He shouldn't be able to feel her when she walks by, to know she's there by recognizing the way she moves out of the corner of his eye, by the way the room becomes a little brighter when she enters it.

(He shouldn't, but he does.)

He shouldn't look for her the moment he walks into work, or be disappointed when she's not there yet, and he definitely shouldn't dawdle by the elevator every time he waits alone, hoping she'll come dashing in to join him; he shouldn't want to be alone with her, at all.

(He shouldn't, but he does.)

He shouldn't choose to work with his door open; he would be far more efficient if his chair wasn't positioned at precisely the correct angle so as to allow every momentary glance upwards to be filled with her—an angle which he really shouldn't know.

(He shouldn't, but he does.)

He shouldn't lean so close when he talks to her, as if he were trying to inhabit as much of her space as possible. He shouldn't be distracted by the back of her neck while she reads him his schedule; he should be listening to the words she was saying, not resisting the urge to run his hands through her hair, and absolutely not wondering whether her skin would taste as sweet as she smells.

(He shouldn't, but he does.)

He shouldn't think of her every time he sees a cat, or a cat sweater or any sweater, for that matter. As a professional, he shouldn't picture her in any clothing (or lack thereof) at all. He shouldn't smile helplessly every time she crosses his mind, remembering the wrinkle between her brow while she works, or her unfailing enthusiasm, or her laugh.

He shouldn't want her—need her—love her.

(He shouldn't, oh, but he does.)