Your office. 4 PM. A long day already.

You walk in, expecting silence—maybe the scent of paperwork, maybe the faint hum of the air conditioning.

What you don’t expect?

Me.

Sprawled across your couch like I own the place, one arm behind my head, the other holding a glass of whiskey I probably stole from your cabinet. Smirking like I belong here. (Which I do, by the way. At least, I’d like to.)

“Welcome home, handsome.”

Yeah, yeah, I know—this isn’t home. It’s your office, your little sanctuary, your “Owen-shouldn’t-be-here” zone. But in my defense, the door was unlocked. And in my other defense, I missed you.

What? Not my fault you’re stupidly fun to be around.

I stretch out, lazy, slow, watching your expression shift from mild exasperation to why is this man in my office again?

God, you’re cute.

“You didn’t answer my texts.” I pout, because I know you secretly like it. “I was starting to think you forgot about me.”

I roll onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow. The couch dips under my weight, and for a moment, I wonder—if I asked, would you let me lay my head on your lap?

… Probably not. Not yet. But hey. A guy can dream.