Page 44 of Bleed

The monitor glows accusingly, and I glare right back at it.

“Come over here,” Elliott murmurs.

“Oh thank god,” I breathe, pushing away from the desk.

I cross the room toward him, immediately grateful for the excuse to move around. Except the nearer I get, the more crowded the lab suddenly feels, his presence even more overwhelming up close.

“You dislike administrative tasks,” he comments, arching a brow as I approach.

“I’m more of a hands-on type of girl,” I reply, winking.

He either misses the double-entendre or bypasses it entirely, gesturing to the trays of blood tubes on the counter. “Then perhaps you’ll enjoy labeling these.”

My enthusiasm dies instantly. “Seriously?”

He hands me a pair of latex gloves. “Yes.”

I resist the urge to argue as he sets me up with a labeling station next to one of the benches, because honestly, anything is better than data entry at this point. My new task is to print tiny stickers, affix them to the blood tubes, and load them into the sample racks. Riveting stuff.

The work itself isn’t difficult, just tedious. Tube, label, rack, repeat. It definitely doesn’t require supervision, but I catch him watching me, his dark eyes tracking my movements before returning to whatever task he’s working on.

I go to lift a tube into the rack, and he suddenly clears his throat.

“That one’s crooked.”

I glance over at him, then at the tube. The label is maybe half a millimeter off-center.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

I huff out an irritated breath, peeling the label off and straightening it before sliding it into the rack. “Happy?”

He dips his chin in a little nod of satisfaction while I resist the urge to smash the entire rack of sample tubes.

Is it a breach of contract if I destroy his lab out of sheer spite?

Probably. Maybe I should’ve actually read the damn thing before blindly signing on the dotted line.

I shove down my annoyance and keep working, pretending I actually give a shit about label placement on the sample tubes. He doesn’t call me out again, but he keeps subtly watching. I can feel it.

The lab isn’t exactly cramped, but it feels smaller now that we’re both working at the same station. We keep circling each other naturally as we sort racks and organize trays, and after the fourth or fifth time, a pattern begins to emerge.

I lean in to grab a rack, he shifts sideways. I move around him to reach a stack of labels, he steps back. I brush past his shoulder while carrying a tray, he creates another foot of distance. Subtle, almost imperceptible– the kind of thing most people wouldn’t notice, but I do.

He’s moving away on purpose.

At first, I don’t point it out– I just watch and test the theory. I lean across the counter to grab something directly beside him, and sure enough, he retreats. I wait another minute, then casually step closer while pretending to examine a rack of samples. He subtly shifts away.

I set down the tray in my hands, huffing out a breath as I pivot toward him. “Jeez, if you’re repulsed by me, just say so.”

He glances up from his notebook, his brow creasing. “I’m not.”

“Then why the hell do you keep backing away from me like I’m contaminated or something?”

His dark eyes flick over me. “I generally avoid touch without intention.”

I gape at him, half offended, half confused. “What does that even mean?”