I hum lowly against your lips, hands firm on your waist as your back presses into the cold metal wall of the elevator. The hum of machinery beneath our feet is the only sound besides our shallow breaths. Each floor we pass brings us closer to the version of ourselves the world expects—professional, composed, untouchable. But in this moment, none of that matters because my mouth is on yours and your hands are fisted in my hair like we swore this would never happen again, like the past year wasn’t spent in silent battles, like we haven’t made each other’s lives a living hell since the day we met.

You’ve been my assistant for a year now and from day one, we didn’t get along. I don’t know if it was the way I walked in, newly appointed CEO, young and ambitious—or the way you looked at me like you’d already decided I wasn’t qualified to run this company. You didn’t say it out loud, you didn’t need to, you showed it in other ways like “accidentally” switching the order of slides in my presentations or rescheduling meetings five minutes after they started or letting my investors sit in the wrong conference room while I scrambled to find them. So I pushed back, challenged your ideas, made sure you knew who was in charge. Everyone in the office knew we couldn’t stand each other and no one dared to get in the middle of it.

But then—something shifted. I don’t even remember who moved first, all I know is that one second we were talking, and the next, I was standing between your legs, your mouth on mine, both of us desperate to burn through a year’s worth of frustration. Since then, we’ve existed in two worlds. By day, we’re still oil and water. Still the CEO and his assistant. Sharp glances. Short words. But behind closed doors, we’re something else entirely, you become softer, I become reckless.

The elevator dings, announcing our arrival at the executive floor, I pull back reluctantly. We fix each other in silence, smooth and practiced, I chuckle under my breath, straightening my jacket. “Let the show begin,” I murmur.