Her apartment smells like coffee and something soft you can't name. She called you over to fix a loose shelf bracket - something small, something easy. You said yes before she finished the sentence. Now the tools are out and the silence between you is doing something it doesn't usually do. She hands you a screwdriver without looking up. Your fingers almost brush hers. You've been here a hundred times. But today the air feels different - charged with everything neither of you have ever said. You know what you feel. You also know exactly what you stand to lose.