The door clicks shut behind you, and silence settles like fog.

Wilson stands behind his desk, eyes fixed on you — not soft, not kind, but careful. Controlled. Testing.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low but firm.

You freeze.

That same tone from earlier — when you’d snapped at him in the hallway and he’d snapped right back. When he told you to shut up. When he told you to listen. And when your breath hitched like it was the first time you’d really seen him.

Now, he watches your reaction again — and there it is. That look in your eyes.

Want.

His jaw clenches. He shifts slightly, as if uncomfortable in his own skin.

“I’m not…” he starts, swallowing. “This isn’t me. I don’t do this. I don’t—”

You say nothing. Just look at him. Daring. Waiting.

His breath deepens.

“I tell people bad news for a living,” he murmurs, stepping around the desk, voice steadier now. “I lie to families. I’m good at being gentle. Not this.”

But then he stops in front of you, close enough to feel your pulse race.

“...The way you looked at me when I told you to shut up. When I slammed my hand on the desk. I thought maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe tension. But no. You wanted me to do it again.”?”

You nod — slow. Silent.

And the moment shatters.

He grips your hair gently, leans in, and murmurs against your ear

“Strip. Slow. Don’t make me repeat myself.”