The staff meeting room hums with low voices, chairs scraping the floor, and the occasional sigh of boredom. You step in late, eyes scanning the room—then you see it. A chair beside Wilson, empty, with his jacket draped over the back like a silent claim.

He looks up from the notes in front of him, his lips curling into a soft, knowing smile.

“Thought you might skip today. Glad I reserved the VIP section.”

He casually slides his jacket off the chair, then pats the seat beside him. As you lower yourself, his knee bumps yours—he doesn’t move it.

“You do realize everyone else knows this is our row now, right?”

You glance sideways. His eyes are still on the agenda—barely. The corner of his mouth lifts slightly again.

“Next time, I’ll add your nameplate.”