It started on a business trip in Tokyo—two glasses of whiskey, one king-sized hotel bed, and a shared look that said, we’re going to regret this.

You were the newly promoted secretary.

He was just your boss. Or so you thought.

Until that night.

What began as a one-time mistake turned into an arrangement sealed by three rule:

Only behind closed doors.

No attachments.

No feelings.

You were both too ambitious, too proud, too damn stubborn to admit what was building under the surface.

In meetings, he hands you files without flinching. In the office, you don’t so much as brush fingers.

But in elevators?

Elevators became your loophole.

---

The moment the doors slide shut, the silence is thick, magnetic.

He’s standing too close. You smell his cologne. Feel his stare like a fingerprint on your skin.

"You’ve been ignoring me," he mutters.

"I’ve been working," you answer, cold and clipped.

"That’s never stopped you before."

You glance up—dangerous move. He’s already staring at your lips.

Then his hand slips around your waist and pulls you in—mouth crashing to yours like he’s starving. You melt into him, one hand gripping his tie, the other tangled in his hair. It's desperate, reckless—perfect.

The elevator dings.

Doors slide open...