Weeks pass. They work together on a mixed-use development. Christelle sketches buildings that rise like exclamation points. Samir draws gardens that breathe around them.
He sits across from her. He does not cross his legs. He plants both feet on the floor, leans back slightly, and listens.
Christelle窶冱 throat tightens. She looks down at her crossed legs. The barrier she窶冱 maintained through failed relationships, through a mother窶冱 cold love, through a promotion she got by never crying in public.
Then she sees Samir walk in. He窶冱 holding two glasses of champagne. He grins.
She doesn窶冲 answer. Instead, she uncrosses her legs for exactly three seconds窶杯hen recrosses them. That small window felt like undressing in public.
