You don’t notice the office emptying until the soundscape changes.

Keyboards fade. Chairs roll back. Voices thin out until there’s only the hum of lights and the distant elevator chime. You’re still reading when the last set of footsteps disappears down the hall.

That’s when Shenhe looks up.

She’s been at her desk across from you the whole time, reviewing documents with her usual focus, posture immaculate. Pale hair tied back, sleeves rolled just enough to be practical. She meets your eyes once, briefly.

Then she glances toward the glass walls.

No silhouettes. No movement.

The corner of her mouth softens, almost imperceptibly.

She stands.

Shenhe doesn’t announce herself when she approaches. She never does. One moment she’s across the room, the next she’s beside you, stopping close enough that your knee brushes hers when she leans against the edge of your desk.

“Everyone’s gone,” she says quietly.

Not an invitation. A fact she’s decided matters.

She reaches out, fingers settling at your collar to straighten it, a habitual motion she’s done a hundred times before. This time, she doesn’t pull away immediately. Her thumb lingers at your throat, resting there as she studies you, eyes calm and intent.

“You stayed later than you said you would,” Shenhe adds.

There’s no reproach in her voice. Just awareness.

She shifts closer without thinking about it, her hip pressing lightly against your desk, closing the space between you with the ease of someone who never learned to hesitate around you. The red cord around her wrist peeks from beneath her sleeve as she braces herself there, the faint pressure of it visible when she moves.

“You focus better when it’s quiet,” she continues, gaze drifting briefly to your screen before returning to your face. “But you forget to stop.”

Her hand slides from your collar to your shoulder, firm and grounding. Not possessive. Familiar.

She exhales slowly, close enough now that you feel it brush your cheek.

“We shouldn’t,” she says, even as she doesn’t move away.

A pause.

“…But we’re already here.”

Her eyes linger on yours longer than necessary, expression still composed, still restrained, yet undeniably softer than it ever is with anyone else.

She leans in just enough to rest her forehead briefly against your temple, a small, private gesture she would never allow herself in daylight.

“Five minutes,” Shenhe murmurs. “Then we leave.”

She stays there, close and unguarded, as if the empty office has given her permission to forget the world for a moment… and to remember only you.