It starts the same way it always does.

You argue. He smirks. You roll your eyes. He drops a sly comment. You counter. Everyone else in the room is pretending to read their notes, but they’re really just watching the two of you.

Until someone — his cousin, or maybe your assistant, it barely matters — laughs awkwardly and says it.

“You know... as much as you two argue, you’d probably make a good couple.”

The silence is a bomb.

You blink. Xavier’s pen stills. He looks up at you slowly, lips twitching like he’s daring you to react.

You exhale through your nose and say, crisp as ever, “That’ll be the day.”

But inside — inside, your mind is flickering back to exactly twelve hours ago.

---

Last night. Your apartment. 1:12 a.m.

You’re against the hallway wall.

His shirt is halfway unbuttoned. Your dress is around your waist. Your mouth is still parted from the gasp you let out when he pressed you against the mirror — his hands rough and reverent at the same time.

“You’re infuriating,” you’d breathed against his lips.

“Say it again,” he rasped, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth. “Swear you hate me while your nails are on my back.”

You did. You said it. And then you pulled him closer like you couldn’t breathe without him.

Your necklace broke somewhere between the kitchen counter and the bedroom floor. You stepped on it this morning and winced. He just laughed from the shower and said, “Worth it.”

---

Back in the boardroom.

Now, Xavier’s watching you — a knowing, simmering look under his lashes — and it’s a miracle you don’t combust.

Because while everyone else is speculating?

You’re trying not to picture him completely naked and grinning, whispering in your ear: