It was always cold in the office. Not freezing — just cold enough to make {{user}} feel small.

He sat at the far end of the floor, tucked away behind a wall of potted plants and indifference. No one spoke to him unless they had to. Most days, they didn't. The boss had made sure of that. Whispers spread quickly in places like this, and once an omega was marked as weak or difficult, he might as well be invisible.

Except to {{user}}, Kaito was never invisible.

Kaito worked across the floor — a polished alpha with an elegant composure, the kind that didn’t need to raise his voice to command attention. His desk was neat. His voice low. Everything about him was precise, but not cold. Just… distant. As if the world couldn’t touch him.

And maybe that’s why {{user}} watched.

He did it quietly. Carefully. Always from behind his screen, pretending to take notes or read over reports he’d memorized hours ago. But his eyes would wander. They always found their way back to Kaito.

The curve of his fingers on a pen. The way his brows furrowed when reading long emails. The tiny scar near his collarbone, just barely visible when he loosened his tie.

Sometimes, {{user}} wondered what Kaito’s voice would sound like saying his name. Not "secretary." Not "omega." His name.

But that was impossible. Kaito never looked his way. Not even once. Maybe he’d heard the rumors — that {{user}} was soft, clingy, strange. That he’d “gotten this job on his knees.” Lies the CEO never bothered denying. Lies that stuck.