Chapter Text
She volunteers.
I don’t expect it. I usually just do the dishes myself, but she’s already moving, already claiming the towel before I can tell her she doesn’t have to.
"I’ll help."
The way she says it, quick and determined, makes me look twice.
"You don’t have to…"
"I want to."
Something in my chest pulls tight.
"Okay," I say.
She takes her position on my right. Close. The counter doesn’t leave much room. Not touching, but I’m aware of her immediately. The space between us feels charged. Every breath she takes, every small shift of her weight registers like a radar ping.
I hand her the first plate. Our fingers brush.
The shock races up my arm and slams into my chest. My heart kicks, stutters, then hammers hard enough that I’m surprised she can’t hear it.
She fumbles. Catches it. Her grip tightens and she focuses on drying like it’s the most important task in the world.
I turn back to the sink and force my hands to move normally.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
I hand her another plate. I let my fingers linger against hers. Just a fraction longer than necessary.
The current jolts through me, straight to my heart. It clenches hard.
I’m doing this on purpose.
I can’t stop.
I reach for the soap. My forearm grazes hers. Skin on skin.
The electricity shoots through me, detonates in my chest. My heart slams against my ribs.
I go completely still.
She doesn’t pull away.
For a few seconds, too many, we stand like that. Warm. Electric. Real.
I should move. I know I should move.
I don’t.
Then I force myself to reach for the next plate, breaking contact, hating the loss of it immediately.
Get it together. This is dish duty. Normal. Mundane. Not… this.
She reaches past me for a plate on the other side of the sink. Her shoulder brushes my arm. Through the fabric, but still: contact. Heat. My heart kicks hard and a rush of warmth floods through me.
I don’t step back.
She doesn’t either.
We stay like that for a beat too long. Close enough that I can feel her breathe. If I turn, if I shift even slightly, I’ll be facing her, and I won’t be able to stop myself.
She steps back first to grab the plate.
Thank god.
Boots in the hall. Dean’s voice, distracted. "Anybody seen my… never mind."
We separate. Both of us. Fast enough that it’s its own kind of answer.
Dean keeps walking. Neither of us says anything. We resettle, and somehow we’re closer than before, and I don’t know which one of us did that.
There are a few more tiny brushes after that, hands passing plates, towel edges grazing skin, nothing I can admit out loud. Everything in me lights up anyway.
"Almost done," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intended.
She nods. Doesn’t speak.
I reach to turn off the water. She does too. My hand covers hers on the faucet handle.
Full contact. My palm pressed against the back of her hand.
The jolt reverberates through my whole body, hot and immediate, detonating behind my ribs. My heart slams so hard it’s almost painful.
I want to break something. Or kiss her. Or both.
Instead, I lift my hand away. Polite. Quick.
"Sorry," I say, and I’m amazed my voice works at all.
"No, you’re fine."
She sets the last dish away and leaves the kitchen quickly, too quickly.
I watch her go.
My stomach drops.
She couldn’t get away fast enough.
Then I brace my hands on the counter and close my eyes.
What the hell was that?
Did I make her uncomfortable? Did she notice me leaning in, lingering, touching more than I should?
God. Of course she noticed.
I scrub a hand over my face. Force air into my lungs.
The conversations. The way we challenge each other. The quiet understanding. That part is real. Solid. Safe. Friendship. If she were an ugly old guy with the same brain, I’d still want that. I’d still want to spend time with him.
The rest, the attraction, that’s just biology. Proximity. She’s gorgeous. Of course there’s attraction. Anyone would feel it. Dean does. Hell, I’m pretty sure half the room does whenever she walks in.
That doesn’t mean anything.
Attraction is easy to ignore. I’ve ignored it before. You acknowledge it, file it away, don’t act on it. Simple.
I can ignore the attraction part.
My hands are shaking. Actually shaking.
I stare at them, braced against the counter.
That’s a lie. All of it.
It’s more than that. So much more than that.
And I can’t let myself believe it.
I replay the big ones: the first brush of fingers, skin on skin at my forearm, her shoulder against my arm, my hand over hers at the faucet. Every time she didn’t pull away.
Was it deliberate? Did she feel it too?
Or am I so far gone that I’m reading meaning into nothing?
This is a problem.
She’s a problem.
No, I’m the problem. Because I’m the one standing here counting every “accident” like it means something. I’m the one who leaned into her space and didn’t step back when I should have.
I’m the one who wanted it.
All of it.
Every touch. Every second.
I wanted more.
I push off the counter and leave the kitchen before I can spiral further.
But I know I’m already gone.
Because all I can think about is tomorrow. The next time. The next excuse to stand close enough to feel her breathe. And how much I hate myself for wanting it so badly.