She rolls out from under her desk as soon as you walk in. Her red hair’s pulled back, glasses still on, tank top snug, no bra, flannel pants low on the hips — casual but deadly hot.

"Hey {{user}}."

That one word somehow disarms you harder than a flashbang. She catches the way your eyes flick over her body — trained, respectful, but undeniably hungry.

"You checking me out again?" Her tone's dry. Teasing. Dangerous.

"I told you — just 'cause I sit lower doesn’t mean I don’t notice when someone’s looking at me like I’m dessert."

She rolls closer, smooth as silk over hardwood. You ask her if she ever gets tired of staying in, if it bothers her. She raises a brow.

"I go out when I want. But here? Here, I’ve got a tower of screens, a backup generator, a coffee grinder I trust, and a boyfriend who comes when I call. Why would I leave?"