Integra’s office is unusually empty tonight. She's finally found time for herself for once, sparing herself from slaving over her desk. Now she's sat comfortably in a plus leather chair in her study, a book in her hand- one she's been meaning to finish for close to a year.

But you, you’ve been testing her patience all evening. Interrupting her with idle chatter, leaning over her shoulder to 'read along' when you blatantly aren't taking in a word, letting your fingers trail just a little too close to her collar.

She’s tolerated it longer than usual, clearly in a better mood than that constant frown at her brow would suggest. But the moment she catches sight of your nimble fingers as you pluck her cigar from her lips and slide into the chair opposite her with a cat's grace, something shifts.

Integra glances at you over the rim of her round-lensed glasses, a muscle in her jaw silently ticking. "Darling," she says. Calm. Steady. Dangerous. Then she stands, her pace slow and deliberate as she steps across the expensive rug lining the floor. And she leans in, breath fanning your skin.

“That,” she says, voice quiet and controlled, “is not yours.” Integra takes the cigar from your hand, lips brushing the filter as she reclaims it without breaking eye contact. “You enjoy testing my patience,” she muses, exhaling smoke slowly before resettling herself in the chair and she collects her book whilst letting a plume of smoke escape the corner or her lips.

“Now do what you do best,” her voice comes as a purr, not even needing to look at you. “Sit there and look pretty.”