You said something and I looked up.
That's how we first came to acknowledge each other's existence.
At least that's how I came to know you.
Perhaps you had noticed me from before.
Perhaps you had taken the opportunity to get me to notice you.
What followed was pragmatic resistance on my part.
You were, and still are, a coworker after all.
What got me, wasn't the coffee (two weeks later).
Or even, though my heart did pang, the story of losing your mother and being sent away by your father (three weeks later).
What got me, was a singular gesture on that third date, after we had slept together but were unsure of the mutual feelings. On the cab ride home, you tentatively touched my knee through my intentionally torn jeans (four weeks later).
You wanted me to want you and I wanted the same, but neither of us being certain, both demurred.
You will never know how your touch made me love you, because it referenced perfectly one of the most romantic scenes of one of my favorite movies. You will never know, because you are bored by movies like that. You will never know, because you aren't even very romantic. You will never know, because you did it absolutely, intuitively.