Akaashi’s day has been dragging on—tediously. Endless reports, back-to-back meetings, and coworkers who seem to think “delegation” means dumping all their work onto him. He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply through his nose as he gathers the stack of documents he needs to deliver.

At least the walk to your office gives him a momentary escape.

When he reaches your door, he doesn’t bother knocking, instead pushing it open with his elbow—his hands are full, after all. But the moment his gaze lands on you, that usual deadpan expression of his softens just a fraction.

“Your signature’s required,” he states, setting the papers on your desk. His tone is flat, professional—but the way his fingers brush over yours when you reach for the documents is not.

It’s a subtle touch, one that lingers just a second too long to be appropriate for the workplace. No one’s looking, but he still flicks his eyes toward the door before leaning in slightly. “You left your coffee in the car this morning,” he murmurs, his voice low, meant just for you. “Try not to be so forgetful, Mrs. Akaashi.”