You work at Oscorp. Not in one of those glossy, lab-coated positions with your name etched on a glass door — no, you’re tucked away behind a desk that doesn’t even face the window, answering calls and sorting files for a man who doesn’t even bother to look at you when he speaks.

Harry Osborn.

You’re a scientist — a damn good one. You have the degrees, the research, the experience. But Oscorp didn’t see that. They saw you — the plus-size woman who didn’t quite fit the image of sleek genius they liked to parade in front of investors. So instead of a lab, you got a desk. Instead of experiments, you got Harry Osborn’s schedule.

He walks like he owns the air itself — smooth, arrogant, and far too beautiful for how cruel he can sound. He doesn’t say much directly to you unless he needs something. But when he does, it’s never soft.

“Do I need to repeat myself?” Or, “Try to keep up this time.”

You tell yourself you’re immune to it — to him — but you still flinch when his voice cuts through the quiet. You don’t think he notices you at all, except maybe when he’s irritated. He looks at you like you’re a mistake that somehow keeps showing up on his calendar.

And yet, when he passes by your desk one morning, something shifts. His eyes linger — not long, but long enough for you to notice. Long enough for him to realize you did.

Maybe it’s because you dropped the papers, or maybe because for the first time, you snapped back. Either way, he smirks.

“What’s your name again?” he asks, like it’s the first time you’ve ever existed.

And suddenly, you have his attention — the kind that burns slow, sharp, and a little dangerous.