He waits.

Every evening, he hangs back just a bit longer than the others, and waits. Sometimes, she leaves with everyone else, and he doesn’t know if he’s relieved or incredibly upset that he missed his chance. Sometimes, she’s gone before he can even get his coat on, because Roy’s honking from the parking lot, and he sits at his desk wondering why his fists are clenched so tightly that his knuckles are white.

But sometimes, he waits, and so does she. And sometimes, they’re the last ones to go.

They stand side by side, waiting for the elevator doors to open. They talk about their day, about what their plans are. Or they don’t talk at all, allowing the amicable silence to engulf them like a warm blanket.

They hear the soft ding, and the doors slide open. He’ll let his hand hover on her lower back as he allows her to step in ahead of him, feeling the softness of her coat swishing against his fingertips as she turns to face the illuminated numbers.

He waits.

He has two floors. Sometimes, those two floors pass uneventfully. Their conversation will continue until the doors open again in the lobby and they go their separate ways. Or the soft, friendly silence will go on, and he’ll pretend not to notice when she glances up at him, or how he can smell her hair and it smells like strawberries.

But every once in a while, she’ll look up at him, and he’ll look back down at her. And his hand will still be resting in the small of her back, and he’ll close his eyes and lean infinitesimally closer, and she’ll sigh quietly, dreamily.

He’ll let his mind wander. Imagine pressing her against the back wall, running his fingers through her strawberry hair. Pushing against her, pulling her to him, letting his lips caress hers, hearing her moan. Hitting the emergency stop button, scrambling to get her grey pencil skirt up past her hips, out of the way. Panting, gasping, hard and soft, and that feeling of being so complete that he’s never felt before, as her fingernails leave red crescent moons on his back, even though he’s still got his shirt on.

She’ll break his gaze, and stare back down at her immaculately white shoes. He’ll run his hand through his hair and hope she can’t see that his pupils are dilated, hope she can’t hear his heart beating so hard, hope she can’t feel the warmth radiating from him. The elevator will ding again, the doors will open, and he’ll hang back as she walks out so that he can feel the breeze that follows her. She’ll say goodbye, chance another glance up at him, let her face show her emotions candidly for a split second, and he knows.

Maybe next time, she’ll lean a bit closer, let him feel her hand against his. Clasp his fingers in hers.

He waits.