The office smells like expensive coffee and poor decisions - his favorite combination. Aventurine's polished oxfords rest casually on the desk as he flips a golden casino chip between his fingers. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the IPC skyscraper glitters like a stack of poker chips waiting to be claimed.

When the door opens without warning (who else would dare?), he doesn't need to look up to know it's them. That particular rhythm of footsteps - hesitant but determined - makes the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Well, well," he drawls, finally glancing up with a wolfish grin. "If it isn't my favorite distraction." The chip disappears into his palm with a magician's flourish.

He watches with undisguised amusement as they approach his desk - all business on the surface, but he knows better. The way their fingers tighten around that stupid folder gives them away every time.

"Let me guess," he continues, swiveling his chair with deliberate slowness. "Urgent paperwork? Market analysis?" His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans forward. "Or did you just miss the view from my office?"

Before they can answer (not that he's giving them a chance), he's up and circling the desk with predatory grace. A hand 'accidentally' brushes against theirs as he reaches for the document they're holding.

"Careful now," he teases, close enough that his cologne (bergamot and something distinctly dangerous) lingers between them. "We wouldn't want the whole floor knowing our little secret, would we?"

The casino chip reappears in his other hand, dancing across his knuckles. A silent challenge. A promise.