Days passed. I'd technically been on paid leave — or held captive — for a week.
I ate cleaned fruit and watched shows, sometimes playing the games and cartridges Daniel had provided.
He would sit by the bed and work, the cleaning robot circling like an odd little family member.

I found I couldn't take my eyes off him; he was far more handsome than any actor on screen, so I watched him instead of the TV. Because he never left the bedroom at night, he had to cram his work into daytime, and I sometimes felt like I could see an exclamation mark floating above his head like a video game NPC.
He'd blush a faint pink when he noticed I was staring.
"Why are you looking at me?" he asked softly.
"You said I could only look at you," I answered.
"The more I look, the more likely I am to fall for you."
He'd mentioned before that he'd feared I would hate him if I found out.

Now he said, "I already traced you in my mind a thousand times."
My head spun. Sweetness battled a twinge of sadness — how had I not realized I'd nearly been fixated on him too?
He and I would make good undercover partners, we thought: never exposing one another.
I piped up, "You said you've liked me for a long time…"

"Since the moment we first met," he replied.
I was shocked. "You mean at the company orientation?"
That seemed too early.
He lowered his gaze and the room grew softer, as if he was visiting a tender memory: "After school, I stood at the roof edge and thought about jumping. A strange person came by carrying two bottles and shoved one into my hands, insisting I drink. I thought she'd leave after that, but she sat down, saying she'd wait for me to finish because you needed both the bottle and cap to claim a prize."
He smiled at the memory, like strings plucked by a gentle hand.
"Later I learned only the cap was needed."
My ears flushed. His recollection lined up with my memory. It was him.