Every so often, she’d pause. Not to look at him, just to stare into the middle distance, mouth twitching like she was revising a line in her head before committing it. Then she’d go back to typing, rhythm uneven and unpredictable, a soundtrack he found himself oddly grateful for.
“Good bit?” he murmured eventually, eyes still closed.
She huffed a quiet laugh, didn’t stop typing. “Maybe. Or garbage. Hard to tell.”
He smiled faintly. “It’s never garbage.”
She didn’t answer that. Just kept going, a little smirk curving at the corner of her mouth.
It was one of his favorite versions of her. Not the girl who kissed him breathless, not the one who bantered with friends or got flustered in meetings. This version. The one who disappeared into her own mind and made something out of nothing.
termites of the page 