★

"I don't suppose your Splenda's run out?" She says without preamble, shooting for nonchalance.

You raise your brows and pick up the kettle as it goes off. Her charade is worn and tried: there's a whole box of the stuff squirreled away in her office, sequestered in the third drawer of her desk. This is also a familiar game, but, this time, you don't play your usual part.

You let her question hang as you pour the water into your mug, steam fogging your skin. She leans against the counter and crowds your peripheral vision, a blur of dark hues and the rich, familiar scent of her perfume. You see her arms fold.

She waits, silent, the heat of her gaze burning holes into your face as you set the kettle back down and grab your tea bag, bobbing it in the hot water.

"You know," you muse, still watching your tea deepen, "if you wanted to see me, you could've just said so."

Her heat presses an inch closer. "That wouldn't be too unit-chiefly of me."

You laugh, lifting the tea bag out and tossing it in the trash. As if no one knows of these little visits she takes up, the five to ten minutes of indulgence, a little break where she's no one but yours.

As if you don't enjoy them enough to have the gall to tease.

Emily makes a low, displeased sound in the back of her throat. You bite down on your smile, leisurely reaching for the sugar, spooning it in, and stirring it through your tea. Only after you toss the spoon in the sink do you look back up at her, your amusement poorly hidden, voice low enough to stay trapped just between the two of you.

"What do you want, chief?" You coax, tilting your head. "Tell me."

Emily's eyes go dark, glimmering. She glances about the room—steady and thorough, scanning the open, exposed doorway—a faint flush staining her skin.

Your smile breaks free when she turns her gaze back to you. There's a particular kind of delight you feel when you toy with her like this—especially when she gives in, settles so neatly into the palm of your hand. She knows it, of course.

It still hasn't stopped either of you.

"I wanted to see you," she says lowly.

"That's all?"

Her eyes drop to your mouth. It's a pleasant, tingling heat, blooming under your skin.

"No," she concedes.

In the solace of your home, maybe, you'd have dragged it out. But you're not at home and she's looking too unfairly good and—your last straw—she wets her lip with the tip of her tongue, sends fresh color blooming, and, really, truly, you're not thinking as you hook your fingers into her lanyard, wrap it around your fist, and use it to tug her into you.

She makes a little sound, surprised and gasping against your mouth. The heat of it burns in your blood. You feel her neck tilt to follow the lanyard in your grip and you have to break the kiss sooner than you'd have liked, before the awareness that you're at work completely fizzles out and you get lost in the haze, taking her bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it to pull another sound from her—

"You have to ask for what you want, Emily." Your voice is only slightly strained, pitched low for her ears.

Her cheeks are awash with a blush. She blinks, but you can still see the slight, dazed look in her eyes.

"You're mean," she murmurs.

"I don't think I am." You thumb at the smooth slip of the lanyard still wound around your fist. "See, you didn't even have to ask."

Emily's hand finds the counter behind you, her arm slinging around your side and encircling you in her warmth. "So this is what I get for wanting a—"

"Hey there, lovebirds." A voice greets cheerily.

Alvez.

Emily whips around, her arm dropping to her side, your fingers letting loose the smooth fabric. You needlessly pick up your mug of tea, pressing its hot edge to your mouth.

Luke's eyes dip to the crinkled edges of Emily's lanyard.

"What?" She demands.

"Oh, nothing." He says in that exaggerated way of his, drawling the words out and making a big show of looking down at his watch. "It's just—well, you've been missing for a while and the team was getting jittery."

"The team." Emily says flatly.

You hide your laugh in a stinging sip of tea.

"You're not often missing, is all," he explains, his tone grave, a bold-faced lie. It clashes entirely with the boyish gleam in his eyes, the little twitch in his mouth.

Emily rolls her own eyes and turns back around. "A person can't even pee anymore." She mutters, grabbing her mug.

"I mean, you don't usually pee on the eighth floor, is all I'm saying."

Emily's eyes shut closed, the skin of her cheeks still dusted pink. "Alvez," she says without turning back around, "if that's all you have to say, I suggest you go back to your desk, quietly, and find something more useful to do. I can list out everything in your backlog if you'd like."

Luke begins to say something, but Emily quickly shuts him down.

"And no detours to Penelope's."

His mouth snaps shut. He dips his head, his sheepish, smiling eyes sliding over to you.

"Yes, Ma'am."

+ beach curls!!