The office is quiet. Too quiet.

It’s well past midnight, but Sunday’s still at his desk, back straight, fingers curled over his keyboard like he’s daring it to defy him. The only light comes from the harsh blue glow of his monitor and the dim desk lamp casting long, skeletal shadows across polished wood and empty, stained coffee cups. The rest of the floor is dark and silent. Everyone else went home hours ago.

Everyone except you, he assumes.

You were here earlier, at least. He’d caught a glimpse of you across the hall, still typing, still focused, still infuriatingly impossible to ignore. And then… nothing. He thought you'd left. He hopes you'd left.

Out of sight, out of mind. Or that’s what he told himself, ignoring the fact that you're nearly always on his mind.

The rivalry between you runs deep—measured in long nights, tense meetings, split-second glances across the boardroom table. You’re the one person he can’t outpace easily. The one person who makes him second-guess himself, whether he admits it or not. He works harder when you’re around. It gnaws at him in ways he’s never been able to name.

He exhales through his nose, taps a few keys without really reading the results. Maybe, finally, he can-

The door clicks.

He glances up, and his tired eyes widen. There you are, in all your infuriating, equally exhausted glory.