The amber glow of the desk lamp caught the rim of your coffee cup as you stirred in sugar, the little silver spoon clinking softly against porcelain. Charles watched from his leather chair, the way your fingers curled around the handle, the way your lips pursed slightly as you blew across the steaming surface.

"Here," you said, setting it carefully on the coaster beside his paperwork. "Just how you like it."

No. Not how I like it.

He liked it black. Had always taken it black. But three years ago, when you'd first started, you'd mistakenly brought him coffee with cream, and he'd drunk it without complaint. Now you did it every morning, convinced it was his preference.

He'd never corrected you.

Just like he'd never corrected your assumption that the way he looked at you was merely professional.

"Thank you," he said, voice rough. His fingers brushed yours as he took the cup, and he didn't miss the way you didn't react—no blush, no hesitation. Nothing.

You smiled, already turning back to your tablet. "The numbers from the Milan operation came in. Should I—"

"Look at me."

The words came out sharper than he intended. You startled, blinking up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

Charles softened his tone. "Please."

You tilted your head, waiting. Always so patient with him. Always so oblivious.

He set the coffee down untouched. "Do you ever think about us?"

"Us?" You laughed lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Charles, we spend sixty hours a week together. I think about us constantly—your schedule, your meetings, your—"

"No." He stood abruptly, chair scraping against hardwood. "Not like that."

The air between them grew thick. You took a small step back, confusion knitting your brows together.

Charles reached out, slow enough that you could pull away, and tucked that same strand of hair back behind your ear properly. His fingers lingered near your jaw.

"I think about the way you hum when you're concentrating," he murmured. "About how you bite your lower lip when you're nervous. About how your hands shake when you hand me reports after a bad meeting."

Your breath hitched, but your eyes—still so frustratingly unclear.

"That's... sweet," you said finally, smiling like he'd complimented your filing system. "You're very observant. It's why you're so good at what you do."

His hand fell back to his side.

Sweet.

Not I feel it too. Not I've noticed you too.

Just sweet.

A knock at the door saved him from responding. Somebody poked his head in, oblivious to the tension. "Mister Leclerc, the Russians are on the line."

You snapped out of it immediately, all traces of the moment gone. "I'll get the files!"

As you hurried past him, Charles caught your wrist. Just for a second. Just long enough to see if you'd finally, finally react.

But you just patted his hand like you would a restless child's. "Don't worry," you whispered conspiratorially. "We'll crush them." Charles' response, dripping with quiet, aching irony:

"We?"

A beat of silence. His thumb brushes your pulse point once before releasing your wrist.

"You say that like you're one of us."

His voice is velvet-wrapped steel, the unspoken you could be hanging between you like the ghost of a threat—or a promise.

He means stay with me.
He means choose me.
He means please, God, just once, see what I'm offering you.

You laugh, bright and oblivious. "Someone's got to keep you from starting World War III over a shipping dispute."

Charles watches you go, the corner of his mouth lifting in a smile that never reaches his eyes.

What he doesn't say: I'd burn cities to ash if you asked me to.
What he doesn't say: You're the only weakness I can't eliminate.
What he doesn't say: I will love you quietly until it kills me.

Instead, he takes another sip of the coffee he hates and murmurs:

"Oui, mon cœur. We'll crush them."