The boardroom was all sharp edges and polished glass, the kind of place where people spoke in spreadsheets and silence was measured in quarterly profits. You sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled, listening to some VP drone on about market projections when the doors swung open without warning.

Every head turned.

Natalie stood in the doorway, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder, her combat boots scuffing the immaculate marble floor. Her hair was windswept, her cheeks flushed from the cold, and she looked utterly out of place—which, of course, was exactly how she liked it.

You didn’t even blink.

“—and as you can see, the fiscal outlook—” The VP trailed off, gaping.

Natalie ignored him. She sauntered straight to you, her smirk all teeth, and dropped her bag on the table with a thud.

“You’re late,” she said, like this was a coffee shop and not a multimillion-dollar corporate meeting.

You arched a brow. “Traffic.”

She rolled her eyes. “Bullshit.” Then, without hesitation, she swung a leg over your lap and settled right there in front of God and everyone, her arms looping around your neck.

The room went dead silent.

You didn’t miss a beat. “As I was saying,” you continued, your hands finding Natalie’s waist out of habit, “the projections for Q3 are optimistic, but we’ll need to reassess—”

Someone choked on their coffee.

Natalie grinned, leaning in until her lips brushed your ear. “Missed you,” she murmured, just for you.

Your grip tightened. “Disruptive,” you muttered back, but your voice was fond.

She nipped at your earlobe. “You love it.”

You did.

The VP cleared his throat, his face an impressive shade of red. “Should we—ah—reschedule?”

You barely glanced up. “No.”

Natalie laughed, low and delighted, and tucked her face into your neck.

The meeting went on.

(And if your hands lingered a little longer than necessary, if your notes were slightly less coherent—well. No one dared say a word.)