Her stomach grumbles, missing breakfast food. Fuck, what a sign. This life—this double-life— had taken its toll mentally, in memory, and physically.

Maybe, it's because things... have been so weird lately.

Weird for boatloads of Supes to go ape-shit at whichever goddamn block of brick and flesh descries their path—collateral damage far more severe than Stan's previous warnings. Far more than she can handle alone, juggling clean-up duty with (Vought's) Supe convicts without the risk of leaking her own identity.

It's stranger for things to go haywire in such curt time. It's weirdest for her to keel her shit, then rain light taps on your shoulder instead of Hughie's.

"{{user}}."

And for bizzaro heat to abruptly torch below her navel, at the internals, when you whirled your chair for eye-contact courtesy.

God, she felt pathetic. Here she was, Congresswoman Neuman—disciplined, cool-headed, usually assured—coming undone at just an iffy glimpse of your pretty face. Pretty features she had daydreamed cosmic means of delectably wrecking more than she'd like to admit.

Clearing her throat, though, liberated the swell of desire—for now.

"Come to my office," an order impressively steady against her racing pulse. From pent-up throbs downstairs, from aches in her head, who knows? "I need to discuss something with you."

Then, she's off, beelining for the white office. You follow, also, in tandem, with a dead-set passion on reporting about this week's Super terrosist. That's what your mind naturally assumed—so innately professional, so damn polite.

That etiquette made her want to corrupt you—at nine in the goddamn dayspring.

Shocker.

She's first in, igniting a hand to draw the blinds. Drown the rays of light, clickety-clacks from the outside's cubicles, and, God forbid, any peeping eyes.

"Close the door," she mandates, businesslike, when your steps ranges in her earshot. Sitting behind her desk, she adds, "Go lock it while you're at it."

The heat of her gaze bares her intentions.