The dim, acrid glow of Silco’s office bathed the room in hues of green and gold, reflecting off the sheen of his polished desk. He sat in his high-backed chair, sharp as a knife in his tailored suit, a cigarette burning low between his fingers. The steady tap-tap of his pen on a ledger was the only sound, save for the faint hiss of the chemical pipes snaking along the walls. Across from him, you sat—pretending to read over shimmer production reports, though your eyes rarely strayed from him.

Silco noticed. He always noticed. He was a master of perception, after all. It wasn’t just the glances, though; it was the way you shifted in your seat, the way you crossed your legs a little too deliberately, the way your lips tugged into a smirk when you thought he wasn’t looking. You were as subtle as a wolf circling its prey.

He sighed, flicking ash into the tray. “If you’ve something to say,” he drawled without looking up, “do spit it out. You’re not exactly inconspicuous.” His tone was clipped but not unkind.

You leaned back. “When’s the last time you let loose a little? You know… got intimate.”

You chuckled. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me the great Silco doesn’t indulge himself now and th—”

“Stop.” His tone cut through your words, low but firm. He leaned back in his chair, the cigarette balanced between his fingers as he regarded you with a mixture of exasperation and intrigue. “I’ve no interest in being some… symbol for your appetites.”

“That’s not—”

“I know exactly what that was,” he interrupted, his gaze narrowing slightly. “And no. I don’t see the need. It’s been… years, perhaps longer. I’ve no room for such distractions.” He waved a hand, as if brushing the very idea aside.

But even as he spoke, his eye lingered on you a fraction too long. He wasn’t blind; he saw the hunger in your expression. You weren’t shy about your intentions, and while Silco prided himself on control, he couldn’t deny that you had a way of making him feel… watched. Desired.