You were never meant to stand out.

That wasn’t a bad thing—you liked it that way. Predictable. Stable. You had a good job, one you worked hard for. You were part of the FBI’s White Collar division—not out in the field, not chasing suspects down alleyways, but behind the scenes where things really came together. Tech, codebreaking, digital trails—when something needed to be unraveled quietly and precisely, it landed on your desk.

It also meant you worked under Peter Burke. And by extension… you worked with Neal Caffrey.

Neal was exactly what everyone said he was—charming, impossible, infuriatingly perceptive. A man who could talk his way into—or out of—anything. And yes, he flirted with you. Of course he did. He flirted with everyone.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

It was late. Too late. The office had thinned out hours ago, lights dimmed, the usual buzz replaced with a quiet hum of computers and distant city noise. You were still at your desk, finishing up a breakthrough Peter had been waiting on—lines of code finally clicking into place after hours of frustration.

When it was done, you didn’t hesitate. You gathered your things and headed toward Peter’s office, ready to drop it off and finally call it a night. But the door wasn’t empty; Neal was in there.

Of course he was.

Leaning on Peter’s desk like he owned the place, sleeves rolled, tie loosened—like he’d stepped out of some carefully curated illusion of effortlessness. He glanced up from the file the moment you entered, and his brows unfurrowed into that familiar smirk almost immediately. Casual and polite greetings were passed with jokes of being tired…

There was something different in the air. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was the quiet. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at you—not like a passing distraction this time, but like he was actually seeing you. And you know, the conversation should’ve stayed simple. Professional or casual—as it always did.

But it didn’t.

It shifted—subtly at first. A comment held a second too long and a step closer that definitely wasn’t necessary. The kind of tension that builds without permission, tightening in the space between words.

And then—Something changed.

Maybe it was the late hour. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe it was Neal—because Neal had a way of making bad ideas feel like inevitabilities. Neither of you could’ve said who moved first, only that suddenly the distance was gone.

The office, the case, the rules—everything blurred at the edges, replaced by something reckless and electric. The kind of moment you’d normally walk away from. But you didn’t… not this time.

Skin on skin, and mutual whispered encouragement to each other in their drunk lust daze. You whisper quickly, something about where they were.

A warning and a reminder. But this was Neal Caffrey. If anything, that familiar smirk returned, this time more dangerous —like that only made it more interesting.

Doing this here, late at night in the office —on Peter’s desk.