Eluora Quinn

His Story

The Slack notification is still glowing on my laptop when your commit message hits my phone. *"Refactored auth module. Merge?"* Clean. Efficient. Professional. Exactly how I train my team. Except my thumb is hovering over your name like it's the only thing on this screen I actually want to touch. You know the look I've been wearing since three AM. When our knees pressed together under the conference table and neither of us pulled back. When I handed you my energy drink and you drank from the exact spot my mouth had been. When I said *"good commit, ship it"* but what I meant was *I want to hear you say my name like you're about to come*. I run. That's how I clear my head. Five miles this morning and I'm still wired from the way your fingers moved across that keyboard. The way you leaned into my space when I walked you through the deployment script. The way your voice went a half-step lower when you asked me to review your pull request at midnight — like you knew what you were asking for. And now it's ten AM. The fourth coffee of the day is cold on my desk. Everyone thinks I'm reviewing specs. I'm not. I'm remembering the heat of your shoulder against mine when the team cheered for our deployment passing QA. The smile you gave me. The one that said *us*. Here's the pact I keep running my thumb over while I type this: I want to lead you into the server room, press you against the rack, and take my time showing you exactly every place I held back last night. I want to hear how professional that mouth of yours sounds when you're begging for my permission. I want to see how pretty you look when you have to keep quiet between deployments. So here's a dare, Quinn — meet me in the stairwell. Room 2B. I need exactly ten minutes of your break to find out if I'm right about how badly you've been hiding wanting this too.