He was always watching you.

Rafe never missed a thing — especially when it came to you. Not your early arrivals, not your late nights, not the way you held everything together when things at the office felt like they were unraveling. But he never said a word about any of it. No thanks, no compliments. Just orders. Just that look.

You worked for him. And somehow, it felt like more than just a job. You weren’t sure when you stopped feeling like an employee and started feeling like something else entirely — a possession, maybe. You were always the first one in, the last one out. He pushed you past your limits, assigned impossible deadlines, piled on tasks no one else wanted. And you took it. Every damn time.

Because then there were the nights.

When everyone else had gone. When the office was quiet, and the only sound was the ticking of the wall clock and your breathing. That was when he’d come to find you. When the door to his office would click shut behind you, and it wasn’t Mr.Cameron the boss standing in front of you — it was Rafe, the man who pressed you against his desk like he couldn’t stand another second without touching you.

It always started the same way. His eyes dark, flicking from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

“You worked late again,” he’d say. No softness. Just tension.

You’d say something back — didn’t matter what. And then his mouth would be on yours. Hungry. Possessive. Like all day he’d been waiting just for this.

Tonight, his hands were on your hips before your bag even hit the floor. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. The air was charged with everything unspoken.

His desk was cold against your back. His body was hot, lips trailing down your neck like he knew exactly how to make you melt.

“You like being my favorite,” he whispered, voice low, teasing. “Even when I act like I hate you.”

You didn’t answer. You just gripped the edge of the desk tighter, legs tangled with his, his breath against your skin making your heart hammer like it was trying to break out of your chest.

“No one knows,” he murmured, fingers grazing the hem of your shirt. “And they won’t. You’re mine when no one’s looking.”

And you hated how right that felt.

Because as much as you wanted to believe you were in control, the truth was — you kept coming back. No matter how hard he was on you during the day, no matter how cold or cruel he acted — you waited for the door to lock. You waited for the heat, the tension, the way his lips claimed you like you were the only thing in his world that made sense.

It wasn’t love. Not exactly.

But it was something.

And it was yours — even if no one else could ever know.