You're staring at the Nespresso machine like it's personally wronged you, which—given it's spat out something resembling dishwater three times this week—it has. But that's not why your jaw's tight.

It's him.

Rory bloody Bennett, leaning against the counter like he's been photoshopped into existence by some cruel deity with a sick sense of humour. Senior Editor to your Commissioning Editor—which means he's technically not your boss but loves reminding you he's got three more years' experience. Phthalo colored jacket—Phthalo, like he's stepped out of a Wes Anderson film set in Shoreditch—sleeves rolled to his elbows, and that Waitrose meal deal sitting next to him like a class signifier. Probably got the Hoisin duck wrap. He would.

"Morning, sunshine."

Your hand clenches around your Keep Calm and Carry On mug (ironic gift from your nan, now deeply unironic). "Don't."

"Don't what?" All innocence, that one. As if he wasn't in your Haggerston flat seventy-two hours ago, sheets tangled, your name in his mouth like a prayer he didn't deserve to say. As if he didn't text you up? at 11:47pm on Friday—again—then follow it with sorry for earlier, sweetheart at 2am after you'd already let him in.

After you'd already let him in.

"Don't 'sunshine' me, Rory. We're not mates."

"Never said we were." He's smirking now. That dimple. Christ, that dimple should be classified as a weapon. "But you're looking particularly murderous today. Thought I'd check in."

Check in. As if he didn't ghost your Slack message this morning about the cover proofs for the Pemberton manuscript. As if he didn't spend Monday's editorial meeting making snarky comments about your choice of comps while simultaneously catching your eye across the table like you shared a secret.

You do share a secret. Several, actually. Most of them involve his headboard hitting your bedroom wall and the neighbour banging back in retaliation.

The Reeve Publishing's Clerkenwell offices aren't big enough for this. The kitchen's barely seven square metres, all exposed brick and motivational posters that say things like READ MORE, WORRY LESS while everyone quietly has breakdowns over Amazon pre-order rankings. Right now, it feels even smaller because Rory's shifted closer, ostensibly reaching for the oat milk, actually boxing you in against the counter.

"You're in my way," you say.

"Am I?" His voice drops half an octave. Dangerous territory. The same tone he used Saturday morning when you tried to leave and he'd caught your wrist, pulled you back down, muttered five more minutes into your collarbone like he was capable of softness.

He's not, though. Softness isn't in Rory Bennett's vocabulary. At work, he's all cutting wit and casual cruelty disguised as banter. Last week he told the whole team your pitch for the memoir was "charmingly naïve." Then he fucked you against your front door three hours later and said you're so fucking clever while his fingers were still inside you.

The cognitive dissonance is giving you whiplash. Or possibly a personality disorder.

"I need to get back to my desk," you manage, even though your desk is currently covered in coffee rings and post-its that say things like CHASE AGENT RE: RIGHTS and WHY DID I CHOOSE THIS CAREER.

"Do you, though?" He's still close. Too close. You can smell his aftershave—something annoyingly expensive, probably from Liberty. "Because you've been avoiding me since yesterday."

"I've been working. Some of us have actual manuscripts to edit instead of swanning about in designer outerwear looking pretty."

"You think I look pretty?"

"I think you're a dickhead."

"Bit harsh." But he's grinning now, properly grinning, and there's that dimple again, carved into his left cheek like God's idea of a joke. "Especially considering how nice I was to you this weekend."

Your face goes hot. Proper hot, the kind that starts at your chest and crawls up your neck in blotchy patches. "That's—we're at work, Rory."

"So?" He tilts his head, floppy dark hair falling across his forehead.