Page 18 of Crawl for Me

It isn’t a lie. I’m not nervous about the meeting. I’ve done a hundred of these—clients glaring, deadlines impossible, projections stacked like houses of cards ready to collapse. That stuff’s fine. Numbers, words, charts. I can juggle all of it without breaking a sweat.

What’s got me twisted up is her.

I can’t seem to exist within thirty feet of Sable without my brain short-circuiting, some internal fucking alarm blaring like I’ve broken the rules by breathing near her. And she’s right opposite me—sleeves shoved up like she’s ready to wrestle the whole board into submission, a stray piece of hair sliding across her cheek, the entire room tilting around her, oxygen bending her way.

And here I am—the shiny new account lead—looking like I’m about to choke because I can’t keep my pulse under control. She probably thinks I’m just crumbling under pressure.

When the truth is, I’m only falling apart because of her.

The door opens behind us as Sam, Mike, and Eleanor file in, easy chatter spilling between them as they claim their seats. I sit beside Sable, close enough that I can smell the faint ghost of her shampoo every time she shifts. I crack the folder open just to have something to do with my hands, eyes dragging over the client notes I already know cover-to-cover.

Anchor yourself, Noah. Words. Numbers. You know this part.

Footsteps echo down the glass corridor minutes later, and the Cos Solutions team files in—expensive coats, tailored shoulders, leather portfolios tucked under their arms. And then one of them breaks from the pack.

“Ah—Sable.”

He’s tall, broad, salt-and-pepper hair combed back. An expensive watch catches the winter light, flashing gold as he extends his hand. Sable rises smoothly, slipping into her professional smile. His hand clasps hers, warm and firm. And then his gaze swivels to me.

“And you must be the new account lead.”

Right. Yes, that’s me. Stop staring at Sable. Say your name. Say it normally. Like a functioning adult, not a lunatic.

“Noah Calloway,” I manage, pushing up to grip his hand, voice holding steady by some miracle.

“Good to meet you, Noah,” he says, giving it a firm shake. “Simon Florensen, Senior Director at Cos.”

Something shifts in me. Not calm—God, I wish—but something steadier. This is my territory. A table, a file, numbers that make sense even when the rest of the bullshit in my head doesn’t.

Everyone settles in—their six across the table, our side stacked with five—and Simon clears his throat. “Thank you all for making the time. We’ve got a compressed window now that our deadline’s been moved up, and today’s about confirming deliverables—making sure both sides are aligned before rollout.”

Nods ripple around the table. I force mine to join them, flipping the file open in front of me. Pages smooth, pen in hand. And just like that, we’re in it—client notes spread like hurdles waiting to be cleared, projections stacked like dominoes begging not to fall. I lean forward, and the rhythm finds me. Words flow clean, steady. I’m confident, answering questions before they can harden into doubts.

One of them leans in, eyes meeting mine. “And what if engagement doesn’t climb with the first phase? What’s your contingency?”

I don’t hesitate. “We’ve already drafted tiered content streams. If the first wave underperforms, we pivot to reactive pushes—optimize targeting, adjust tone, test higher-frequency micro-ads. That way we don’t lose momentum, we just redirect it.”

A ripple of nods passes down the table. Relief softens their faces. Good. Solid ground.

“And we don’t wait until the metrics tell us to panic,” Sable cuts in smoothly. “We’ll be monitoring live sentiment—social chatter, brand mentions, comment ratios. If the tone shifts even half a degree, we’ll feel it first and move before the numbers tank.”

She slides the words into the conversation and then sits back, worrying her lip between her teeth, pen tapping idly against her tablet.

Christ. If she keeps biting that lip while she waits, I’m going to forget the word quarterly.

Simon nods from across the table, jotting it down. “Good. That’s exactly what we wanted to hear.”

The air shifts, and the tension around the table ebbs. Pens scribble, heads nod, coffee cups lift.

I grin to myself, riding the high. There we go. We’ve nailed it. One week into the new job, and I’m getting through my first client meeting without stuttering at them. That’s basically smashing it, right?

But then Sable shifts in her chair. It’s the smallest movement, legs crossing slightly, but her knee slips to the right, pressing against mine under the table. The warmth from her skin seeps straight through my slacks.

My grin falters, breath stuttering, grip on the pen tightening until it carves plastic lines into my fingers. But I keep the practiced smile fixed on my face for the clients, nodding along like I’ve heard every word they’ve said in the past thirty seconds, but inside—fuck. I’m coming apart at the seams.

Don’t move, Sable. Please, don’t⁠—

No. Move. Before I get a hard-on and a heart attack and this whole meeting derails from marketing strategy to someone calling an ambulance.