Sasha Klein · Mateus

The Ishgardian afternoon light slants perfectly through the wood-framed windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the perpetual twilight of my office. The edge of the captain’s desk presses into my spine as I lean back, dissecting the ledger in my hands. Cold, precise numbers; the only things that ever demand- and receive- total focus.

The routine is a comfort; a polished steel cage of control. Nothing ever changes. Nothing should change.

Then, that sound.

It isn’t the expected shuffle of my usual courier, nor the dull thud of a delivery cart. It is a silent, liquid glide- a precise whirring on small, hard wheels that stops dead center in the middle of the receiving area. My head lifts slowly, professionally, annoyed by the interruption to the established order. And just like that, everything in my perfectly balanced world simply... stops. What beautiful devastation is this?

She glides gracefully across my floor. White roller skates, bright and clean against the dark polished tile. Her posture is careless, easy, utterly disruptive. Ripped denim, chains, and a ridiculously adorable striped beanie perched atop short, dark hair. She moves with a confidence that is completely out of place in my ordered sanctuary, yet somehow feels like the only natural thing that has ever existed here.

I watch her interact with my staff. She is quick, efficient, tossing the packages with a practiced ease that makes her look like a rebellious sprite delivering forbidden goods. I feel an invasive heat rising in my chest, a sensation completely foreign to my usual icy reserve. My heart is pounding a furious rhythm against my ribs, yet I cannot move a muscle. I am frozen, suspended mid-breath, struck absolutely still by the sheer audacity of her existence.

She finishes with the staff, then she pivots- a single, smooth roll on those wheels- and her gaze meets mine across the expanse of the room.

Her eyes are wide, endless pools of emerald, blue, and uncertainty, fringed by dark lashes that seem too vulnerable for the rest of her defiant silhouette. They catch the light, they hold my stare, and suddenly, the air is too thin to draw properly. I feel the smooth, pressed wool of my vest under my fingers, reminding me of the veneer I must maintain. Confident. Composed. Unreadable.

I quietly set the ledger down and push off the desk, walking toward her with deliberate, measured steps. The contrast is sharp: my polished, thick soles against her carefree wheels.

I close the gap, towering over her slightly. The look I give is meant to be interrogative, demanding an explanation for this breach of protocol, but the only question I can form is a low, husky rumble that barely cuts through the silence.

"And who might we have here?" It’s the question of someone who just found the missing piece to a puzzle she didn't know she was solving.

The girl speaks, a quick, steady stream of administrative noise: Jules, temporary replacement, regular courier on extended leave for a week or two. The words are technicalities, sound waves washing over me, utterly irrelevant to the fact that she is standing right there.

Driven by a brutal, immediate need to bridge the distance, I extend my hand toward her, demanding contact.

Jules pauses- a tiny, telling moment of hesitation. I swallow once but maintain my composure. It's a move wholly unnecessary for a delivery, yet she complies, lifting her own hand- encased in a worn, fingerless glove- into mine. I seize her hand firmly. Her skin is cool and surprisingly soft beneath the smooth fabric of my glove. This is supposed to be a brief formality. A single pump. But my hand closes around hers, gripping just a fraction too tightly, holding her in place. I lean in ever so slightly, letting my gaze bore into hers, searching, mapping the contours of her uncertainty and her spark.

"I am Sasha." I pause, letting the silence draw taut. My lips slide into the practiced, noncommittal smirk that usually keeps the world at bay. "Charmed... to say the least." The word tastes like expensive liquor on my tongue- intimate, unexpected. I watch her eyes intently, searching for the raw, vulnerable core I intend to claim. I could stand here all day, holding her captive under my scrutiny.

But I must let go. My fingers slide slowly, deliberately, away from hers, leaving the hint of her touch clinging to my hand. She doesn't linger. A quick, dismissive sound escapes her lips: "Gotta go." With another graceful glide, she rolls back toward the door and disappears into the brilliant afternoon light. The silence rushes in, suddenly enormous and crushing. I turn back to the desk; its smooth, wood surface feels cold and meaningless under my palms. I should be looking at ledgers. I should be calling back the Ul’dahn investor who is currently waiting on my sign-off for the Q3 funding round. I should be doing anything rational. Yet, I can't.