Elliot’s POV:

I climb into the driver’s seat. The controls are labeled, but there are more than I expected.

"I'm pretty sure it can't be that different from driving anything else," I say. "Okay, let's figure this out."

"Very reassuring," she mutters as she eyes the machinery skeptically and compares it to a golf cart.

I laugh, surprised again at how sharp her humor is.”The worst-scenario is that we destroy some empty pallets.” I pat the seat beside me. "Come on, let's get started."

She hesitates before she climbs up and sits next to me. The seat is narrower than it looked, and it forces us so close that her thigh presses against mine. The contact sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with safety protocols.

The proximity is disorienting. I can smell the faint floral scent of her shampoo, feel the heat radiating from her skin, see the slight catch in her breathing when our shoulders bump. I find myself stumbling through an explanation of the controls and fighting to keep my voice steady.

"Okay, so this is definitely the steering wheel," I begin, gripping it to demonstrate. My knuckles accidentally brush against her leg, and I’m suddenly aware of how rough my calloused hands must feel against her skin. “And this must raise and lower the forks."

I wrap my hand around the lever and feel its resistance. I try to focus on the mechanics instead of how close she is. When I glance over, her eyes are fixed on my hands with an intensity that knocks the air out of me. There’s something heated in her gaze that stirs an unexpected response in my groin.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.

"Fine," she says quickly. Too quickly. "Just trying to memorize the controls."

I turn back to the panel, as I’m desperate to look at something that isn’t her. “Gas pedal, brake pedal. That's straightforward." I tap each with my foot. "I remember Bernard saying something about the turning radius being different, though..."

"Shit. That's right."

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

"Great," she sighs. "Even more spatial reasoning I suck at."

I start the engine, and the vibration rises through the seat, up my legs, and over every point where our bodies touch. When I press the gas, the forklift jerks forward with more power than I anticipated. Noelle falls forward towards me, and without thinking, my arm shoots out to steady her.

My palm lands against her stomach. I feel the warmth f her skin through the thin fabric of her tank top, the slight tension in her muscles. Something primal stirs in me. There’s a desire to let my hand slide higher, to let me feel more of her. I push it down.

“Sorry,” I manage, though I don’t immediately move my hand. "I guess it's more sensitive than I thought."

When I finally pull away, it feels wrong. It’s like I lost a piece of my life.

I return my attention to the course before us. I need to concentrate on getting through this course. But I remain aware that Noelle is still beside me. And when we swap places, I find myself seeing new things about her. She leans into turns. Crinkles her nose when things get tight. I’m captivated by her concentration.

“How’d it feel?” I ask after she successfully completes her turn driving.

"Satisfying," she admits. "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, I say seriously. Something in my tone makes her look up at me. Our eyes meet, and the moment extends, charged with something that stays silent between us. “You did better than most people would on their first try."

Bernard appears beside us with his clipboard in hand. He quickly signs our forms and hands them to us."Congrats, you're certified."

I jump down first, then offer my hand to help her. When she takes it, her fingers are cool against my palm. It sends another current through my body.

"Thanks," she says. "For the help. And for not letting me crash into anything expensive."

"Anytime," I reply. Our eyes meet again, and suddenly, the world narrows to just this moment. Her face is turned up to mine, a question in her eyes I’m not brave enough to answer. But if we weren’t at school, on this loading dock, I think I might close the gap, lean down, and finally feel her lips–

“Noelle! Did you survive?" Harlowe’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

"Yeah," Noelle calls back. "No casualties today."

I slide my hands into my pocket. I don’t trust what I might do with them otherwise, but I can’t look away from her.

"Bernard says we're up next," Harlowe calls.

Noelle nods, then turns back to me. “Seriously, thanks again. I should go…” She glances toward Harlowe and Amelia.

“Tell them I say good luck,” I offer and force a smile.

"I will," she says.

As she walks away, I feel a pull like gravity that urges me to follow. I watch the confidence in her movements now, so different from her earlier nervousness. Just as she reaches Harlowe, she glances back over her shoulder. Our eyes lock across the distance.

Neither of us look away.

It’s the moment that feels like confession without words. A silent acknowledgement neither of us can force ourselves to voice. Eventually, Danny calls me over and breaks what seems like a trance.

But as I join my friends, the memory of her lingering glance stays with me. I can still feel the imprint of her thigh against mine. And I know with absolute certainty that I’ve gotten myself into something I didn’t plan for. Something that feels dangerously close to wanting.

I try to sweat it out.

That’s the plan. To lace up, plug in, and work out until every muscle screams louder than the part of me that still feels her thigh pressed against mine.

The gym’s half empty, and no one looks up when I drop onto the bench with a grunt. It’s late, and the fluorescent lights feel too sharp, and the playlist is stuck on songs no one wants to hear. But it’s quiet this time of night. That’s what I came for.

I start with the bench press. First, a warm up set, then more weight. Again. Again. My shoulders burn, my arms tremble, and still– there she is.

I move to pull-ups. Ten, then twelve, then I drop down hard and just stand there and grip the bar, wondering what the hell I should do.

She shouldn’t be in my head like this. It was a forklift, a certification class. But there’s something about the way she looked at me right as I caught her. There’s something about how easily we slipped in rhythm without the need to say much at all.

That glance…it wasn’t nothing.

I swipe sweat from my brow and exhale. Still nothing. No reset. No relief. Just the echo of the moment, trying to break free from under my skin.

By the time I get back to the apartment, I’m tired enough to hope the exhaustion will win out. I toss my bag onto the floor and kick off my shows without turning on the lights. My phone buzzes before I can even head for the shower.

Jess

I hesitate for a few rings. Then I pick up.

“Hey,” I say as I wipe my palm on my shorts.

“Hey,” she says, and I can hear the edge in her voice. The one that says she’s trying to sound casual but actually really wants something. “I was, umm…thinking about you.”

I sit on the edge of my bed. “What’s going on?

“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess talking this morning made me realize…I miss you. I know we said Thanksgiving, but I thought we could talk before then.”

“I’m not trying to make this harder,” she adds quickly, before I can say anything.

I rub the heel of the palm into my forehead. “I know. But it is.”

She’s quiet. Then, softer: “Should I stop calling?”

“I think we should take some space. Just for a while.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Another pause. Then, “Take care of yourself, Elliot.”

“You too.”

I hang up and sit there for a moment, phone still in my hand. There’s no surge of relief, no cinematic closure. Just a small, necessary quiet. A door clicked shut behind me.

Jess was the voice I used to listen to when I didn’t know what I wanted. She helped me make decisions by making them first. And maybe that used to be comforting. But lately, it just felt like I was powerless.

Now I’m standing on a different edge, the kind that doesn’t come with blueprints or a five-year plan. It just comes from standing on stage and praying that I make it.

And I think about the version of me who sat on that forklift. The version who laughed with her, steadied her, wanted her.

That guy is new. Raw. But he’s mine.

And I think I want to know what happens if I let him keep going.