Page 72 of Say My Name

He knows exactly what I’m thinking. I look back at the presentation. “We still need the stress-test results before we approve the conversion schedule.”

“Agreed,” Dominic says.

He uses the same measured tone he brings to every meeting. I remember the rough command he used when he told me to say his name, a voice that has been in my head since before the clinic.

The meeting continues for another twenty minutes. I ask questions, challenge two assumptions, and assign the follow-up review without losing my place once. Dominic treats me exactly as he always does in executive meetings. He listens when I speak. He disagrees when he has a reason. He doesn’t stare at my mouth or let his hand brush mine when I pass the revised schedule down the table.

I asked for distance after stopping him, and he has honored the request with maddening consistency.

He held me the morning we received the negative result because I said yes. He let go as soon as I stepped back. Since then, he hasn’t created a late meeting, offered me a ride home, or found any other innocent reason to put us alone together.

The distance has made work easier, but the relief never lasts. I still want to walk around the table and test how long all that restraint holds if I put my hands on him again.

When the meeting ends, everyone gathers laptops and half-empty coffee cups. I stay behind to add a note to the project file. Dominic remains at the head of the table, reading an email on his phone.

We’re alone for less than ten seconds before he says, “You were quiet during the compatibility discussion.”

I keep typing. “I spoke six times.”

“Five.”

“You counted?”

“I notice when you’re avoiding me.”

My fingers pause over the keyboard. “I was looking at the presentation.”

“You looked at me when she said compatible.”

“You were watching me.”

“My eyes were on the report.”

The immediate answer irritates me because he’s right. I looked for him, and he caught me doing it.

I close the project file and slide my laptop into its case. “This is a workplace. We’re allowed to look at each other.”

“That’s all we’re allowed to do?”

The question is quiet and direct, a stone dropped into the careful stillness I’ve maintained. Dominic doesn’t move from his chair, and the open door makes the boundary between work and everything else obvious.

“The second clinic appointment is still on the calendar,” I say, reaching for the safety of logistics.

“I know.”

“Then nothing has changed.”

He studies me for a second. “You asked for space. I’m giving it to you.”

Embarrassment warms my face. “I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“No. You sound angry about it.”

“I’m not angry,” I say, my grip on my laptop case tight enough to leave marks.

“All right.”

His calm agreement is worse than an argument.