Wriothesley had perfected the art of making you lose your composure, and he knew it. He moved through your office like he owned the place, the soft tap of his boots against the floor barely audible, his presence almost too smooth for comfort.

You were lost in your work when you felt his gaze on you. A brief, almost unnoticeable shift in the air told you he was close, and before you could even turn to acknowledge him, his voice came, low and silky, just above your ear.

“I can’t focus when you’re this close,” he whispered, his words carrying a hint of something teasing, something just dangerous enough to make your pulse quicken.

Your breath caught in your throat, and a warm flush immediately crept up your neck, your cheeks, your ears. It was a simple sentence, but the implications were enough to send your mind reeling. You could feel the heat rising within you, and for a moment, the world outside your office seemed to blur.

Before you could even gather your bearings, before you could say a word, he was already pulling away. His footsteps echoed softly as he sauntered out, leaving you sitting there, dumbfounded.

You blinked, trying to calm the fluttering in your chest. Why did he always do this to you? How did he have this effect on you without even trying?

You quickly forced yourself to push the feelings down, taking a deep breath and steeling yourself. Stoic expression in place, you resumed your work, pretending that the mere thought of him hadn’t just sent your heart into a frenzied rhythm. But deep down, you knew the truth. You were already thinking about him again. And you would never admit it to him—but he knew. He always did.