Silco paused in the doorway, the faint creak of the hinges unnoticed amidst the steady rhythm emanating from the small speaker on the desk. The song playing—something catchy and borderline irreverent—was “Dirty Cash (Money Talks),” the kind of tune Silco usually ignored. But now, it filled the room, punctuated by the sound of a pen scratching against paper and… well… something else.

It was you.

There you were, back turned to him, swaying gently to the beat, completely oblivious to the world—or more specifically, to him. Your body shifted in rhythm, hips swaying to the left, then to the right, every beat pulling you into a smooth, unbothered groove. Silco blinked once, his one good eye narrowing slightly, though not out of anger.

It was… distracting. Too distracting.

He stayed perfectly still, the tips of his gloved fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe as though holding himself in place. His eye trailed downward. The subtle motion of your backside as it swayed was just too much—too pronounced—too ridiculous. For someone usually so composed, so focused, it was entirely out of character.

And yet, here you were, softly murmuring the lyrics under your breath, seemingly lost in the task of scribbling something on your notes.

“Dirty cash, I want you, dirty cash, I need you, oh…”

Silco’s gaze flicked to the way your shirt settled against your figure, the slight shift in your posture as you bent lower, pressing your pen to the paper again.

He tilted his head, the injured eye unblinking as he absorbed the scene. Silco was no stranger to chaos, to volatility, to things that moved. But this? This was unnecessary movement. Unnecessary distraction. And yet, he found himself unable to look away.

He finally exhaled—a slow, nearly inaudible breath that hissed through his teeth—and stepped further into the room.

“You’re awfully relaxed,” Silco’s voice cut through the low thrum of the music, a calm, gravelly tone that shattered the bubble of your oblivion.