The oak table was cool and polished under her palms, the scent of lemon oil and warm bread hanging in the air between them. Nadine settled into her chair, letting the fabric of her sundress whisper against the wood, and reached for the wine bottle before anyone else could.

"So the early shift kills you, or the late one?" she asked Sara, tilting the bottle toward her friend's glass.

"Late. Always late." Sara sighed, pushing a strand of auburn hair from her face. "Three more nights, then I'm human again."

Nadine poured, the wine catching the evening light, and set the bottle down with a deliberate click. Across the table, Jim was very busy looking at his plate. His fork moved a piece of bread from one side of the plate to the other, then back again.

"Jim, you're not eating," Sara said, not looking up from her own plate. "I made the stew special. Your father's recipe."

"I'm eating." His voice cracked on the word, and he picked up the fork with more force than necessary, spearing a chunk of potato.

Nadine watched him over the rim of her wine glass. The evening light caught his sandy hair, turning it gold at the edges, and she noticed the way his shoulders hunched forward, as if he were trying to make himself smaller. The way his eyes kept finding her chest before snapping away, guilty, caught.

She leaned forward slightly, reaching for the bread basket, and let the neckline of her sundress gape just a little more than it needed to. The movement was small, almost accidental. Almost.

Jim's fork clattered against the plate.

"Sorry," he muttered, grabbing it. "Slippery."

"The potatoes are slippery," Sara said mildly, still not looking up. "You'd think a nineteen-year-old would have better grip strength. All those video games."

"Mom."

"What? I'm just saying." Sara finally glanced up, her warm brown eyes crinkling with amusement. "You used to be able to crush a soda can with one hand. Now you can't hold a fork?"

Jim's face flushed a deep, blotchy red. He set the fork down and put his hands in his lap.

Nadine took a sip of wine, letting it sit on her tongue. The image of his hands disappearing below the table edge was hard to ignore. She didn't try very hard.

"How's the photography going?" Sara asked, turning back to her. "Did you get the shots you wanted from the lake?"

"Mostly." Nadine set her glass down, letting her fingers linger on the stem. "The light was wrong in the morning. Too flat. I might go back out tomorrow."

"Jim could go with you. Show you the good spots." Sara said it with the casual ease of someone who hadn't just thrown a lit match into a dry field. "He knows all the trails. Don't you, Jim?"

"I—" Jim's voice came out strangled. He cleared his throat. "I mean, if Nadine wants. The trails are pretty muddy this time of year."

"I don't mind mud." Nadine smiled at him, a slow, easy curve of her lips. "I've been meaning to explore the area. It's beautiful out here."

Jim's eyes dropped to her mouth, then lower, then yanked away so fast she almost felt the whiplash. His hand slid to his lap, a quick, furtive movement beneath the table.

She pretended not to notice. She took another sip of wine instead, letting the cool glass press against her lower lip, and watched his throat work as he swallowed.

"You should go," Sara said, oblivious, reaching for the bread. "It'll do you good to get out of the house. You've been moping around all summer."

"I haven't been moping."

"You've been moping. Yesterday I found you staring at the ceiling in the living room for an hour."

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

Jim's mouth opened, then closed. His eyes flicked to Nadine for a fraction of a second — one heartbeat, no more — before he looked down at his plate again. "Nothing. Just stuff."

Nadine felt something warm curl in her stomach. It wasn't the wine.

"Well, think about it while you eat," Sara said, pointing her fork at him. "You're too skinny. You need to put some meat on those bones."

"I'm not skinny."

"You're a rake. Eat."

Jim picked up his fork and took a bite, chewing with exaggerated slowness, his eyes fixed on the middle distance. Nadine watched the muscles of his jaw work, the way his Adam's apple bobbed. He was all sharp angles and awkward limbs, still growing into himself, and there was something almost painfully endearing about it.

She'd noticed him the moment she'd arrived. She'd noticed the way his gaze had snagged on her like a loose thread, caught and unable to pull free. She'd noticed the tent in his shorts that first afternoon, when he'd been reaching for a glass in the kitchen and she'd walked in wearing a thin tank top and no bra.

He'd nearly dropped the glass. He'd turned so fast he'd banged his hip on the counter, and then he'd apologized to the refrigerator on his way out.

She'd laughed about it later, privately, in the guest bedroom with the door closed. But she hadn't been able to stop thinking about it.

She wasn't thinking about it now, exactly. She was just aware of him. Aware of the way his hand stayed in his lap, hidden. Aware of the way his breathing had gone shallow and quick. Aware of the way he kept shifting in his chair, trying to find a position that didn't make his discomfort so obvious.

"Nadine?" Sara's voice broke through. "You okay? You've got a funny look on your face."

"Just tired," she said smoothly, reaching for the wine. "Long drive."

"I told you you should have flown."

"And miss the scenery?" She smiled, letting her gaze drift across the table, past Sara, to where Jim was staring at his plate with the intensity of a man trying to solve a puzzle. "The countryside out here is beautiful. All those rolling hills and wildflowers. Very photogenic."

Jim's ears went red.

Sara laughed, oblivious. "You'll have to come back in the spring. The whole valley turns gold. It's like something out of a painting."

"I'd like that." Nadine took a sip of wine, letting the words hang. "Maybe Jim can show me around before I go."

Jim made a sound that might have been agreement or might have been a small animal being stepped on. His hand was definitely in his lap now, pressing down, and Nadine watched the tendons in his forearm stand out with the effort of keeping still.

The conversation drifted to other things after that — Sara's patients, the new hospital wing, a neighbor's dog that had gotten into the compost — but Nadine found her attention snagging again and again on the boy across the table. The way his gaze kept slipping down and away, like a stone skipping across water. The way he kept adjusting himself beneath the table, quick and furtive, as if he could hide the evidence of what he was feeling.

He couldn't. She could see it in the tightness of his shoulders, the slight tremor in his hand when he reached for his water glass.

She let her own hand drift to her wine glass, tracing the rim with her fingertip, and watched his eyes follow the movement. Watched his throat work again. Watched his knuckles go white around the glass.

Sara was still talking, something about a patient who'd come in with a fishhook lodged in his ear, and Nadine nodded along, making the appropriate noises, but her attention was elsewhere. It was on the way Jim's chest rose and fell with each breath. On the way his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to say something, then closed again. On the way his gaze kept dropping, dropping, dropping to the curve of her breasts beneath the thin cotton of her dress.

She leaned forward again, reaching for the bread basket, and this time she let the movement linger. Let the fabric of her dress pull taut across her chest. Let him see the shape of her nipple through the cotton, just for a moment, before she straightened.

Jim made a strangled sound and reached for his water glass.

"You okay, sweetie?" Sara asked, finally looking up. "You've gone all red."

"Fine," he managed, his voice cracking. "Hot in here."

"It's not hot. It's a lovely evening."

"I'm fine." He said it louder, almost desperate, and took a long gulp of water. His knuckles were white around the glass.

Nadine watched him over the rim of her wine, a slow warmth spreading through her chest. She could see the pulse beating in his throat, could see the way his hand trembled slightly as he set the glass down. He was so young. So painfully, achingly young.

And she couldn't stop looking at him.

"Well," Sara said, pushing back from the table, "I'm going to start on the dishes. You two can keep each other company."

Nadine watched Sara gather the plates, watched her disappear into the kitchen, and then she was alone with Jim across the oak table, the evening light slanting between them like a held breath.

He didn't look at her. He stared at his empty plate, his hands flat on either side of it, his shoulders rigid.

"Jim."

He flinched. "Yeah?"

"Thank you for the dinner. It was lovely."

"I didn't make it. Mom did."

"Still." She let her voice drop, low and warm. "It's nice to have company."

He looked up then, and for a moment their eyes met across the table. His were the color of a summer sky, clear and bright, and she could see the hunger in them — raw, unguarded, desperate. He looked away first, his ears burning red, and his hand slid to his lap again, pressing down.

Nadine let out a slow breath and reached for the wine bottle. "More?"

"I shouldn't."

"One glass won't hurt."

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. "I'm not old enough."

"I won't tell."

He looked at her then, a flicker of something — surprise, maybe, or intrigue — passing across his face. She held the bottle out, the neck tilted toward his glass, and after a moment he picked it up and let her pour.

"There," she said, setting the bottle down. "That's better."

He took a sip, grimacing at the taste, and she laughed — a low, husky sound that made his eyes snap to her mouth. "It's an acquired taste," she said. "You'll get used to it."

"I don't think I will."

"Give it time." She lifted her own glass, watching him over the rim. "Some things take practice."

His hand tightened on his glass. His gaze dropped to her chest, caught itself, and yanked away. She watched the war play out on his face — the wanting and the shame of wanting, the pull and the resistance — and felt something shift in her own chest, low and warm.

"Jim," she said softly, and he looked up, startled, his eyes wide and dark. "You don't have to be so nervous around me."

"I'm not—" He stopped, swallowed. "I'm not nervous."

"You've been sitting like you're about to bolt since I sat down."

"I haven't."

"You have." She smiled, letting it soften, letting it become something almost gentle. "Relax. I don't bite."

His mouth opened, closed, opened again. "I know that."

"Do you?" She let the question hang, watching his throat work. "You seem tense."

"I'm fine."

"If you say so." She lifted her glass, took a slow sip, and watched him over the rim. His hand was in his lap again, his knuckles white where they pressed against his thigh, and she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

She set her glass down. "I think I'm going to turn in early," she said, rising from her chair. "Long day tomorrow."

"Oh." He looked almost disappointed. "Okay."

"Goodnight, Jim." She paused at the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. His gaze was on her chest, caught, and he yanked it away so fast she almost heard the snap. "Sleep well."

She walked down the hall to the guest bedroom, feeling his eyes on her the whole way. The door clicked shut behind her, and she stood in the dark for a moment, listening to the silence of the house, the faint sound of Sara humming in the kitchen, the creak of a chair as Jim pushed back from the table.

She didn't turn on the light. She crossed to the bed and lay down on the thin quilt, staring at the ceiling, and let the image of him replay behind her eyelids — the way his hand had pressed against his lap, the way his eyes had kept finding her chest and then fleeing, the way his throat had worked when he swallowed. She could feel her own pulse, low and insistent, and her hand drifted to her stomach, resting there, before sliding lower.

Downstairs, she heard the creak of the stairs. She heard the click of a door. She imagined him in his room, lying on his bed, his hand doing what hers was doing now, and the thought sent a slow, dark thrill through her.

She closed her eyes. She let her fingers trace the waistband of her shorts. She didn't think about tomorrow.

Not yet.