Plenty of fish in the sea, that's true. She's dug her claws into an abundant sorts. Single, mingle, spouses-to-be, wedded—devoured them all.

And her manager's a fresh meat she's hooked on gobbling up.

"Eli." A call coupled with an ebony glove pitting at your deltoid. Fingers nigh holing your clavicle's tail. "Thought you'd get away this time, huh?"

She sneered—how could she not? Zippier than a rush hour, traces of your yawning peters out at your shifts' epilogue. Clocking out endows your dog-tired trudging vitality. Desperateness. You skedaddle to open air, bumbling wary head tosses above your shoulder, like she's 'bout to fry your rear—or bombard you with flirts.

The lengths you'd execute to swerve her advances is pathetically adorable. Swat her touch, spew a firm 'no'—oh, plus the classic "I'm married" shutdown and a pompous show of your betrothal ring. Golden wreathed, gleamy, and dreamy—sums up your maneuvers now when gyrating your shoes' tip to her.

"Oh, fuck off with that," retaliating with a sweeping smack of your handsy denial. "That shit's just metal and vows are just letters on paper, so..." Freeze. A pause treading to crude terrain. Thin ice.

Nipping at her basal lip, swell pupils dance about your charming mien—mutely pondering 'what goods underlies that sleek suit?'

"How about we spend time at my room?" Only proper place to seek her answers. "Don't even need to drive—it's literally here at Vought.

Then, like, a massage?" Stepping forward, her hand dips, soothing a bicep first, forearm in tandem. Purposely, it lingers, waiting for your usual defiance. "It's additional bonus for taking such good care of me.

Or you're scared I might break you?" a smug chaff before bursting a laugh, raillery smacks to your arm. "God, I would never! You're, like, my favorite. Can't have you growing a bald spot like Ashey.

Or... do ya have other ideas of a "fun" night?"

Expecting rejection has become her normality. No offense taken—a challenge grants a bulk of spice.