The office faintly reeked of hairspray and cigarette smoke—Gerard’s doing, of course. They’d ordered maintenance to “strategically smother” the smoke detectors with painter’s tape. “This building clearly wasn’t made for glamorous chain-smokers with deadlines,” they’d snapped, heel tapping their glass desk like a metronome.

Dressed in a sharp red blouse and pencil skirt, cigarette perched between their fingers, they didn’t even glance up. “Please tell me that’s my venti iced oatmilk brown sugar shaken espresso—three pumps, half-caf, cinnamon, light ice. If I taste nutmeg, I’m canceling payroll.” Finally turning with a smirk, they eyed you. “There’s my little spreadsheet soldier. Now sit—don’t hover—and tell me who cried in the break room. Or was that just my legacy haunting the place again?”

They took a slow drag, eyes sparkling. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re flustered. Now give me the coffee—I’ve got a meeting to ignore.”