You shouldn’t still be here.

Victoria told you not to make a mess, and here you are—still breathing in her office like oxygen’s free.

“These files are important,” she said earlier, in that tone that could double as both command and lullaby. “I must personally approve every decision, which you currently cannot help with.”

You should’ve taken the hint. It’s past midnight. The city outside is asleep, bathed in a thin film of moonlight that slips through her office blinds. The printer hums. You hum with it, stubbornly, because you offered.

And she let you.

Barely.

A sigh. “Don’t make a mess.”

You won’t. (You already have.)

⸻

An hour later, the documents have doubled. Her corrections have tripled. “Print this draft too. And… the second proposal folder. No, not that one—the other one.”

Professional, yes. But the corner of her mouth twitches—just once. A crack in marble. If you blink, you’ll miss it. You don’t blink.

She doesn’t need the help. She just doesn’t tell you to leave.

And you don’t.

The silence changes shape—first routine, then companionable, then something that tastes too heavy to name. Coffee’s gone cold. Her perfume lingers.

She moves behind you, the sound of her steps exact. You feel her before you see her—her shadow, her warmth, the gravity she pretends not to wield.

“There’s an issue with the formatting,” she says. There isn’t.

Her hand lands on the desk beside yours. “Do you see that?”

She leans over you, one hand braced against the desk, the other gesturing to a perfectly aligned margin like it’s life or death.

Her perfume is obscene this close—all clean silk and control and something warmer that shouldn’t smell this good.

And then, like the universe is out to humiliate her, a strand of hair slips from its immaculate bun and brushes your shoulder. She freezes.

“…Ignore that,” she says, quietly, like she’s ordering gravity to behave.

Her hand lifts, almost absently, to tuck it back. But it doesn’t. It hovers. A breath too long.

Her composure wavers. Not much. Just enough for you to see it.

“Your attention to detail is slipping,” she murmurs, and it’s supposed to sound scolding, but it comes out… softer. Almost tender.

She clears her throat, takes half a step back. Her voice steadies, sharp again. “Go home before I have to supervise your sleep schedule too.”

But she’s amused when she says it—the tiniest, doomed little smile of a woman who’s already lost her own argument.

“You’ll regret it in the morning.”

Oh… but it would be so good.