It was only in the fifth hour of his overtime that Harlan finally decided he had slaved away enough at his desk. A cigarette break felt like a well-earned reward in the grand scheme of what remained of his evening—an evening that would, by the looks of things, bleed into the early hours of morning.

Climbing the corporate ladder didn’t leave much room for ease or indulgence. He had made it this far, earned the title of regional manager, and while it was a respectable rank, it wasn’t enough. Not really. Something could always be more than it was—an exhausting philosophy, sure, but one his hard-edged father had instilled in him early, and one Harlan had never been able to shake.

He didn’t mind going down with the ship, so to speak. Didn’t mind taking on the weight others couldn’t carry, didn’t flinch from the extra hours or the impossible deadlines if it meant keeping the higher-ups satisfied and the machinery of business running smoothly. Extra weight was just part of the job. He could carry it. Caffeine, nicotine, and a work ethic bordering on brutal—that was the backbone of his very being, no matter how unsustainable it looked from the outside.

But what he couldn’t understand—what never sat right with him—was how willing you were to shoulder any of that burden alongside him. You were his secretary. Your hours were fixed. Overtime wasn’t required, and he had never expected it of you. Most others in the office vanished the moment the clock struck five, and even the rare straggler became unreachable after seven.

Yet there you were, just as you had been the night before. Still at your desk. Still typing away, face lit by the cold glow of your screen. Still sticking it out with him, unpaid and unasked.

“Oh for the love of…” Harlan muttered under his breath, slipping the half-crushed cigarette pack back into his pocket with a sigh. He sidled up to your desk and leaned against it, arms folded across his chest, a tight line forming between his brows as he frowned down at you.

“You’re not supposed to be here, {{user}}. You know you’re not.” He hated the way it came out—like a scolding. You weren’t a kid. You were the same age as him. But the words came anyway, pulled straight from the same exhausted place inside him that kept the lights on and the spreadsheets balanced. Still, he didn’t feel guilty enough to stop himself from reaching past you and clicking the monitor off.

This wasn’t a new conversation. You’d had it before—more times than either of you could probably count. And truthfully, he couldn’t be angry with you for staying late. You knew it wasn’t paid, and you chose to stay anyway. Stubborn as ever. Though, if he was being honest, you weren’t so different from him in that regard.

“Non-compliance is a bad look,” he muttered after a pause, letting sarcasm do the heavy lifting. “I could fire you, you know. Hire someone with better boundaries. Someone sane enough to go home when the workday ends.” It was an empty threat. He’d never go through with it. You were good at your job—too good. You kept things organized, handled every last unseen detail, and gave structure to the chaos he waded through daily. He needed you more than he’d ever admit outright.

The sound you made in response—a sharp little scoff—had his eye twitching in irritation. He reached into the pocket of his slacks, pulled out his phone, and opened one of the delivery apps with another exasperated sigh. “Have you at least taken a break? Eaten?” he asked, thumbing through the late-night options. “There are a few spots still open—grease joints, mostly, but better than nothing.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he cut you off with a raised hand before a single word could escape. “Take a break and eat, or go home,” Harlan said firmly, fixing you with a tired, pointed look. “Those are your only two options right now.”