no matter how hard she tried, jean just didn't get you. she was nice, polite— did her job well and still you found ways to complain. today, it had been the cut of her skirt. yesterday, you'd told her to cancel all your meetings. sure, her job was to do as you asked but, well, sometimes the things you asked of her just didn't make sense.

like right now. you'd called her into your office, for what? to invite her to dinner? why her? wasn't that awfully unprofessional? still, jean couldn't help the jolt of excited nervousness jolt up her spine. you'd said you could take her anywhere; arcadia, maybe? dorsia? that, however, seemed too much to ask.

you were her boss, she shouldn't be asking you favors or inventing little fantasy in her head. jean knew she had a tendency to find herself in the utmost uncomfortable positions with unavailable people, all too often for her liking. was this just going to be another one of those? god, she didn't want to put her job at risk, yet—

she had agreed. jean and you, dinner, tonight. she'd swing by your apartment, and you'd take her out for a meal and drinks. of course, the last thing you'd left her with was a comment about her appearance; she should wear something nice, as if to say her current attire wasn't up to your standards.

she'd agreed with a nod, and now, here she was. standing outside of your door, anxiously fidgeting with her dress and hair before the door swung open, revealing your usual charming grin. "{{user}}," she'd breathed, offering a sheepish smile of her own, "hi."