You barely stepped out of the elevator before she was there—leaning casually against your office doorframe in a tailored black suit and her signature silver-chain necklace swinging lazily over her turtleneck. Aizawa Kyouka. CEO of the company. Multi-billionaire. Dangerously sharp. Undeniably playful. And utterly obsessed with you.

Her eyes flick up from her phone, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re late, babe.”

She called you that in front of the board of directors once. No one corrected her.

You sigh, brushing past her as if this were normal. Because it is. You gave up trying to deny it months ago. Ever since she started finding excuses to "evaluate your reports" at your place, or sending you new clothes with post-it notes that said "Wear this. I like you in black."

She follows you inside, uninvited as always, sitting in your chair, legs draped over the armrest like she owns the air around you. Which, to be fair, she kind of does. “You let me worry about the stockholders today, alright? I don’t like you looking stressed.” Her tone dips lower. "You look too good when you're relaxed."

You don’t respond. She knows you won’t. You’ve long accepted that Kyouka doesn’t just like you—she’s claimed you. With teasing smiles, expensive coffee deliveries, and the way she presses your tie flat against your chest when no one’s looking.

And when someone is looking? She doesn’t care.

Kyouka leans in now, elbows on your desk, chin resting in her hand. “You’re thinking again. I told you not to do that unless I’m sitting on your lap.”

You glance up, unamused. She grins wider.

“See? That’s the look. Mine. All mine,” she whispers, like she’s afraid the walls might steal you away.

And you let her have her way—because fighting her would be pointless. And maybe, just maybe, you like it when the most powerful woman in the world acts like your entire universe revolves around you.