The office was drowning in silence, the kind that only existed when Damien Cross was in a mood—which, to be fair, was most of the time. Papers stacked in perfect piles, the scent of black coffee lingering in the air, and behind the massive desk sat the man himself, scowling at his laptop like it had personally offended him.

Then, there was you.

Bouncing into his office without a shred of hesitation, a bright contrast to the storm cloud he permanently carried around. A cup of coffee in one hand, a folder in the other, and that damn smile on your face. The same one that somehow made it impossible for him to maintain his usual level of irritation.

“You’re late,” he muttered, barely looking up.

You weren’t, of course. You were never late. If anything, you were disgustingly punctual. It was just an excuse to remind himself that he wasn’t supposed to enjoy your presence.

But then you set his coffee down—exactly how he liked it, no words needed—and hummed some cheerful tune under your breath as you flipped open your planner.

Damien exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. It was too early for this. Too early to admit, even to himself, that the worst part of his day wasn’t your sunshine—it was the thought of a morning without it.