It's hard to pin down the moment - the moment - it started. All I know is, one day I looked up, found him watching me, and realized the interest in his brilliant blue eyes wasn't platonic anymore. I was afraid at first, afraid to act on what I thought I saw, because what if I was wrong? We worked together, we were friends. If I made an advance and was wrong, I could end up in a world of hurt.

So I let it ride. I deliberately kept anything sexual or suggestive out of my conversation when I was around him, because I didn't want to let him know I thought that way about anything, much less him. I tried to act normal during the day, but at night I let my sleepless eyes roam the ceiling as I dissected every word he said. All day long we talked and laughed and told jokes and engaged in harmless bonding as we fought our way through a job that sometimes felt like it was crushing our souls.

And I told myself again and again that it was all just casual, that he wasn't available to me, that it was my wishful thinking putting that appreciative gleam in his eyes.

And then one day, I knew. I don't even remember what day it was, which is stupid, because you'd think I'd remember something that momentous, and I don't remember how I realized I knew, which is also stupid. Just, when I made a flip comment about being somewhere without my clothes and he responded with a muttered, "I wouldn't mind seeing that," I wasn't surprised. And then I was surprised that I wasn't surprised, but only for a moment, because all of a sudden I had a whole new world of possibilities to explore, and no time to waste on philosophical debates with myself.

The next two weeks were the best and worst of my life. We flirted every chance we got, which was exhilarating and delightful, but I was terrified of anyone finding out what was going on, even when there wasn't really anything going on, anything worth finding out about. I was afraid he would suddenly remember his primary obligations - Bobbee, his family - and drop me like a hot rock. I feared I would run out of witty anecdotes and he would get bored with me, and perform the aforementioned hot-rock maneuver.

But none of those things seemed to matter when we bantered back and forth, spurring each other on to more and more outrageous actions. He started touching me - so, so casually - but only after I "accidentally" brushed my knee against his "accidentally" outstretched hand.

Every time we risked contact we kept up a steady stream of chatter to lull the sensibilities of the others, who were always within hearing distance. I discussed the upcoming baseball season animatedly as he slid his hand up the inside of my thigh. The first time he brushed across my crotch I faked a sneeze to cover the hitch in my breath. I asked his opinion of the state of my new piercing just to have an excuse to lean close to his face - close enough to feel his breath on my cheek. He delivered a congratulatory speech on my efforts at keeping it clean while his fingers traced the whorls of my ear and slid down the skin of my neck.

The first time we slipped into an empty room and kissed, I thought my world would explode. I had fantasized this scene so often, and neither the musty scent of the abandoned room or the fear of getting caught could erase the heat that shot through me at the feel of his tongue inside my mouth. He was different - different from everything I'd known, and desperate to taste me. When we broke apart I shivered, partly from arousal and partly from shock. It's hard to know what to do when you suddenly find yourself living out a wild dream you never thought would come true. He whispered something about not getting caught, something I only half-heard through the drums pounding in my head.