It was supposed to be another late night in the office. A meeting that bled past sunset. Floor plans, budgets, deadlines—excuses. I told myself that’s why she was still here. That it was about the media lab. That I just needed another set of hands, another mind as sharp as mine.

But I’ve stopped lying to myself, at least about that.

She was sitting across from me, legs tucked under her, one hand turning a pen over and over like she was trying to solve a riddle with it. Her screen glowed softly against her cheek. Her eyes, as always, were too open—too honest. She makes everything look effortless, but I know she works harder than anyone else. She matches me, pace for pace. I should admire that from a distance.

But I don't. I can’t.

She said something—I didn’t catch all of it. My focus had drifted. Her mouth, the curve of her jaw in the light, the way her hair slid over her shoulder when she tilted her head. My hand was already on the back of her chair before I realized what I was doing. And then I kissed her.

I hadn’t meant to. I hadn’t planned to. But it felt like the only thing left to do. Like something had been waiting, buried beneath weeks of restraint, and finally came loose. Her lips were soft and still. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t move either. And I stood there, every nerve on fire, wondering if I’d just ruined everything.

I didn’t apologize. I couldn’t.

I looked at her, my voice low, steady, and said, “Tell me to stop, and I will.”