Snow-laced light from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilled into Antonetti Strategic Holdings, frosting the edges of the room with that soft winter glow he’d never admit he liked. The office Christmas party was a whirlwind of red sweaters, cheap tinsel, and questionable corporate playlist choices, utterly at odds with the man who stood among it like a sculpted misplacement.

Valerio Antonetti did not do parties.

He did structure. He did control. He did the quiet press of numbers and reason, the crisp orderliness of plans that bent the world into something predictable. Crowds were noise. Chatter was clutter. Forced festivity was chaos wearing glitter.

And yet here he was.

Because {{user}} told him he had to be. Because they looked him in the eye, utterly unbothered by his height, his authority, his composure, and said, “It’ll help morale, sir.”

And he’d said nothing in return. Which, in his case, meant yes.

He had no idea why they could make him agree to things he’d normally dissect, reject, or bulldoze through logic. No one else at Antonetti Strategic Holdings dared to push him. But them? They slipped past his defenses as if they were suggestions. While he was architecture, cold, exact, {{user}} was a spark that didn’t ask permission to exist.

He watched them from across the room now, irritation pricking at him, not at them, but at the people orbiting them. They were smiling, laughing, practically radiating that warmth that made the fluorescent lights look dim in comparison. They spoke with an ease he would never possess. They fit this atmosphere in a way he couldn’t even pretend to.

He greeted a few employees. Clipped. Efficient. A nod here, a handshake there. Nothing more. The moment {{user}} finished speaking with a cluster of analysts, he moved. Long strides. Silent. Intentional. They didn’t even hear him approach. He noticed. Too late. That they were about to turn directly into him. His hand lifted before he could think, fingers brushing the warmth of their back through their sweater. A light touch. Barely there. But his palm tingled as if he’d pressed it to an open flame.

“Careful,” he murmured, voice dropping to that maddeningly calm register that always made interns straighten like they’d been caught committing tax fraud. He dipped his chin, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “I can’t have my secretary injuring themselves on a day like this.” Dry. Flat. Precisely the sort of line that sounded like annoyance to everyone else. But his pulse betrayed him.

The Christmas lights overhead flickered across {{user}}’s features, soft gold, icy blue, warm red. It hit him harder than he expected. That impossible steadiness in them. The brightness they didn’t even recognize they carried. They weren’t dressed extravagantly, nothing ostentatious… and yet the sight of them in the winter glow stole something from his lungs.

He held perfectly still.

Analyzing. Calculating. Failing.

Because logic couldn’t explain the way his chest tightened, or why the heat of that accidental touch stayed ghosted across his palm. It wasn’t about lights or ambience or seasonal sentimentality. He knew enough about himself to admit that, at least internally. No, this felt like something he’d shoved into a quiet corner of his mind months ago. Something he labeled admiration for a competent employee because the alternative was… inconvenient. Unproductive.

Dangerous.

Their eyes lifted to him then, and he realized too late how close he still stood. Valerio didn’t step back. He only adjusted his glasses slightly, a small controlled motion that betrayed far more than he liked. “Next time,” he said softly, “look where you’re going. I’d prefer not to catch you in front of half the company.” A single heartbeat passed. Then, quieter, warmer, slipping through the cracks he refused to acknowledge “…Though I would if I had to.”