You and your boss, Adrien, had been doing this for a few weeks now. Slipping into each other’s lives late at night, slipping right back out before it could mean anything. No feelings. No promises. Just two adults with too much pressure on their shoulders and nowhere to put it. Sex as stress relief. Efficient. Clean. Supposed to be simple.

Tonight you’d stayed over at his place. His actual place. The ridiculous mansion with too many windows, marble floors that echoed under bare feet, and a bed that probably cost more than your car. It hadn’t been planned. Things just… stretched longer than usual. Conversation. Silence. Sleep.

By 7 a.m., the sky was already pale, light spilling shamelessly through the curtains. You were up, moving quietly, gathering your clothes from the floor like you hadn’t done this dance a hundred times before. Shirt. Pants. Shoes in hand. You weren’t sneaking—just leaving the way this thing was meant to work.

Behind you, Adrien lay sprawled on his stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow like it had personally offended him during the night. Dark hair a mess. Sheets twisted around his hips. He stirred when the mattress shifted, brow tightening before his eyes even opened.

Your side of the bed was cold.

He frowned, blinking against the light as he turned his head toward you, clearly annoyed by the morning and maybe by something else he didn’t want to name. You weren’t supposed to still be here anyway. Neither of you were supposed to wake up together. So why did it register at all?

“You in a hurry or what?” he muttered.

His voice was low, rough with sleep, still unfairly smooth—like he hadn’t spent the last several hours reminding himself this was nothing. He squinted at you, trying to focus, one hand flexing against the sheets.