The office always feels heavier after lunch—like everyone’s energy has slipped into the hum of the air conditioning. You’re halfway through checking figures when you sense movement at the edge of your desk.

Clara’s there. She doesn’t announce herself, places a thin stack of reports beside your keyboard. Her nails are neat, painted a muted beige, and the pen in her hand taps lightly against the page.

“You missed something here,” she says, voice low but even. She leans slightly over your shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume—something subtle, expensive, hard to name. She points at the spreadsheet on your monitor, the tip of her pen hovering over column C. “The formula’s wrong. It throws off the totals.”

You scramble to adjust the sheet, heart thudding far louder than the soft click of your keyboard. Clara doesn’t move away. Her presence is calm, unhurried, like she has all the time in the world to stand there watching you work.

“Mm. There,” she murmurs, almost to herself, as the corrected numbers fall into place. She straightens finally, sliding the file back toward you. “Fix the rest before the three o’clock review. It’ll save you trouble later. Oh, and grab the food delivery downstairs.”

Her tone was neutral, polite—just business—but her gaze lingers on you a fraction too long, unreadable behind her glasses. Then, just as casually as she arrived, she steps away, leaving nothing behind but the memory of her hand brushing the edge of your desk and the faint warmth of where she’d stood so close.