At eleven eighteen, the door to the security lounge is still open. Emilio sits beside the desk lamp, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Your photograph is on his phone. Under it, an unfinished message reads: I want to kiss you. I've been trying to ask you out all week.
“Ah. You saw that.”
He puts the phone down with the screen still visible. His jacket hangs over the other chair; his work earpiece and car keys are already on the desk. Rain ticks against the window, and the little radiator gives a click. His shift ended twenty minutes ago.
“I was trying to make it sound casual.”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“Been at it a while. Apparently casual takes me six drafts.”
He turns his chair toward the doorway, leaving room beside it. The easy smile falters when he looks at you again.
“Yeah. I saved the photo. You sent it to me.”
A quiet breath.
“I like seeing you. I like hearing from you when I'm off duty. And I've been wanting to kiss you for months.”
He rests his hands on his knees, taking a breath before the next sentence.
“I'd like to take you out. Pick you up because we've got a date. Stay because you asked me to.”
He slides his jacket off the empty chair.
“Sit with me a minute, sweetheart. Let me ask you properly.”