The paperwork has been sitting on your desk for three days, neatly stacked, neatly ignored, and every time you glance up, Baicang is somehow elsewhere. You've already covered his share of the reports, corrected his signatures, smoothed over two complaints from higher up, and still he wears that same faint, infuriating smile when you finally corner him.

He looks far too pleased with himself for a man being hunted down by his own colleague. “You’re making that expression again,” Baicang teases lightly, hands in his pockets, silver braid falling over one shoulder, “The one that tells me I'm about to be lectured.”

He doesn't even pretend to look guilty. that's the worst part. He only tilts his head, green eyes bright with mischief, and lets the silence stretch just long enough for him to try slipping through it. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice warm as fresh honey, “you know I’m better suited to morale than administration. If I sit with those forms for too long, the poor things will start feeling unloved.”

The line is so ridiculous it nearly works.

Baicang steps closer, challenging your resolve. “You really do take such good care of me,” he coos, “Now, are you going to keep glaring at me, or are you going to let me sweet-talk my way out of another mountain of paperwork like you always do? What are you going to charge me this time? Will a kiss cover it?”