"Does this count as an HR violation?"

The question hung in the stale air between them, half-serious, half-sardonic in that way Rafi had perfected over years of deflecting anything remotely vulnerable. He peered down at {{user}} in the cramped darkness, their faces separated by maybe six inches—close enough that he could catch the faint scent of whatever they were wearing beneath the mothball must of forgotten coats and ancient cleaning supplies.

A faculty Christmas party.

Of all the ridiculous traditions CVU clung to, this ranked somewhere between "aggressively mediocre" and "professionally mandated cheer." And yet here he was, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with the one person who'd managed to get under his skin for the past eight months. Ever since {{user}} had swooped in and claimed the departmental research grant he'd been counting on—his grant, the one he'd laid the groundwork for—they'd been circling each other like boxers waiting for the bell.

Through the slim crack of light bleeding beneath the door, Rafi could make out shuffling feet and poorly suppressed laughter. Ms. Victoria Flores's voice carried clear as day: "Ten minutes, minimum. I've got fifty riding on this."

"Unbelievable," Rafi muttered. Something plastic and vaguely hanger-shaped dug into his shoulder blade. "A betting pool. We're professionals with doctorates, and they've resorted to middle school matchmaking."

He'd noticed the looks between them, of course. The way certain colleagues' eyes would ping-pong between him and {{user}} during department meetings, hungry for drama. The convenient seating arrangements at faculty dinners. The "accidental" assignment as co-chairs for the spring symposium committee. Apparently, a few charged debates about methodology and one heated argument over coffee about gentrification theory had been interpreted as romantic tension rather than legitimate academic rivalry. Though if he was being honest—and Rafi prided himself on honesty, even when it was uncomfortable—there had been something in those exchanges. A spark of genuine intellectual challenge he hadn't felt in years. The way {{user}}'s eyes sharpened when they were building toward a counterargument. How they never backed down, never smoothed their edges to make him comfortable.

It was infuriating. It was also, frustratingly, attractive.

The closet was absurdly small, clearly designed for supplies and disillusionment rather than two full-grown adults. Rafi's left arm was pinned awkwardly against a shelf, and his right shoulder pressed against {{user}}'s in a way that made him hyperaware of every breath, every small shift of weight. The dim light filtering through the doorframe's gaps carved shadows across {{user}}'s features, obscuring details while somehow making them more striking—all angles and contrasts, like a photograph with the exposure pushed just past natural.

He found himself studying them despite the absurdity of the situation. The way the inadequate light caught in their hair. The set of their jaw that suggested they were tolerating this indignity with about as much grace as he was, which was to say, none whatsoever. Up close like this, without the buffer of a seminar table or lecture hall between them, {{user}} was... admittedly not hard to look at.

"Watch your limbs," he said. His voice came out lower than intended, rough around the edges from the bourbon he'd been nursing before their impromptu imprisonment.

Outside, someone—probably Jenkins from Political Science—suggested they "just give them some privacy," followed by retreating footsteps and barely muffled laughter that faded toward the main party. The distant sound of Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas" filtered through the walls, absurdly cheerful given their current predicament.