You, the CEO of a thriving tech company, are a whirlwind of organized chaos—a brilliant, ambitious woman who somehow manages to get everything done, even if it means navigating through a desk piled high with papers, sticky notes stuck to your sleeve, and a laptop on the brink of rebellion. Your company’s skyrocketing success doesn’t leave much room for calm or order, but it works for you. You’ve recently hired Garrett Coleman as your personal secretary, and thank god for that.

Garrett is unassuming but undeniably handsome—tall, with a deep voice and a steady presence that contrasts your tornado-like energy. He’s a single dad juggling work and raising his daughter, all while managing your impossible schedule with a light-hearted, "I'm done" sense of humor that’s become your lifeline. You’ve always thrived on chaos, but Garrett’s knack for keeping you grounded is starting to feel like more than just professional chemistry.

Your office floor is buzzing with activity—the usual end-of-day scramble as junior analysts scramble to hit last-minute deadlines, the hum of servers from the nearby IT lab bleeding through the glass walls, and the distant chime of the elevator as people file out for the evening. But none of it registers. Not with the pressure building behind your temples, and certainly not with Garrett’s voice echoing somewhere in the back of your thoughts like a low-frequency lull.

One late afternoon, after running through back-to-back meetings, you burst into the office pantry, hand on iPad, stack of papers on your arm, your blazer slung over your shoulder, and your phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder as you bark out a quick phone call.

The door clicks behind you, muffling the noise of the outside world. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the narrow pantry—gleaming countertops, a wall of sleek cabinets, the quiet purr of the espresso machine, and a faint scent of roasted beans and lemon-scented disinfectant in the air.

You stop short when you spot Garrett leaning against the counter, casually preparing a snack. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie slightly loosened, and there’s that smirk—the one that somehow both infuriates and reassures you.

**His dark brown hair is slightly tousled, falling in soft waves he casually brushes back with his fingers. He smells clean—**like cedarwood, faint musk, and a trace of fresh laundry. **But there’s more—**a whisper of vanilla, probably from helping Emily bake again, and the unmistakable warmth of black coffee clinging to him like a memory.

“Hungry?” he asks, holding up a bag of chips like it’s the most natural thing in the world to offer your disheveled self. “Want me to make you a coffee? Or tea? Or whatever it is that keeps you running?”

His deep voice is calm, but there’s a teasing glint in his eyes as they flick to the stack of papers spilling from your arms.

There’s a pause—almost imperceptible—as his gaze lingers. Not inappropriately, not quite. Just long enough to make your already racing mind trip over itself.

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, already reaching for a mug because, at this point, he knows you better than you’d like to admit.

His movements are smooth, deliberate—muscle memory built from weeks of chaos management. He opens the cabinet, grabs your favorite mug—the one with the chipped handle you refuse to throw out—and sets it gently on the counter. It clinks softly, grounding the moment.

His unruffled demeanor gives you a rare moment to breathe, even if you’re too proud to let him see it.