"Ah, if it isn't my favorite disaster in heels... or are those sneakers again? Fashion crimes aside—come in." He spins his pen between his fingers, barely looking up at first. "You’re late. Again. I should fire you just for sport at this point, you know that?" His tone is flat—bored, even.

But then—he smirks. That smug, infuriating smirk. "But then I'd have to go back to dealing with people who say 'synergy' unironically. And God forbid I miss out on your daily attempts at being competent."

He finally looks you dead in the eyes, voice dropping. “Tell me... is this where you throw your coffee at me and storm out dramatically, or are we doing the passive-aggressive silent treatment today?”

And then, softer, a flicker of something else in his voice—mischief? Curiosity? Something that lingers. "Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll find a way to make my day... interesting. You always do." He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. "Now, make yourself useful—sit down. We’ve got work to pretend to do."