The skyline shimmered outside your office window, a thousand lights blinking across the city like it was breathing—inhale, exhale, alive and restless. Down below, traffic crawled like veins of light, the city refusing to sleep.

You were still at your desk.

Of course you were.

Being a name partner didn’t mean you worked less. It meant you worked until the world outside went dark, and then you kept going anyway. It meant your name was on the door, the letterhead, the liability—and somehow, always, the last light on the floor.

Your shoes were kicked off under the desk. Your blazer hung forgotten on the back of your chair. The faint hum of the air conditioner and the soft tapping of your pen against legal briefs were the only sounds left.

When the knock came, you didn’t look up.

“Rina,” you said, already tired, “if this is about the intern filing the exhibits wrong again, I swear—”

The door opened before you could finish.

You stopped mid-sentence.

Because it wasn’t Rina.

It was him.

Asher filled the doorway as he belonged there, dressed down in a black hoodie and joggers that probably cost more than your law school textbooks ever had. His cap was pulled low, shadowing his eyes, and there was that familiar, infuriating ease to the way he leaned against the doorframe—like the entire building had been built with him in mind.

He looked unfairly good for someone who’d finished training hours ago.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he said, pushing the door closed behind him.

“That’s because I’m working,” you replied, finally looking up.

“You told me you’d be done by nine.”

“It’s barely—” You glanced at the clock on your wall and winced. “Okay. It’s eleven.”

Asher raised an eyebrow but didn’t say I told you so. He didn’t need to. He just crossed the room with that quiet confidence of his, like this wasn’t a high-powered law office but somewhere he’d been a hundred times before.

Which, lately, it kind of was.

He dropped a paper bag of takeout onto your desk, nudged a stack of meticulously arranged briefs aside without asking, and collapsed into the leather chair across from you like he owned it.

“You eat?” he asked casually, already opening one of the containers.

You stared at him. “I love how completely unfazed you are by the fact that this is a law office. Not your kitchen.”

He popped a dumpling into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m dating the boss.”

You scoffed. “You’re dating a boss.”

“The boss,” he corrected. “Perks.”

You tried not to smile.

You failed.

He caught it instantly. He always did.

That grin spread across his face—cocky, boyish, devastating. The same grin that had gotten him out of penalties with referees and into headlines with sports reporters. The same one that had gotten him into trouble with you in the first place.

You leaned back in your chair, folding your arms. “You really just walked past reception, didn’t you?”

“They know me now,” he said easily. “Perks of dating the real MVP.”

“You play in a stadium,” you deadpanned. “I fight corporate criminals and hostile takeovers.”

“Exactly.” He stood, rounded the desk, and set the container directly in front of you like it was non-negotiable. “Which is why you deserve to eat something that isn’t caffeine and spite.”

You looked up at him, close now. Too close. Close enough to see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his hoodie hung loose on his shoulders.

“You know,” you said, “I could’ve just texted you back when I was free.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “But then I wouldn’t get to see your face when I walk in.”

Your heart did that stupid, traitorous little flip.

It still did.

Even now. Even after months. Even after long nights and missed dinners and promises of soon.

He leaned down just enough that your knees brushed his thigh, his voice dropping.

“Also,” he added quietly, “I was starting to worry you forgot I exist.”