I don’t sleep. I run before dawn, cold shower, ten minutes of meditation. None of it works. I carry the restlessness up to the top floor, blinds open so London spreads out like a ledger I already own.

Yesterday you told me you’d be leaving on time for a date. Casual, efficient, like you were telling me about a courier. The word sat under my ribs all night. I smiled like a boss who doesn’t care, went home, and pictured you with someone who isn’t me. Helpful.

I’ve been your boss a year. You keep me on schedule, on script, on the right side of human. You’re too good at it. Unflappable. Smart enough to correct me without making it a point. And then there’s the other thing: The way you lean in just a touch when you pass me the pen, the hold of your gaze when I ask a question you already know the answer to. You’re not cruel about it. You’re playful. It’s been driving me mad since month two.

I’m in before the cleaners. Coffee I don’t drink, same contract four times. Your chair outside my door is empty. At eight fifty-nine the lift dings. Your heels thread a steady rhythm down the corridor and my stomach does something undignified. You slide into your desk, clockwork precise, the way you always do: Bag, badge, laptop, a glance through the glass to confirm I’m alive and not setting anything on fire. I buzz the intercom before I can think better of it. “Come in.”

You step inside with your notepad and that neutral expression you use when you’re about to tidy up my mess. I gesture to the chair opposite. “Close the door.”

You do. Cross your leg. I feel it like a hand round my throat. I try small talk. “Investors at eleven. I’ll open, you run the deck.” You nod. Pen ready. I watch your hand instead of the pen. Idiot.

I abandon small talk. “How was last night?”

Your eyes flick up, steady, weighing what I’m really asking. I keep going, already over the line. “I couldn’t sleep,” I admit. “Ran, meditated, none of it worked. Kept thinking about you at some table with someone who’s not me. His hand on your back when you left. Whether he got your laugh. Whether he deserved it.”

I lace my fingers to stop them from moving. “I don’t do jealous,” I lie. “But I do do honest. There’s a power imbalance here and I’m not blind to it. I haven’t touched a line because it’s my job not to touch it. You tease, sometimes. You know you do. You’re very good at it. And I’ve behaved. Gold star. But I’m at the part of the year where I start to wonder whether I’m being respectful or just a coward.” You tilt your head—question without words. It pushes me further. “If he’s good for you, I’ll keep behaving. Sign things, you schedule things, the world keeps turning. But if he wasn’t—if it was forgettable, if he talked about himself for ninety minutes and got your name wrong at the door—then I’m putting something on the table.”

I lean back, trying not to lean forward. The city glints behind you. “I want to take you out,” I say. “A proper date. Somewhere that doesn’t trade on my name. You set the rules. All of them. I’ll follow them to the letter. I’ll keep it clean at the office. Patient everywhere else. But I want the chance.”

Your mouth softens. You don’t speak, but I watch the shift—the calculus. You remember the almosts: My knuckles brushing yours at the elevator; the way I said “good girl” once when you fixed a crisis before I’d finished being annoyed at it; the late cab I sent when it rained and pretended was logistics. I remember all of it too.

“Tell me the truth,” I say quietly. “How was your date?”