I've got a cold.

So I'll not try to think, it won't get through the snot, but here's a favourite passage of mine from the nearest book to hand: Dorothy L. Sayers' Gaudy Night

He looked up; and she was instantly scarlet, as though she had been dipped in boiling water. Through the confusion of her darkened eyes ahnd drumming ears some enormous bulk seemed to stoop over her. Then the mist cleared. His eyes were riveted on the manuscript again, but he breathed as though he had been running.

I like that Harriet and Wimsey, like real people, weren't forced by knowing their attraction is mutual to do any crushing embraces or verbal processing on the spot, he went back to his reading and she thought about her feelings until they continued the analytical discussion they had been having of her manuscript whereupon:

She had once again lost all consciousness of him except as the familiar intelligence that lived and moved so curiously behind an oddly amusing set of features.