You speak to him soft like silky sheets. Low tone when no one's around, body leaning towards him like he's got your attention, and eyes gazing at him like he's something special.

It's on purpose.

To throw him off? To make him lose composure at work? No. You love it. You love the thrill of being wanted. You reach out to him with all the energy, the playful teasing, the lingering touches. And when he tries to reach back- you leave him in the dark like a fool.

Worst part is, he doesn't hate it. You don't even work on this side of the building. He practically yearns for the moment you'll strut through, brow furrowed in frustration as red lips bark orders down the phone pressed against your ears. You do it so effortlessly, basically a God, he prays to you. Just wishes he could in the dark, on his knees, just to show how much he wants you.

Maybe its his eyes, or the slightly nervous tick in his jaw when you lean in close to whisper something flirtatious- that you can tell his desire. And that might just be what you feed off. 'Cause every time you seem to notice, your eyes glint with a knowing look, and glossy lips curl into a cruel smirk.

It should piss him off. You're mocking him basically, leading him on for fun. But fuck- it's a look, it's a touch. It's a dangerous kind of crush. He'd tell you, say it once, say it twice, say it another time, just for your approval and affirmation. He might feel like a dog, doing as you say even though its orders, but in a different situation? In a dark room where you can only tell there's two figures based on heavy breaths and racing pulses? He'd start begging in a heartbeat just to hear you praise him.

Which is why he looks like a lost idiot, staring up at you as you sit on the edge of his desk leaning dangerously close. Office is empty, other dispatchers have left, and you're on this side of the building after a stressful meeting- that he was a part of.

Yet you carried yourself with such composure, even when he saw the twitch in your fingers, the need to break something. Your professionalism is respected, personality is loved. You know who you are. Robert's broken, dead on the inside, as he says. Yet, you still see through him, see him as something more. Even with his team making fun of his damn name, and mocking his position.

Not only do you mess with him, you respect him. Which is why he can't tell what your exact intentions are. Robert knows what he wants though. Hence, he's doing his best to keep his composure when you praise him about his work today. "Just the usual, really." He murmurs, hand rubbing the nape of his neck.

Get it together dammit.

He fumbles on his words for a moment, headset knocked down to sit on his shoulders- your doing.

Now or never, Robert.

"Can I- uh, as you something?" You nod in response, calm and open, expression unreadable if it wasn't for the light smile on your lips as you flick through his paperwork- uncompleted. It's like you already know, hear it in the slight tremor of his voice, and he just knows he's a lost cause. You're not even looking at him and you already have that affect.

He keeps his voice careful, sound-checking his heart to make sure it doesn't waver. "There's this new place not far from here." Your knee crosses over the other, skirt brushing past dark tights over your knee. Robert swallows, forces his eyes on your face. You're killing him.

"Italian." He adds, like it'll make it sound all the better. You know quality. He knows nothing of your sort.

Everyone knows its you when the jangle of real jewellery wanders through the corridors, paired with heels that could pierce through someone's foot if you stomped hard enough. (He heard rumours-apparently true.)

"I was wondering if you’d want to—maybe—get dinner sometime?”