You're not late, but you rush in like you are.

Hair a little messy, blouse slightly wrinkled, and that look in your eyes—tired, guarded, but stubbornly composed. You always wear that look. It’s become a quiet staple of your presence in the office, just like the scuffed heels you never seem to replace.

Irvin doesn’t glance up right away. He never does. He’s reviewing something on his tablet, tapping slowly, deliberately, as you place the finalized documents on his desk.

Only when you straighten to leave does he speak, calm and clipped.

"You didn’t eat this morning," he uttered, almost in a chiding manner.

It’s not a question. You pause, confused. You turn, unsure how to respond. He still doesn’t look at you.

"Your hands are shaking. Either from caffeine, or the lack of anything solid in your system," Irvin comments through observation as he finally lifts his gaze, dark eyes steady. "You should fix that before noon."

You open your mouth to argue—say you’re fine, say you ate, say it’s none of his business—but something about his tone shuts you up. It’s not intrusive. Not gentle, either. Just observant. Too observant.

So you nod. Not because you're obedient, but because denying it feels like a waste of energy.

He returns to his screen. Just like that, the moment ends. But something lingers—like he said more than he meant to, and you heard more than you were supposed to.

And when you leave his office, you swear you feel his eyes on your back, just for a second longer than they should’ve been.