…” He trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished.

“Yeah, I do need a partner,” I say. “But fair warning, I have the spatial awareness of a drunk toddler. There’s a non-zero chance we crash.”

Something about his expression shifts, and he becomes more focused. “You're nervous about this.”

It’s not a question. I consider defending myself, lying. But what’s the point? If we’re going to be partners, he’ll figure it out soon enough.

“I’m respectfully cautious of a two-ton machinery that has claimed countless lives.”

“Eighty-five per year isn’t exactly countless,” Elliot points out.

“It is to those eighty-five people,” I counter.

He smiles, and it reaches his eyes. Don’t think about that dream again.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he says as we follow the crowd toward the loading dock. “I’ll go first and show you how it works. Nothing to be scared of.”

“I’m not scared,” I insist. “I’m just…aware of my limitations. Which includes driving anything larger than a shopping cart.”

“Sounds like the perfect skill set for forklift operating,” he says.

I laugh despite myself. “Shut up. I’m a fantastic actress. Just a terrible driver.”

“Good thing one of those skills is more relevant to your degree than the other.

We step out into the bright morning light, where three yellow forklifts wait on the concrete of the loading dock. Bernard is already organizing people into groups. His clipboard seems like an extension of his arm.

“Noelle and Elliot,” he says as we approach him, “you’re on forklift one. Get familiar with the controls, and I’ll be around to check on you.”

As we walk toward our forklift, he leans close enough that his arm brushes mine.

“Trust me,” he says quietly. “I’ve got you.”

The forklift is somehow both smaller and more intimidating up close. It’s yellow with thick black tires and a seat that looks like it was designed by someone who hates the human spine. Two metal forks extend out like tusks on a metal elephant.

“I’m pretty sure it can’t be that different from driving anything else,” Elliot says, though there’s a hint of uncertainty in his voice as he climbs into the driver’s seat. He studies the controls. His brows are furrowed. “Okay, let’s figure this out.

“Very reassuring,” I mutter. “Lets just wing it with the fancy golf cart that can impale things.”

He laughs. “The worst-case scenario is that we destroy some empty pallets.” He pats the seat next to him. “Come on, let's get started.”

I hesitate, then climb up beside him. The seat is narrow enough that my thigh presses fully against his. Our shoulders bump with every movement. Heat radiates from the point of contact, and I’m suddenly breathing hard. The control panel has more levers and buttons necessary for lifting and retrieving things.

“Okay, so this is definitely the steering wheel,” Elliot begins, gripping a small wheel on the left. His knuckles brush against my leg when he turns it. “And this must raise and lower the frocks.” He wraps his hand around a lever and tests its resistance.

I watch his hands, strong, capable, and calloused, and my mind flashes back to the dream. Those same hands were moving across my skin. I shift in my seat, trying to focus on anything else.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice a bit lower than before.

“Fine,” I say too quickly. “Just trying to memorize the controls.”

His eyes linger on my face a moment too long before he returns to the panel. “Gas pedal, brake pedal,” he says as his foot presses on each one as he identifies them. “That’s straightforward. I remember Bernard saying something about the turning radius being a bit different, though…”

“Shit. That’s right.”

“The back swings wider, and it turns from the rear wheels, not the front.”

“Great,” I sigh. “Even more racial reasoning I suck at.”

Elliot glances at me. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”

I force a small smile. He turns back to the forklift and turns the key. The engine rumbles to life with a diesel growl. The vibration thrums through the seat and buzzes up my thigh. Elliot’s leg presses more firmly against mine as he positions his foot on the gas.

“Ready?” he asks.

I grip the seat and nod.

His first attempt is less than graceful. The forklift lurches forward, and my body instinctively sways toward him. His arm shoots out across my midsection to steady and catch me. His palm is warm and firm against my stomach.

“Sorry,” he says, not removing his hand immediately. “I guess it’s more sensitive than I thought.”

When he finally pulls away, the absence of his touch feels colder than it should.

He tries again, more gently this time, and the forklift eases forward. He maneuvers around the first cone successfully, but when he attempts to turn, the back end swings wide, nearly taking out two cones.

“Shit,”  he mutters, but he’s smiling. “You’re lucky to be with a master today.”

His self-deprecation loosens something in my chest. I laugh, genuinely, and he glances at me with an expression that makes my stomach flip.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, returning his attention back to driving. “Just…you should laugh more often.”

The comment catches me off guard, and heat rises to my cheeks. I’m grateful he’s focused on the driving course and can’t see my reaction.

With each cone, his confidence grows; his movements become more assured. I find myself watching the concentration in his face. He has a slight furrow between his brows. He always bites his lower lip when making a tight turn. There’s something undeniably attractive about seeing someone master a new skill in real time.

We approach a wooden pallet, and he slows down. He aligns the forks with its openings.

“This is the moment of truth,” he says. His first attempt misses slightly. “Depth perception is harder than it looks. 

“I’ve been trying to tell people that my entire life,” I say.

He laughs and tries again. This time, the forks slide in perfectly. When he pulls the lever, the pallet rises. His face lights up with such genuine satisfaction that something tugs inside me, dangerous and warm.

“Your turn,” he says, putting the forklift in park.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say quickly. “I learned plenty from watching.

“Nice try. Everyone has to try.”

“Can’t you just put on a wig and do it for me? You’d be a very convincing Noelle.”

He grins and shakes his head. He slides out of his seat. “Come on, I’ve seen you act. You convinced a theater you were Lady Macbeth. You can handle a glorified golf cart.”

My head snaps to him. “How do you know about that.”

His ears redden slightly. But his voice is steady. “On your Instagram I researched everyone before I came here.”

“Research,” I repeat.

“Did you not want to see the acting chops of the people you’ll be performing with for two years? Professional curiosity.”

I should have thought of that.

I slide into the driver’s seat, which is still warm from his body. The lingering heat sends a shiver up my spine despite the morning sun.

“Remember,” he says, climbing into the seat next to me. “Small movements. Be deliberate.”

I turn the key, and the engine comes to life. I grip the wheel with both hands; my knuckles are white.

“Ease up a little,” Elliot says. “You’re strangling it.”

I loosen my grip slightly and press the gas pedal. The forklift lurches, and I slam down the brake, throwing us both forward. His hand lands on my shoulder to steady himself, fingers curling around my collarbone.

“Sorry!” I yelp, painfully aware of his touch.

“It’s fine,” he says, his hands lingering for too long. Again… “I did it, too. Try again. Gentle pressure.”

I press the pedal lightly this time. The forklift begins to move smoothly as the scent of Elliot’s skin fills the air.

“That’s it,” Elliot encourages, his voice low. “Now, try turning toward that first cone.”

I turn the wheel slightly, and the forklift responds. I navigate the first cone without hitting it. It surprises me. 

“See? You’ve got this,” Elliot says, his breath warm against my neck.

We approach the second cone, and I turn a bit too sharply. The back end swings, and I overcorrect and gnarly clip the cone.

“Easy,” Elliot says. His hand covers mine on the wheel and adjusts my grip. His palm is still warm and rough. “Remember what I said about the rear swing?”

“In theory, yes. My brain can’t really figure it out.” I’m finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate with his thigh pressed against mine.

He guides my hand through the turn, or fingers interlaced on the wheel. “Like this,” he says. “Feel how much pressure it needs?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. The forklift turns in response to our joint guidance,

“You try the next one,” he says and releases my hand.

Again, my hand feels colder, but I manage the next turn without assistance.. With each cone, I get marginally better. Though, I’m acutely aware that my improvement might have more to do with really wanting to impress him than any natural aptitude.

“Okay, this is probably the hardest part,” Elliot says as we approach the pallet. “Line up the forks with the slots. Take it slow.”

I focus and ease the forklift forward. The forks align with the slots, and a rush of satisfaction warms my chest.

“Holy shit, I did it,” I breathe.

“Not yet,” his voice is intimate in my ear. “Now slide them in, smooth and steady.”

The innuendo is almost certainly unintentional, but my body reacts anyway. A flush crawls up my neck. I inch forward and watch as the forks disappear into the pallet slots. There’s something satisfying about it.

“Perfect,” Elliot says, his voice warm with approval. “Now pull the lever back to lift.”

I grasp the lever and pull. The pallet rises off the ground.

“I’m doing it,” I say, unable to keep the wonder from my voice. “I’m actually doing it.”

“Told you,” Elliot says. When I glance at him, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle. It’s not polite, but something rawer.

“Don’t sound cocky,” I warn both him and myself. “I haven't put it down yet. Plenty of time to crash on the way.”

“You’re not going to crash,” he says.

I drive carefully to the pallet’s drop-off area. Lowering it takes more focus than lifting, but I manage to set it down without dropping it.

“Nicely down,” Elliot says as I pull the brake. “And see? Not a single casualty.”

“Not today, but it’s a long two years,” I qualify, but I’m smiling too.

“How’d it feel?” he asks, his voice lower.

“Satisfying,” I admit. “But I’m not signing up for any warehouse shifts anytime soon.”

“Shame. You have a natural talent.”

“Now you’re just mocking me.”

“I;m not,” he says, and something in his voice coaxes me to look up. He’s studying me with an expression that makes my mouth go dry. “You did better than most people would do on their first try.”

Bernard appears beside our clipboard and quickly signs two papers on his clipboard. He hands one to Elliot and me. “Congrats, you’re certified.”

As we climb down, I feel lightheaded with accomplishment and leftover adrenaline. Elliot jumps down first, then offers me his hand. I hesitate for a shelf-second before I take it.

“Thanks,” I say. “For the help. And for not letting me crash into anything expensive.”

“Anytime,” he replies. Our eyes meet. For a moment, everything else falls away–the loading dock, the other students, the fact one of my new best friends has a crush on him. There’s just the way he’s looking at me.

Then Harlow calls my name from across the lot and breaks the spell. “Noelle! Did you survive?”

“Yeah,” I call back, “No casualties today.”

Elliot slides his hands into his pockets, but his eyes don’t leave min.

We fit. It’s all my brain can think, the echo of dream-Elliot’s words.

I push the thought away and turn toward Harlowe, who’s looking at us.

“Bernard says we’re up next,” she calls.

I nod and turn back to Elliot. “Seriously, thanks again. I should go…” I glance back at Harlowe and Amelia.

“Tell them I say good luck,” he says with a slight smile.

“I will,” I say.

As I walk toward Harlowe, I can feel Elliot’s eyes on me. And despite every rational part of my brain telling me not to look back, I can’t help but steal one last glance.

He’s still watching, and when our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away.

Neither do I.