[ she wouldn't mind. for as many times as he's moved to touch her, daisy's equally drawn to him. there have been more moments than she can count where she's wanted to peer up and gauge his reaction to something, or to reach over and lace her hands in his, or to come climb into his lap in his office chair or on her bed after too long a stint trying to distract herself by working.

it's funny how what should be productivity — time apart, time left to herself, time she had well before he came along — now feels like wasted time. she's still getting her work done, but there's no motivation to finish it. she can be lazy, she can take naps, she can waste hours of her day watching netflix or scrolling through news articles instead of focusing and getting things done in order to do something she wants to do more. (like him.) ]

It's already been two days.

[ more than that, really. an afternoon lost to travel, plus two full conference days — she won't see him again until the day after tomorrow now, late in the evening when his plane touches down. ]

What'd you do to me, Mr Robertson? [ a soft laugh, self-deprecating and almost bashful at the same time. ] You've left me pining for you like one of your poets.