#dan x reader

You powered on your computer, the screen flickering to life with a gentle hum, and began sorting the stack of paperwork that had piled up overnight–memos from HR, invoices needing approval, and interdepartmental forms that required shuttling upstairs. Rubbing your hands together, you blew a puff of warm breath into them, feeling the tingle of circulation returning as you scanned the sticky notes you had left yourself the evening before: reminders to follow up on vendor calls and archive the last quarter’s reports, making note to get on that as soon as possible.

Next came the photocopying in the storage room–something that you did almost every other day because nobody else wanted to do it themselves and refused to try. You pushed open the door, the hinges creaking softly, and stepped into the dimly lit space. The air was thick with the metallic tang of printer ink and the musty scent of aged paper stacks lining the metal shelves, which always seemed to stir your stomach with slight nausea–you didn’t know if that was because you were hungry, or if it was just the strong smell, but you thought it would be a good idea for it to remain a mystery.

You loaded the memos into the ancient printer, its whirring fans kicking up a faint warmth against your skin as crisp sheets emerged, still hot from the rollers. Stacking them neatly, you stapled the packets with precise click, as a few ink stains lingered on your fingers while you carried them back to your desk, placing them beside your keyboard before settling into your chair.

Logging in, you opened your email inbox, the soft chime of new messages greeting you while you sipped the last dregs of motivation from your mental reserves, hoping that the day would truly pick up once the monotonous tasks were over with.

That’s when the front door swung open with a harsh tug, the hinges squeaking in protest as if the frame itself might give way. It was a sound you’d come to recognize instantly–a frantic arrival, laced with urgency or excitement, you never truly knew which one. Your heart gave a little flutter, and you spun in your office chair, the leather creaking under you, to face the entranceway fully.

And there he was, your coworker Dan, with his light brown hair slightly tousled but still swept into the neat side part he favoured, the damp ends curling from the melting snow that graced the strands. His blue eyes, sharp and wide behind wire-rimmed glasses that were fogged and speckled with droplets, scanned the lobby before finally landing on you. He shook off his jacket, flakes of snow scattering like confetti onto the entry mat, and wiped his boots with deliberate scrapes, the rubber soles leaving faint wet trails on the material.

In his large, unloved hands, he balanced a cardboard cupholder from the coffee shop down the street, with two holiday-themed cups steaming gently–one topped with a swirl of whipped cream visible through the lip of the lid–and a brown paper bag nestled in the center, the shop’s name scripted in elegant navy cursive–Lucy’s.

This was your shared routine together, rain, snow or shine, late or not. Dan handled the morning coffee runs, always remembering to snag you a sweet treat, while you covered lunch pickups, often grabbing extras because he had a habit of getting so distracted by his work upstairs that he would forget to eat entirely. It had started months ago when he had noticed your perpetual tardiness from out-of-town commutes and offered to help without a second though, his shy demeanor cracking just enough to reveal the thoughtful man beneath.

“What did you get today?” You asked, your voice light and playful as you watched him unzip his jacket, revealing more of his face–his pale skin flushed from the cold in little blush pink patches, with a faint shadow of stubble lining his jaw, like he had forgotten to shave that morning.

”A double double for me, and a Chestnut Praline Latte with a triple chocolate doughnut on the side for my favourite secretary of course.” His words carried a familiar warmth, as his eyes crinkled at the corners with a hint of mischief, though his posture remained a touch awkward, shoulder still slightly hunched as if he was still bracing against the storm he had just escaped moments ago.

You felt a wave of heat bloom across your cheeks, a pleasant tingle that fought against the lingering chill in the air that he let in when he opened the door. In an attempt to suppress the smirk that was tugging at your lips, you leaned forward slightly, inhaling the rich aroma of caramel and espresso wafting from the tray as he moved closer.

”Paying me compliments and getting me one of my favourite desserts? It sounds like you need me to do something for you…” You teased, squinting at him with feigned suspicion, your pulse quickening just a bit at the easy banter that had enveloped the room. He let out a laugh–a soft, genuine sound that echoed lightly in the quiet lobby–his cheeks deepening from the rosy pink of the outdoors to a darker red that spread like wildfire–as he placed the coffee tray on your desk.

”Nothing too extreme…Just need you to not mention to Brian that I’m running late.” You smirked, shimmying your cup free from the holder, feeling the heat seeping through the festive sleeve into your fingers as you set it down beside your computer. A quick glance at the screen’s corner clock confirmed he was ten minutes behind, which was something that you were surprised you didn’t notice during your morning preparations, but you shrugged it off, returning your gaze back to his.

”He won’t be hearing anything from me…I can’t risk the possibility of him firing my coffee boy.” You commented, giving him a little wink that sent the flush from his cheeks straight down his neck, vanishing beneath the crisp collar of his striped button-down shirt. You could picture the way the heat crept down his chest, the blush invading the milky flesh beneath the fabric in a rosy tide, perhaps blooming across the subtle contours of his torso and sternum, warming the skin that you had only glimpsed in passing during the summertime. The mere thought sent a subtle tightness in your throat, a fleeting warmth that mirrored his flush and stirred a quiet ache low in your belly, before you were snapped out of your momentary daydream by the sight of him lifting his own coffee from the tray.

He brought it to his thin pink lips–lips that parted just enough to take a quick, cautious sip, steam curling lazily upward into the air, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. The rich, bitter scent of his coffee wafted stronger now, mingling with your latte’s sweeter notes, bringing you back to the reality that you were in front of him still. You reached out and grabbed the empty holder, the cardboard still radiating residual heat from the cups, and tossed it into the recycling bin under your desk with a soft rustle, the plastic liner crinkling faintly with the motion.

He cleared his throat then, the sound gravelly from the hot liquid, drawing your eyes back to his face where a droplet of condensation from his glasses had traced a glistening path down the lens, blurring the sight of his eye slightly.

”I’ve been meaning to ask…Are you going to the Christmas party after work tomorrow?” You raised your eyebrows, caught off guard for a moment by the question, your fingers pausing mid-reach for your own cup as a spark of intrigue flickered through you like the first sip of caffeine hitting your veins. The party was going to happen in the building’s main conference room on the fourth floor–the newsletter emailed to staff had outlined it all in cheerful, bullet-pointed detail: catered spreads of savory canapés like herb-crusted bruschetta and cheese platters, an array of drinks from spiced cider to sparkling wine, light team-building games such as holiday charades, and prizes including gift baskets and tech gadgets to cap off the evening.

It was the sort of obligatory festivity meant to bring the team closer amid the end-of-year crunch, and since it was hosted at work itself, ducking out would be as conspicuous as a missing file in a stack of reports. But the way he asked, with that tentative lilt in his voice–soft and almost hesitant, as if he was testing the ice on a frozen pond–made your stomach twist with a mix of hope and curiosity, a gentle flutter that echoed through your body.

”Of course! Why? Are you planning on trying to skip out on participating? Got a hot date or something?” You joked, trying to play things cool, your tone laced with mock nonchalance as you finally wrapped your fingers around your latte, the heat seeping through your skin instantly. Inwardly, though, a pang of something sharp stirred, coiling tight in your chest–you prayed a date wasn’t the case, the idea of him sharing his thoughts or lingering glances with someone else stung like salt on a fresh cut and you couldn’t stand it.

Months of this harmless flirting had woven a delicate web between you, a rhythm of small kindnesses and shared smiles that felt safe in its unspoken boundaries. Neither of you had dared to breach it, because the pitfalls of an office romance loomed large–whispers in the hallways, awkward elevator rides if it fizzled out, potential HR headaches that could tangle your careers. So you’d both, in silent accord, let it linger as it was–a warm undercurrent to the daily grind. But that didn’t dull the jealousy that was now simmering, the mental image of him laughing over a candlelit dinner with someone else twisting like a thorn, even as you forced your expression to stay as light as possible.

You could see the surprise flash across his features, the way his eyes widened slightly behind the fogged lenses, a quick dilation of pupils that betrayed his startle like a caught breath, and how he shook his head almost immediately, the motion dislodging a lingering droplet of water from his hair that fell onto his shoulder, soaking into the fabric.

”What? No! I was just wondering because–“

Before he could finish the sentence, the lights above your desk flickered erratically, a brief, ominous stutter like a faltering pulse, before dying out completely, plunging the lobby into an abrupt, enveloping darkness. It felt as if the entire electrical grid had capitulated in seconds, the steady hum of the building’s system silenced, leaving only the muted whistle of the wind outside and the distant honk of a snow-plow roaming the street. The sole illumination filled in from the swirling storm beyond the windows, casting an ethereal, blue-tinged glow across the room–like a layer of frost encasing the enclosed space, turning the polished floors into a shimmering, icy expanse and softening the edges of furniture into ghostly silhouettes. Shadows pooled deeper in the corners, the Christmas tree now a dark sentinel with its unlit lights and ornaments catching faint reflections, as a sudden chill seemed to reclaim the air, prickling your skin as if the snow storm had breached the walls.

You let out a low groan, leaning back against your chair, the leather yielding with a soft squeak under the shift of your weight as frustration bubbled up inside you–a hot, effervescent irritation in your chest that clashed with the encroaching coolness.

”For god sake…Hold that thought for a second, I need to go troubleshoot the fuse box…” You murmured, the disappointment sharp and piercing in your chest like a splinter, at the terribly timed interruption that severed the moment just as it teetered on a revelation. This was the third time this month the outdated wiring of the building had rebelled, a persistent glitch that you had flagged in detailed emails to maintenance, complete with timestamps and photos, only for them to vanish into bureaucratic limbo without a fix.

Dan held up a hand, shaking his head with a small, understanding smile that softened his features in the dim glow, the curve of his lips catching a sliver of blue light and highlighting the stubble on his chin.

”It’s alright, don’t worry about it. I have to get to my desk anyways before Brian really notices I’m not there and this would be the prime opportunity to sneak in…But I’ll see you at lunch, and we can continue the conversation then.” You were about to say something–anything to coax him to stay for just a few minutes longer, to unravel that dangling “because” and let the words spill out, your lips parting with the impulse–but there was no use. He was already grabbing his coffee, the cup tilting toward you in a mock toast, steam wishing upward as his lips curved into a boyish smile, his eyes holding yours with a quiet promise that eased the frustration just a touch, like a balm on chapped skin

“Good luck with the fuse box.” You bit the inside of your cheek, flinching as the metallic tang of blood coated your tongue, before nodding, forcing a rueful smile in return that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

”Thanks…I’m gonna need it.” You replied, your voice carrying a hint of resignation as you watched him shuffle toward the emergency staircase right beside the elevators, his footsteps echoing faintly against the tile–a soft, retreating cadence that faded upward. The lobby felt emptier in his absence, the air heavier with unresolved tension, the snow’s glow now seeming more isolating than enchanting.

Pushing back from your desk with a determined exhale, the chair wheels glided smoothly over the floor with a low rumble, you turned and made your way to the storage room once more, the door’s handle cool under your palm. Stepping into the secluded area, the hinges gave a faint groan as you let the door close behind you. The space was lit only by the faint, reddish emergency bulb overhead that was slowly dying out, its weak illumination casting elongated shadows across the metal shelves and turning the stacks of documents into artifacts in the room. You breathed in the stale dust that tickled your nostrils as you coughed gently, shuffling towards the fuse box and flipping open the panel, its metal edge gritty with accumulated grime. Your fingers danced over the switches–flicking them on and off with deliberate clicks that echoed off the walls like muffled drumbeats in a chamber.

Dust motes swirled lazily in the red-tinged light, brushing against your skin with a feathery irritation, and after a few tense moments of trail and adjustment, a satisfying hum vibrated through the panel as the electricity surged back on. The lights bloomed to life outside, spilling a warm stripe under the door, and you emerged, brushing the powdery dust from your hands with vigorous shakes, the particles dissipating quickly.

Your mind, however, was already pivoting ahead–to lunch, where that interrupted thread might finally weave itself complete, the anticipation being a warm, persistent hum beneath the resuming rhythm of the day.

The morning unfolded in a steady cadence of tasks: phones ringing with their insistent trills, echoing through the lobby like distant bells; visitors stamping snow from their boots, leaving puddles that gleamed under the restored lights; and emails cascading into your inbox with soft pings, each one a small demand on your focus. The storm outside intensified, blanketing the windows in a white veil that muffled the world beyond, turning the building into a cozy cocoon.

By noon, hunger gnawed at you with a low, insistent growl, prompting you to take your lunch break. You had devoured the doughnut Dan had bought you earlier on in the morning, and it only tied you over until this moment. You slipped your coat back on over your shoulders, and bundled up as much as possible, before braving the elements for the deli run you usually made. The wind nipped at your ears as you crossed the slush-slicked streets, returning with foil-wrapped sandwiches–your turkey club layered with crisp bacon, tangy mayo, and a speciality lemon sauce that was made in house, his roast beef with extra pickles.

Surprisingly, you didn’t have to call Dan down, because just as you were stepping back into the lobby–your cheeks drawn warm and stinging from the wind’s relentless assault, with tiny flecks of snow melting on your eyelashes and trickling cool rivulets down your skin–he emerged from the elevator with that familiar easy stride, his gait slightly awkward but nothing that would be considered out of the ordinary for him.

The doors slid shut with a soft, pneumatic whisper, and he paused for a heartbeat, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag over one shoulder, his jacket draped neatly over his arm–he typically brought most of his things with him when he came down for lunch regardless on whether or not he would be in the office, it was just what he was used to. Your gaze lingered on the subtle play of muscles in his forearms as he flexed them unconsciously–lean, defined lines shifting under pale skin, veined with faint blue traces, like hidden streams beneath a calm surface–before you snapped out of the trance, shaking the deli bag in your hand with a playful rustle gaining his attention immediately.

His eyes brightened with a shy spark behind his glasses, and he crossed the tile floor in a few long steps, his shoes leaving faint, damp echoes that mirrored the puddles forming from your own boots.

”Impeccable timing as always,” He said, his voice a warm undercurrent in the quiet space, laced with a gentle humor that made even the most ordinary moments feel special. You both settled behind your desk, unwrapping the sandwiches–the foil peeling back with a satisfying tear, releasing bursts of savory steam that filled the air with the tang of lemony sauce and the briny snap of pickles. The midday lull enveloped you like a soft veil, the lobby’s usual bustle muted by the break that most people were on at this hour, leaving only the faint tick of the wall clock and the occasional muffled gust against the windows to accompany your meal.

As you bit into your sandwich, the conversation meandered off track almost effortlessly, veering into the comfortable detours that had become your hallmark. He perched on the edge of the desk, his posture relaxed yet attentive, and dove into recounting a mishap from his department meeting. His dry humor wove through the story like an invisible thread, deadpan observations punctuated by wry twists that had you laughing outright that started as a tickle in your throat and swelled into full, resonant peals, warming your body and echoing softly off the lobby’s high ceilings like sunlight piercing through dense clouds to bathe the room in unexpected gold. He paused midway through, his gaze softening as he watched you, clearly relishing the sound; he loved hearing your laugh, that unfiltered melody that lit up his quieter days, and he’d do anything–embellish a detail or mimic a colleague’s exasperated sigh–to elicit it again.

By the time you’d both finished–the last traces of sauce wiped from your fingers with napkins that crinkled softly, the foil balled up and tossed aside with a metallic thud into the bin–he rose with a reluctant stretch, the muscles in his arms shifting again in a way that drew your eye despite yourself.

”Duty calls,” He said, offering a lopsided grin that tugged at your heart, before heading back to the elevators. It was only then, as the doors sealed him away with a gentle chime, that the oversight hit you like a delayed echo: you’d never revisited that unfinished ‘because’ from the morning, the Christmas party topic lost in the effortless flow of banter. It lingered now, a tantalizing riddle that knotted in your chest, one you’d have to let unravel in its own time–or perhaps you would let it remain a mystery.

—————

As the day waned into the next, the office thrummed with pre-party excitement, a vibrant buzz that infused every corner like the aroma of fresh-baked cookies–whispers of planned games or a holiday karaoke corner threading through hurried emails and brief lobby chats you caught while scanning badges. The snow from the storm had settled into a pristine carpet outside, blanketing the landscape in crisp, untouched white that crunched under tires in the parking lot and beneath your boots as you arrived, the cold air carrying a clean, invigorating bite that sharpened your senses.

You had stayed late the night before, joining a small group of people in a whirlwind of preparation: draping strings of warm-white Christmas lights along the conference room’s walls and ceilings in elegant loops that twinkled like distant stars; adorning tables with metallic runners and scattering faux pine cones for rustic charm; readying buffet stations with silverware and labelled placeholders for the caterers’ arrival; and assembling the mini bar area with stacks of plastic champagne glasses the gleamed with deceptive elegance, mimicking real crystal so convincingly they reflected the lights in rainbow prisms, all arranged amid buckets that were going to be filled with ice and festive stirrers.

Throughout the morning, the lobby transformed into a bustling hub as colleagues paraded through, their arms overflowing with contributions that turned the air sweet and spirited–an assortment of desserts like trays of powdered-sugar-dusted lemon bars that crumbled tartly at the touch, chocolate truffles rolled in cocoa, and spiced apple pies still warm from home ovens; bottles of alcohol clinking merrily in paper bags, from crisp champagnes to deep amber rums redolent of vanilla and oak.

Dan had stopped by your desk early that morning, but the exchange was brief–interrupted by the chaos of directing a delivery van or buzzing in a group of giggling interns–leaving no room to delve into the party details. Lunch escaped you both; you’d been so engrossed in aiding the setup–taping up banners, arranging centerpieces of holly and berries that were sprayed with an artificial evergreen scent–that the hour slipped by unnoticed, and you settled for an apple that you had packed that morning, its juicy snap a fleeting distraction. By afternoon, you’d accepted that any unresolved threads would have to weave themselves at the part, the prospect sending a low, electric hum through your veins.

When your shift drew to a close, you eased into after-work mode with fluid grace, slipping into the storage room’s shadowed sanctuary for a private metamorphosis. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the lobby’s hum and enveloping you in the musty hush–the metallic bit of ink lingering like an old friend. You shed your blouse and dress pants, the fabrics sighing against your skin before being folded with care on a shelf dusted with forgotten memos from the last secretary.

You slipped on your red sweater first, its oversized mohair enveloping you in a plush, textured hug, the deep crimson soft and fuzzy under your fingertips like a blanket woven specifically to keep you safe from the bitter cold that flooded the fall and winter months. Then, came the black mini skirt that glided on and fit you like a glove, the wool smooth and complimentary to your body, its hem brushing mid-thigh with a teasing whisper–still appropriate for the Christmas party, but extremely alluring. The sheer nylons followed, rolling up your legs in a silky cascade that hugged your legs with a gentle compression, their translucent sheen catching faint glints like dew on spiderwebs, heightening every sensation–the cool air brushing over your exposed skin as you moved.

You wanted to look festive, of course, but beneath that laid a deeper intent: to captivate, to impress Dan, even if doubt whispered it was a vain pursuit. Finally, you applied a faint smear of lipgloss, the strawberry-scented balm gliding on with a sweet, fruity tang that clung to your lips, its finish cool and tacky as you pressed them together. Peering into the compact mirror you’d brought, you rubbed your finger along the sheen that had wandered beyond the lines, the reflection showing a version of yourself that felt bold and alluring. Satisfied, you snapped it shut with a click, tucked it away, and headed to the elevator, the ascent filling with a quiet thrum of nervousness.

The doors parted on the fourth floor, ushering you into the conference room’s vibrant heart–the space alive with every department mingling in lively knots, mini plates teetering in hands as conversations flowed like mulled wine. The air was a tapestry of aromatic delights, rich and layered: the steaming trays of garlic-roasted vegetable releasing pungent, herbaceous waves that danced with the savoury juiciness of tender brisket sliders, their buns glossy with barbecue glaze; slices of sweet ham caramelized in honey and cloves, tender and succulent with a sticky sweetness; and fluffy potatoes that were mashed with butter and herbs, their creamy warmth a perfect pairing with anything in the ensemble.

Off to the side, the array of desserts tempted you with indulgence–peppermint brownies dense and fudge, their minty coolness cutting through chocolate richness; gingerbread cookies crisp-edged and spice-laden, snapping with cinnamon; bread pudding soaked in custard, plump with raisins and drizzled in vanilla cause; and confetti cake layered high with buttercream, with sprinkles exploding in colourful bursts. Yet your focus snagged on the mini bar, a hub of merriment where uncorked bottles of wine gleamed ruby and gold, their pours fizzing into glasses; two large bowls of spiked fruit punch shimmered with bobbing lemon, lime and orange slices, their boozy tang sharp and refreshing; and a central bowl of thick eggnog, nutmeg-dusted and creamy, positioned with deliberate care amid napkins and spoons to avert any spills in the lively jostle.

Everything felt perfect, a harmonious blend of scents that wrapped around you like a festive shawl–warm, inviting, and riveting–yet your head swiveled from side to side, eyes piercing through the throng in search of Dan’s familiar outline amid the swirl of ugly Christmas sweaters and twinkling accessories. Your nylons whispered against your skin with each nervous shift of weight, their sheer fabric a delicate barrier against the room’s building heat, but he eluded you–only flashes of colleagues toasting or loading plates with treats.

A small frown etched your features, your fingers instinctively picking at the dry skin on your thumb, the rough flake catching under your nail as unease prickled like pins, the notion surfacing that he might have reconsidered coming, or he slipped away unspoken and left you amid the cheer with a hollow ache. Maybe he had an emergency and he needed to go and couldn’t notify you? Or maybe he really didn’t want to attend and just didn’t say anything…Regardless you felt yourself overthinking, as every possibility invaded your mind.

”You made it!” The voice cleaved through your worries quickly, familiar and reassuring as it rose above the ambient chatter of clinking plastic, spinning you around on your heel with a soft pivot that sent your skirt flaring lightly against your thighs. Dan stood a few steps away, dressed in khakis that skimmed his frame with casual poise and a red plaid button-up that evoked Yuletide warmth in its crisscrossed threads of crimson and deep green that were barely noticeable, the sleeves cuffed to mid-forearm. He held a cup of eggnog in one hand, the liquid’s creamy foam almost spilling over the rim of it, while the other rested in his pocket, his stance relaxed yet drawn toward you.

A smile bloomed on your lips instantly, unbidden and genuine, as he approached, his eyes flicking quick, appreciative glances at your outfit like a secret admirer evading detection. With each step, the lights danced off his glasses’ lenses in sparkling distractions, buying him time to indulge in one lingering appraisal, absorbing the sight of you greedily. But it was the gloss on your lips that truly ensnared him, the strawberry sheen glistening invitingly, prompting a fleeting thought of its flavour–sweet, perhaps fruity–that he shoved aside, battling the heat rising to his cheeks, willing the flush away before it betrayed him.

“You know I wasn’t going to miss it…I told you I’d be here,” You replied as he came to a stop in front of you, the words tumbling out with a breathy lightness that masked the sudden swarm of butterflies rioting in your stomach, their delicate wings brushing against your insides like whispers of nerves. The eggnog in his cup swirled lazily with his slightest movements, releasing a tinge of nutmeg into the air, blending seamlessly with his cologne–a new one you hadn’t smelled on him before, crisp citrus notes sharpened by an earthy undertone of sandalwood, evoking the bite of winter air mingling with the warmth of a crackling hearth. It wrapped around you in a heady veil, making your senses hum, prickling with awareness as if his nearness alone could summon shivers along your skin.

“Well when I didn’t see you I thought you had somehow managed to duck out before anyone noticed…But I’m glad you didn’t take that option.” He commented, laughing awkwardly, the sound a nervous rumble that vibrated through the space between you, his eyes locking onto yours, holding a depth that made your pulse stutter. He looked down at you with a boyish tilt to his head, trying valiantly to keep his gaze on your face, resisting the pull toward your legs, where the skirt hugged your thighs. You could sense the tension coiling in him, the way it manifested in the subtle tightening of his shirt collar around his neck, as if the fabric had grown constrictive under the weight of his unspoken thoughts. His free hand twitched slightly, tempted perhaps to reach up and loosen the top button for relief, but he held back, clearing his throat instead–a gravelly sound that seemed to cure the knot in his throat, if not the one building in his chest.

”Do you want a drink?” He offered, motioning toward the mini bar area with a nod, his posture shifting to guide you without touch.

”Yeah, that would be great.” The two of you moved seamlessly to the array of drinks, weaving through the lingering clusters of coworkers with effortless synchronicity, your skirt brushing against his leg once in the press of bodies, sending a fleeting spark of friction up your thigh. At the table, he poured you a cup of spiked punch–your choice, not his–the ruby liquid fizzing gently as it filled the plastic flute, bubbles dancing to the surface with a faint, fruity effervescence that carried hints of citrus and rum.

You took a sip, the alcohol igniting a slow burn down your throat, a liquid fire that spread through your chest like molten lava, warming your core and easing the nervous flutter into a steady glow. Dan couldn’t help but smirk at the way your nose scrunched up at the initial sharpness, the delicate crinkles forming around your eyes like you’d tasted something sour, an endearing quirk that made him smile.

“Too strong?” He asked teasingly, his tone laced with a playful challenge, and you shook your head, taking another sip, feeling your jaw clench instinctively as the potent mix hit your palate again, the burn softening into a pleasant haze that loosened your limbs.

”No…Someone just went heavy on the liquor…Try it and tell me otherwise.” You said, holding the flute out to him, watching through the veil of your lashes as he glanced down at it, hesitation flickering before he accepted, his fingers–clammy with the heat that resided on his skin–grazing the tops of yours in a brush that lingered a fraction too long, sending a warm current racing up your arm like static from wool on skin. You observed him closely as he brought the rim to his lips, taking a quick sip and cringing instantly, his features contorting in a mix of surprise and amusement, the liquid leaving a faint sheen on his mouth that caught the light.

”Woah…Yeah…Yeah you’re definitely right.” You let out a little huff of a laugh, light and airy, as his tongue darted out to lick the stray droplets from his lips, unwittingly tasting the faint strawberry residue from the gloss you’d left on the rims edge–a sweet, unexpected tang that made his eyes widen imperceptibly, though he played it cool, “There must be a whole bottle in there.” He murmured, handing the flute back to you, his fingers brushing against yours once more, this time with a deliberate slowness so you knew he was doing it on purpose, allowing the cool plastic to contrast the warmth of his skin on yours.

“And you thought I was exaggerating.” You quipped, watching as a slight blush dusted over the apples of his cheeks, a rosy tint that framed the bottom of his glasses, softening his features further. He brought his thumb up to his bottom lip, tracing the faint stickiness there with an absentminded rub, as if he was savouring the ghost of your gloss, the closest echo to a kiss he could claim in that moment–his mind wandering unbidden to whimsical scenarios, like a coworker dangling mistletoe over your heads as an excuse to silence his racing thoughts and press his lips to yours without the fear of shattering the delicate connection the two of you had built…But it was mere fantasy, a wishful flicker he pushed aside so that he could focus on the moment in front of him.

“I didn’t think you were exaggerating, I just thought you were a lightweight.” He corrected playfully, his eyes sparkling as he watched you bring the rim back to your lips, taking another sip–this time, the burn was milder, and your brow only gave a slight twitch as your taste buds adjusted, the warmth spreading deeper, loosening the last knots of tension in your body.

“Very funny, Dan…” You mumbled, resting your bottom lip against the cup, the cool plastic pressing gently into the plushness, noticing how his gaze drifted downward to your mouth before snapping back to meeting your lingering stare, a silent pull that thickened the air between you. There was a pause in conversation, a momentary lapse heavy with unspoken words as the two of you held each other's eyes.

Right as the two of you were about to say something–lips parting in tandem, breaths syncing in a charged anticipation–the room went completely dark, the lights winking out with a collective flicker, plunging the space into an abrupt darkness broken only by the battery-powered lights that glowed. Groans and surprised laughs rippled through the crowd, the sudden blackout transforming the festive hum into a playful chaos, but for you and Dan, it felt like a cosmic interruption, the lighting amplifying the intimacy of your proximity.

“Not this again,” You whispered, the words barely audible over the murmurs, leaning yourself against the table’s edge, brushing your fingers across his arm in the light–an accidental touch that sent a jolt through you both. Dan glanced over at you and let out a little sigh.

”Seems like the fuse box is calling you again…Want some company this time?” The offer took you off guard for a moment, his voice low and steady, cutting through the playful chaos with a sincerity that warmed your skin more than the lingering effects of the punch, like he was genuinely concerned about you venturing into the dim lobby alone, his eyes holding yours in the starry shadow of the lights, reflecting a quiet protectiveness that you rarely saw in him–though it made your heart skip nevertheless.

“Sure, that would be nice…” You replied, finishing up the rest of your drink in one big gulp, the punch sliding down with a final, fiery trail that burned pleasantly in your throat and settled as a bold heaviness in your belly, a liquid courage you hoped might steady the nerves bubbling up, perhaps even embolden you to voice the feelings that had been simmering for months, especially now with the secluded promise of the storage room ahead.

He set his cup of eggnog down on the nearest table, leaving it unfinished, as the two of you slipped away from the lingering revelers, weaving through the dimmed space. You led the way to the emergency staircase, the door creaking open with a metallic groan that echoed down the empty shaft, the air inside cooler and still, carrying a faint mustiness from it not being used for a while.

Descending the four levels together, your footsteps resonated in tandem–his a steady, rhythmic thud behind yours, the nylon on your legs whispering with each step, the skirt’s hem brushing your thighs in teasing swishes that heightened your awareness of his proximity. The stairwell’s dim emergency strips casted a greenish hue on the concrete walls, his breathing a soft counterpoint to yours, close enough that you could feel the occasional brush of him against you, sending subtle tingles racing along your spine.

Once you reached the bottom, he pushed the door open with a gentle shove, holding it ajar for you to step through first, the gesture chivalrous, his hand lingering near your lower back as you passed, the warmth of his palm radiating through your sweater without quite touching.

The lobby stretched out in utter darkness, the usual hum of lights and computers silenced, enveloping you both in a velvety void where the only illumination came from the faint blue bleed of snow-reflected moonlight through the windows, turning the polished floors into a glassy, ethereal expanse. The emergency lights here had failed too, suggesting a deeper issue than just the fuse–perhaps a grid strain from the storm–but determination flickered in you like a stubborn spark; you wanted to at least attempt a fix, if only to prolong this stolen moment away from the crowd.

Dan took out his phone, thumbing on the flashlight, the beam cutting a bright swath through the gloom, casting sharp shadows that danced across the reception desk as he followed you closely–close enough that if you halted suddenly, his chest would press into your back, that thought alone sent a shiver through you, completely unrelated to the chill seeping into the room from the glass doors. You stepped behind the counter, the marble cool under your palms as you leaned to open the top drawer near your computer, retrieving the keys with a faint jingle of metal.

In the flashlight’s glow, he couldn’t help but glimpse the drawer’s contents beside them–a blister packet of mints tucked next to a prescription box, an old silver wristwatch with a cracked face that you’d meant to repair, a scattering of blue and black pens in their respective boxes, and a fresh stack of neon sticky notes–mundane items that felt oddly personal in this shared light. You closed the drawer with a soft thud, turning toward the storage room door.

”I’m just going to warn you now that it’s a little messy in here, I haven’t really gotten around to emptying out all the old files and putting them into the main archives so…Bear with me.” You explained, sliding the large key into the lock, twisting it gently until you heard a faint clink, the mechanism giving way with a reluctant grind that echoed in the quiet.

”No worries.” He reassured, his tone easy and lax, the flashlight beam steady as it illuminated the door’s weathered surface, highlighting the faint scratches from years of use. You pushed it open, the hinges protesting with a drawn-out creak, and stepped inside, the pitch-black interior swallowing the light like a void. Not even the emergency bulb flickered here, its usual reddish glow absent, confirming the outage’s depth, leaving you reliant solely on Dan’s phone to pierce the darkness.

The two of you moved into the room, and the tight fit became immediately apparent–the narrow space, crammed with metal shelves groaning under stacks of yellowed files and forgotten office relics, was never designed for two. Dan stayed close behind, his body heat a tangible presence in the confined quarters, the occasional brush of his arm against yours sending warm currents through the fabric of your sweater, the proximity forcing a heightened awareness of every breath, every subtle shift that narrowed the inches between you.

He adjusted his phone’s beam to flood the far wall where the fuse box loomed, its panel a dull grey rectangle amid the shadows, the light casting elongated silhouettes of your figures against the shelves, merging them in distorted intimacy.

“I’m gonna need you to get a little closer so I can see what I’m doing…” You murmured, your voice hushed in the enclosed space, watching as he obliged, stepping nearer until his chest pressed against the side of your arm, his warmth seeping through your sweater.

“Much better…” You praised, the words soft and appreciative, as you reached out and began to flick some of the switches off, the clicks sharp and resonant in the silence, assuming a simple reset–giving the system a brief respite before powering back on–might coax life into the building. But as you flipped them to their original positions, nothing stirred; no hum of revival, no distant flicker of lights beyond the door. You let out a little sigh, the exhale warm against the cool air, and leaned forward slightly, squinting at the faded diagram etched on the panel’s inside– a web of lines and labels worn by time, offering cryptic guidance that blurred in the flashlight’s harsh beam.

Dan watched you closely, the light illuminating the concentration etching your features–the way your eyes roamed the diagram with focused intent, how you bit the inside of your cheek in thought, the subtle crease between your brows as determination flickered like a flame refusing to extinguish. He admired it deeply, this quiet resolve to tackle a problem that wasn’t even yours to bear, a testament to your caring nature that drew him in like gravity, making his chest tighten with affection. He cleared his throat, shifting even closer–his hip brushing yours now–as he adjusted the phone to beam more directly on the panel, easing the strain on your eyes with a brighter wash of light. The two of you remained like that for a few suspended moments, until Dan decided to shatter the silence, his voice emerging tentative yet resolute.

”You know…I was wondering if you’d be coming to the party tonight because I really like being around you…” He blurted, the words hanging in the confined space like a confession long held back, making your brows raise immediately, your eyes glancing over at him in surprise as you straightened up. Under your gaze, Dan knew he couldn’t hide his feelings much longer, and now that the two of you were truly alone, shrouded in darkness without the world’s interruptions, he didn’t want to squander the chance, even though his heart was pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. “You make these sorts of events easier for me…You make me feel less alone…” He added, his eyes attesting to the vulnerability beneath the flashlight’s glow, the admission laying bare the depth of his affection, the air between you charging with the weight of it, every sensation heightening–the warmth of his breath on your skin, the subtle tremor in his voice, the way the confined room seemed to draw you even closer.

You could feel your heart beating in your throat as you looked down at his lips–thin and slightly parted–then back up to his eyes, those blue depths wide and unguarded in the flashlight’s stark beam, reflecting the raw honesty he had just laid bare.

”Can I tell you a secret?” You asked, moving a bit closer to him, your chest pressing against his with a soft brush of mohair against plaid, the warmth of his body seeping through like sunlight on chilled skin, tilting your head up so you could look at him fully, your breath mingling with his in the confined air, carrying the faint strawberry tang from your gloss.

You could hear his breath hitch, a sharp, involuntary intake that echoed softly off the metal shelves, as he couldn’t find the words to respond, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in the dim light, so he just nodded, the motion slight but eager, his glasses slipping a fraction down his nose.

“You’re actually the only reason why I show up to these events…Because I like spending time around you too…” You whispered, the words hanging like mist in the cool, musty space, before you leaned in even closer, bridging the final inch to press your lips against his. The kiss was soft, a tentative meeting of mouths where his lips were a little stiff against yours at first, hesitant and surprised, like the first tentative flakes of snow touching warm ground. But then he melted into it, slowly, his tension dissolving as he leaned in, the contact turning gentle, sweet, and careful–a slow exploration that tasted of eggnog’s creamy spice on him and strawberry gloss on you, his free hand rising tentatively to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin with a feather-light touch that sent tingles radiating outward, warming the chill of the room.

His glasses nudged against your nose in the closeness, prompting a shared, breathy chuckle that bubbled up between you, the sound intimate and light, dissolving as he tilted his head to deepen the angle, his free arm sliding around your waist with a firm yet reverent pull, drawing you flush against him. The firmness of his body was a revelation against the softness of your sweater–the lean planes of his chest pressing into you, his heartbeat a rapid drum echoing your own through the layers, turning slightly and guiding you backward until your back met one of the shelves with a gentle thud, the metal cool and unyielding through your clothes, old documents rustling like whispered secrets as your bodies aligned, the confined space making every point of contact electric.

He pulled back for a moment, just enough to nudge his forehead against yours, the skin there warm and slightly damp with the building heat between you, his breath fanning across your lips in ragged puffs as he draped his phone down face first on a nearby shelf, the flashlight beam diffusing upward to cast a soft, ambient glow over the room, turning the shadows into a cocoon of crimson-tinged intimacy.

“I’ve…Been waiting to do that for a long time.” He murmured, his voice husky and low, laced with a mix of relief and lingering awe, as your hands roamed upward, threading through his soft, light brown hair–the strands slightly damp at the roots from earlier sweat, yielding under your fingers like silk–with a gentle tug that arched his neck subtly, drawing a low groan from him that vibrated through your core like a resonant chord, deep and primal.

“Me too…” You replied back breathlessly, the words escaping on a sigh as he leaned forward again, pressing hot, wet kisses down your jawline to the sensitive column of your neck, his lips trailing fire along the skin, teeth grazing with teasing nips that sent electric shivers cascading down your spine–sharp pinpricks of pleasure that bloomed into molten heat pooling between your legs, your nylons suddenly feeling taut and sensitive against your thighs. His hands trailed down your sides, palms flat and exploratory over the fuzzy texture of your sweater, fingers splaying wide to feel the curve of your body beneath, until they reached the hem, hesitating there with a questioning press.

“Is it okay if I…?” His sentence broke off slightly, voice muffled against your neck as he motioned down to where his hands hovered, the warmth of his touch seeping through the fabric like a promise, his breath hot and uneven on your skin.

“Please…” You urged, the word a soft plea that escaped on an exhale, giving him enough permission to slip his hands underneath the sweater’s edge, the cool rush of air on your bare midriff contrasting sharply with the heat of his palms as they traced the smoothness of your skin, fingertips grazing the delicate line of your bra with a feather-light skim that made your breath catch, before sliding boldly over the cup, enveloping the swell in a gentle squeeze.

He nipped at your neck in response, a sharper graze of teeth that tugged at the skin just enough to sting sweetly, coinciding with your fingers scratching gently at his scalp–nails raking through his hair in slow, deliberate drags that made him shudder, his body pressing you even more firmly against the shelf, the metal digging into your back with a cool bite that grounded the haze of sensation. You became hyperaware of his erection pressing against your stomach through the layers, a firm, insistent heat that throbbed with his pulse, drawing a little gasp from your throat–sharp and involuntary, the sound mingling with the rustle of shifting papers behind you.

“Shit…Dan…” You whispered, the name escaping like a prayer, laced with surprise and need, as he pulled back slightly, a flood of concern clouding his eyes, his hands stilling immediately under your sweater.

“Are you okay?” He asked, his voice roughened but tender, brows furrowing behind his glasses as he searched your face in the diffused light, his thumb brushing a reassuring circle on your side.

“Yes…Yes I’m okay…Keep going.” You urged, the words fervent and breathless, nodding emphatically to dispel his worry, your hands tightening in his hair to pull him back in. Reassured, he slid his hand beneath the lace of your bra, his warm palm enveloping your breast fully, the callused skin a delicious contrast to your softness as your nipple hardened instantly against his touch, pebbling under the gentle pressure, your back arching instinctively toward him with a small, involuntary gasp that filled the air like a sigh of release.

He began to knead your breast with a rhythmic gentleness, fingers squeezing and releasing in slow waves that sent pulses of pleasure radiating through your chest, each motion coaxing the ache to build, while he kissed along your neck again–open-mouthed presses that left damp trails cooling on your skin–before capturing your lips in a deeper kiss, hot and consuming. You opened to him readily, your mouth yielding as his tongue swept in, exploring with unbridled hunger, a low hum vibrating from his throat as he pressed harder, the kiss turning fervent, all careful restraint giving way to raw need. You moaned into it, the sound muffled and throaty, vibrations echoing between you as your body responded, a fresh wave of heat flooding low in your belly.

In the midst of the kiss, you reached for the wrist of his free hand–the one not occupied under your sweater–grabbing it with a firm yet trembling grip, the skin there warm and slightly rough, and guided it downward, sliding it along the curve of your hip to the hem of your skirt, the wool bunching slightly under your combined touch. It was a wordless communication of what you wanted, what you needed, your hips shifting restlessly against him as you squirmed.

He moaned against your lips, the sound a deep, rumbling vibration that resonated through your chest like a distant thunder, his breath hot and uneven as he teased the sensitive skin just beneath your skirt’s hem–fingertips skimming the smooth expanse of your inner thigh with a deliberate slowness that sent sparks dancing up your nerves, each brush igniting a trail of goosebumps despite the growing warmth in the confined room. He slid higher until his hand cupped your aching core through the thin cotton of your panties, the pressure firm yet exploratory, feeling the subtle dampness that had already gathered there, a testament to the tension that had been building all evening, the fabric clinging slightly to your heat. He pulled away from the kiss, his lips swollen and glistening with the shared sheen of your saliva, eyes dark and hooded in the flashlight’s diffused glow.

“Jesus…You’re already wet…You really have been waiting for this just as long as me, huh?” He breathed, his voice roughened with desire, rubbing you slowly through the cotton fabric–a languid circle that pressed just enough to tease, earning a small moan from you that escaped like a sigh, your body arching instinctively toward his touch, hips shifting in a silent plea for more friction.

“Been imagining being with you for so long…I can’t help it.” You admitted quietly, the confession slipping out on a whisper as he leaned forward and gave you a gentle peck, his lips soft and lingering, a brief anchor amid the rising tide of need.

“I’m glad it’s been as tortuous for you as it has been for me.” He whispered, the words warm against your mouth before he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping in with renewed hunger, while his fingers slid your underwear to the side in one smooth motion, exposing you to the cool air of the room–a sharp contrast that made you gasp into him. His digits slipped through your arousal, gathering the slick warmth over their pads with a deliberate glide that sent shudders rippling through you, before settling on your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that built pressure like a coiling spring, each rotation eliciting sparks that radiated outward, your nerves alight with electric pulses. You pulled at his hair, fingers tangling deeper in the soft strands, another muffled moan escaping your lips as the sensation intensified, your free hand quickly finding his belt, fumbling with the buckle in eager haste, the metal clinking softly as you unfastened it and popped the button of his khakis, the zipper giving way with a quiet rasp.

Your hand delved beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, fingers wrapping around his hardening cock–a velvety length that throbbed warmly in your palm, the skin smooth and heated, veins pulsing subtly under your touch as you gave it a small, exploratory stroke, feeling its impressive girth fill your hand, the weight and firmness sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly. He groaned into the kiss, the sound raw and unrestrained, his hips bucking slightly into your grip as you began a steady rhythm, your thumb brushing over the sensitive tip where pre-cum beaded, slicking the motion. Meanwhile, his fingers mirrored your pace–rubbing your clit with increasing fervor while occasionally dipping lower to smear your arousal around your folds, the wetness coating his skin in a glossy sheen, his other hand kneading your breast in sync, pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger with just enough pressure to send jolts straight to your core, the dual sensations weaving together in a symphony of building ecstasy.

He slid two fingers into you without warning, the intrusion smooth and deep thanks to your readiness, curling them upward to stroke that hidden ridge with expert precision, the stretch a delicious burn that made your knees weaken, your walls clenching greedily around him. He kissed you harder, swallowing the groan that tore from your throat, his mouth a fervent seal that muffled the sound, your hand squeezing his cock in response–a firm grip that drew a hiss from him–while your other tugged sharper at his hair, the strands slipping through your fingers like silk threads, anchoring you amid the overwhelming rush.

He continued fingering you with relentless focus, the wet sounds of his movements intimate and obscene in the quiet room, his thumb pressing circles on your clit in tandem, building the tension until it snapped–you came undone over his hand, waves of bliss crashing through you in clenching pulses, your arousal coating his fingers in a warm rush, your body trembling against the shelf as gasps escaped into his mouth. He pulled back from the kiss slowly, his lips lingering for a final brush, eyes dark with satisfaction and lingering hunger as he withdrew his hand, the digits glistening in the dim light.

“Y/N…I don’t have a condom…” He stated, his voice strained and thick, and you stopped stroking him mid-motion, looking into his eyes–pupils blown wide with desire–as you shook your head, the post-orgasm haze clouding your thoughts in a blissful fog.

“I’m on the pill…We can skip the condom for tonight…I can’t wait any longer to feel you.” You stated, the words tumbling out breathless and needy, and he gulped audibly, the sound echoing in the tight space, his throat working visibly under the collar of his shirt.

“Are you sure?” He asked, concern threading through the lust in his tone, searching your face for any hesitation, his free hand still resting on your hip, thumb tracing soothing circles.

“Yes Dan…Please…Just fuck me.” You practically begged, the plea raw and unfiltered, your body aching for completion, the emptiness left by his fingers a tormenting void.

He pulled away slightly, the loss of his warmth immediate and stark, causing you to release his cock reluctantly, your hand falling to your side as he pushed down his khakis and boxer briefs in one efficient motion, the fabric pooling at his knees with a soft rustle. His thick, veiny cock sprang free, standing proud and flushed in the ambient glow–curved slightly upward, the head glistening with pre-cum, its girth making your mouth water with anticipation, a vein tracing prominently along the underside like a roadmap to pleasure. Your breath hitched at the sight, a fresh surge of desire flooding you as he reached out, his hands finding the hem of your sweater and pulling it up and over your head in a swift tug, the mohair whispering against your skin before he tossed it aside to a shadowed corner. His fingers then slid the straps of your bra off your shoulders with deliberate care, pushing the cups down to expose your breasts fully, the cool air pebbling your nipples instantly as his gaze drank you in, dark and reverent, before he closed the space again, his body heat returning like a blanket.

He pressed you firmly against the shelf once more, the metal now warmed from your earlier contact but still providing a grounding chill through your back, hiking your leg up with a strong grip on your thigh–fingers digging into the soft flesh just above the nylon’s edge, the sheer fabric sliding slightly under his palm. He guided himself to your entrance with his other hand, pushing your underwear aside again with a deft flick, the cotton damp and clinging as he slid the head of his cock against your arousal–smearing the slickness in slow, teasing glides that mixed his pre-cum with your wetness, the sensation slippery and electric, building an unbearable ache. Awkwardly adjusting to the position in the cramped space–his knee nudging a shelf, a faint clatter of papers shifting–he slowly slipped into you, the initial stretch an exquisite burn that made you both sigh in intermingled relief, your breaths mixing in the scant air between you, invading his mouth and yours with shared warmth.

He could feel you stretch around him, the tight heat enveloping him inch by inch in a velvet grip that sent a rush of dizziness invading his mind, as he leaned into you even more, burying his face into your shoulder–the scent of your skin, faintly perfumed with strawberry, grounding him–smudging the lenses of his glasses against your collarbone. Your lips pressed open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck, tasting the salt of his skin as your walls clenched around him instinctively, drawing him deeper with each pulse, a soft whimper escaping you at the fullness.

“God…Y/N…God you’re so tight. I don’t think I’m going to last…Fuck.” He confessed, the words muffled against your shoulder, a tinge of disappointment threading through the lust in his voice, knowing he’d wanted this first encounter to unfold like a slow symphony rather than a rushed crescendo, but you knew there would be more nights, more chances for drawn-out explorations–this was merely the spark igniting the flame.

“It’s okay…It’s okay…Please just…Fuck me, Dan. I want to feel all of you, want you to fill me with your cum.” You whimpered, the plea desperate and raw, your hands clutching at his back through his shirt, nails digging crescents into the fabric as he dug his hand deeper into your thigh for leverage, adjusting you with a firm lift that pressed you harder against the shelf, the metal groaning faintly under the strain as he slid in completely, bottoming out with a shuddered sigh that reverberated through you both.

He bit your collarbone in response, teeth sinking in with a possessive nip that blurred the line between pain and pleasure, drawing a gasp from you as he groaned low in his throat, the vibration traveling straight to your core. He started fucking you then, pulling back only to thrust forward in a rhythm that began measured but quickly turned messy and fervent–hot, sensual plunges that filled the room with the slick sounds of skin meeting skin, his hips snapping with increasing urgency, each drive striking deep and deliberate, sending shockwaves of ecstasy rippling through you. He pulled back slightly, leaning down to latch onto one nipple with his mouth–sucking with a wet pull that made it harden further, tongue swirling in hot circles before biting gently, the sharp tug eliciting a cry from you as you clawed at his back, fingers raking down the fabric in desperate grabs that bunched the shirt, your nails leaving faint trails even through the material.

“Shit…Y/N…Oh god.” He whimpered, the words breaking on a gasp as he continued to thrust up into you, the angle shifting with each movement to hit new depths, your head tilting back against the shelf with a soft thud, little gasps escaping your lips like punctuation to his rhythm, your walls squeezing around him in involuntary pulses that milked every inch. He nipped and bit at your skin–collarbone, shoulder, the swell of your breast–leaving faint marks that bloomed like secret bruises, your whines echoing through the cramped space in a symphony of need, the air growing thick and humid with your shared heat, sweat beading on your bodies and slicking the friction where you joined.

He grunted suddenly, “I’m going to cum…” the warning rough and strained, his rhythm faltering into erratic snaps as tension coiled tight in his frame, muscles hardening under your hands like taut wires before he tensed fully, pressing deep one final time with a guttural groan, hot cum spilling into you in pulsing waves that filled you completely, his cock twitching inside your clenching heat, the sensation warm and intimate, flooding you with a sense of completion. He let out a little ‘oh’…soft and surprised, before slumping against you, his weight a comforting press, both of you completely breathless, chests heaving in sync as the aftershocks trembled through your joined bodies.

“Fuck…Dan…That was…” You trailed off, turning your head to nuzzle against his, the stubble on his cheek scratching softly against your skin, his hair tickling your temple as you inhaled his scent–sweat-mingled with cologne, a heady mix that grounded you in the moment.

“Worth every minute…” He finished your sentence, his voice muffled and spent, and you nodded immediately, a lazy smile curving your lips.

“And worth the wait…But now I think I’m going to have to go home with you so we can have another round.” You added, pressing a tender kiss to his cheek, the salt of his skin lingering on your lips as he hummed in agreement, the vibration a soothing rumble.

“I like the sound of that…But for now we should break the bad news that we didn’t figure out how to get the power back on.” He commented, earning a small, breathless laugh from you that bubbled up like relief.

“Hey, Dan, congrats on the promotion.” His friend David pats him on the back. Dan nods and thanks him, distracted. He walks away toward his new office—a tangible perk of the promotion, a private space with real walls and a door he can close.

He grabs the doorknob and steps inside. What he sees leaves him speechless.

There you are. In the corner, to the right of the large window overlooking the gray evening sky, wearing a long, blood-red silk dress that clings to your body like a second skin, ready for the Christmas party that night. You’re standing on a chair by his new, spacious desk, tying up a small mistletoe with a red ribbon.

When you sense his presence, you turn your head slightly and say, “Hey… hi, sweetheart,” as you try to step down. He moves quickly, hands finding your waist, holding you steady as he helps you down. His hands linger on your hips a second longer than necessary.

“What are you doing, love?” he asks near your ear, his voice a low, rough whisper. Only then does he really look around—and his new office surprises him. It’s no longer just a few decorations in a cubicle. There’s a tall, elegant tree in one corner, draped in white lights and silver ornaments. Pine garlands with red berries frame the bookshelves. On the shelf, a tiny snowy village glows softly, and at the center of his desk, beside the monitor, sits a blown-glass snowman. The air carries a faint scent of cinnamon and pine.

As he takes it all in, overwhelmed, you simply smile and say, “I’m just so happy about your promotion, love. So I thought I’d help you decorate.”

He can only smile at your joy and enthusiasm—both for his achievement and for Christmas. “Help me, huh?” he jokes, gesturing at the abundance of decorations. “Looks like Santa’s workshop exploded in here.”

You grin, lightly smacking his chest, offended. “Of course not! I just didn’t want your new office to be gloomy and gray,” you say with a pout, looking away from him.

He notices. Gently, he cups your cheek, guiding your face back to his. His eyes are warm. He leans in and presses a soft kiss to the tip of your nose. “It couldn’t possibly be depressing if you’re here,” he murmurs. “And besides… I see you brought backup.” His gaze flicks to the mistletoe still in your hand.

Your smile widens, fingers curling delicately around the red ribbon. “Are you ready to welcome Christmas, sweetheart?”

...

The office party is in full swing. The common room, decorated with lights and garlands, echoes with soft music, laughter, and the clinking of glasses. A long table offers a Christmas dinner: turkey, mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts, and abundant desserts. The air is warm, heavy with the aroma of spices, wine, and light perfume.

Dan is standing by the window, talking to Jake and another colleague from the finance department about projections for the next quarter. Or at least, he's trying to concentrate on the conversation. You're standing next to him, your arm casually linked with his, but you've been turning the last thirty minutes into sweet, slow torture for him.

Your hand rests on his chest, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the top button of his shirt, sometimes brushing his jawline as you turn to listen to the others. When Jake tells a joke, you laugh and, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, your body leans toward Dan's, your side pressing against his, your warmth penetrating the thin fabric of his suit and your silk dress.

At another moment, as Dan's boss approaches to congratulate him, you position yourself slightly behind him, and your hand, previously on his chest, moves down to draw small circles on the lower back of his jacket. Your breath, perfumed with red wine and chocolate, caresses his neck as you lean in to whisper something banal in his ear: “How nice, isn't it?” He feels a chill that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

As you move toward the dessert table to get another pastry, your steps synchronize with his, and as you pass through a narrow space between the armchairs, your hand slides from his arm to the small of his back, guiding him with an intimacy that cries out for private space. Your smile for others is bright and friendly, perfectly appropriate. But for him, every glance you give him from under your lashes, every casual brush of your hips against his, every time you gently bite your lower lip while looking at him.

He notices everything. Every one of your little games. His focus on the finance conversation evaporates, replaced by a growing, unmistakable tension. He knows you’re provoking him on purpose, yet when his eyes search yours, questioning, you only return a look of crystal-clear innocence, as if you have no idea of the effect your closeness, your perfume, your hands are having on him. You offer him a bite of your dessert on your fork, and as you lean in, the neckline of your red dress casts a tempting shadow that only he can appreciate from his angle.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” you ask softly, brushing an imaginary crumb from the corner of his mouth with your thumb—an intimate gesture that makes his heart race.

Dan nods, trying to regain his composure, fully aware of what you’re doing behind that innocent act.

...

After dessert, the gathering breaks up into small, lively groups. Some get up to get more drinks, others gather around the impromptu karaoke machine, and a couple engage in a heated discussion about the best Christmas movies. It's the perfect moment, the noise and distraction are at their peak.

With an innocent smile that only he can decipher, your hand slides from his arm to his wrist. Your fingers close with a sweet but undeniable firmness. “Come,” you whisper, and without giving him time to protest, you drag him into the shadows of the hallway, away from the music and laughter, toward the quiet of the office wing. His steps, hesitant at first, soon quicken to follow you.

The door to his new office closes with a soft click, and the sudden calm, broken only by the faint echo of the party, is overwhelming. In an instant, your hands are on his chest, pushing him back until the backs of his knees hit the edge of his executive chair. You climb on top of him with determination, one leg on either side of his hips, sinking him into the leather seat that now feels incredibly narrow. Your mouth finds his neck, and you begin to cover it with kisses, wet smacks in the stillness of the room. Each one is an electric shock, a sensation of warmth and softness that makes the hairs on his arms stand on end and makes him hold his breath. He feels the brush of your eyelashes against his skin, the perfect weight of your body on top of his.

His hands, trembling, cling to your waist, feeling the slippery silk of the dress under his palms. It is when your hips begin to move, a gentle, hypnotic, circular sway against him, that the world fades away. He feels his own arousal, a hard, growing bulge that tenses painfully against the fabric of his pants, now pressed by the insistent, delicious movement of your body.

A tremulous gasp escapes his lips. “B… Babe… ahh… Baby, s-stop…,” he pleads, but his hands don’t let go; on the contrary, his fingers dig into your waist.

You ignore him, increasing the pressure, rubbing against him with more determination, feeling his hardness through the layers of fabric. “Mmm, someone might come in and notice we're not here, and… ahhh…” He gasps breathlessly, his words trailing off.

Then, suddenly, you slide off his lap. He thinks, for a second of mixed relief and frustration, that you finally understand. But you fall to your knees on the floor in front of him, smiling. Your hands reach out, deftly unbuttoning his pants, pulling down the zipper. Your soft hand closes around his cock, which gives a warm, lively twitch against his belly as it is freed. You hold it, playing with the weight in your palm, running your thumb over the pink, shiny tip, already covered in precum that glistens in the dim light of the Christmas garlands.

Then you tilt your head. Your red lips, soft and smooth, settle on the sensitive tip. You give it a lick, a long, slow kittenish caress, savoring it on your tongue. From below, your eyes look up at him, bright and mischievous. “So delicious,” you whisper, your hot breath on his skin. “Better than dessert.”

And then you take it into your mouth, devouring it.

The sensation is immediate and overwhelming. A perfect, moist heat envelops you, your tongue tracing expert paths along its length. You suck with an eagerness that makes him arch his back, a guttural sound escaping from his throat. He knows he should stop you, that this is crazy, but he can't. His hands bury themselves in your hair, not to push you away, but to guide you, firmly. The room fills with wet sounds, your soft clicks and slurps, the rubbing of your lips against his skin, his restrained gasps. It's a hypnotic rhythm, exquisite torture, and he loses himself in it.

Until a foreign sound interrupts: a sharp knock on the door.

You stop immediately, but it's too late. The door opens and his boss pokes his head in, his cheeks flushed from wine.

Dan's eyes widen. He sits up abruptly in his chair, forcing himself to sit up straight as his heart pounds. You remain on the floor, still, the large solid wood desk, with its front reaching almost to the floor, completely hiding your body. Dan gives a quick and frantic thank you to heaven for that. He is a little flushed, his tie slightly crooked, but nothing that, at first glance, gives away what was happening seconds before.

“Dan, there you are. We were looking for you to make a toast,” the boss says, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“Excuse me, Mr. Jenkins,” Dan says, his voice miraculously steady, though a shade deeper than usual. "It's just that… I thought I'd go over some of the data for tomorrow's presentation, to make sure everything was perfect. I didn't want anything to slip through the cracks at the last minute." He gives small, believable details, mentioning a client's name and a projected figure, while his mind races a mile a minute.

As this happens, you, down there, with the head of his cock still just inches from your lips, can't resist. You tilt your head back and give a small, gentle lick at its base. Then another, a little higher up.

Dan's eyes open even wider, a jolt of pleasure and panic running through him. His voice changes, becoming noticeably hoarser. “Yes, the… the cost report… it's crucial,” he manages to articulate, as your lips, shiny and wet, close around him again, taking him deep into your mouth in a silent but intense suck. His knuckles turn white as he clings to the edge of the desk, hoping, praying, that his boss won't notice the tremor in his hands or the sudden glisten of sweat on his forehead.

Luckily, Jenkins doesn't seem to notice. “Very dedicated, as always. I like that. But tonight is a celebration. You should go back to the party, the toast is for you.” He gives a friendly pat in the air, gives him one last approving look, and finally turns and leaves, closing the door behind him.

The click of the lock is the sweetest sound Dan has ever heard.

Only about five seconds of tense silence pass, filled with bated breath. Then Dan springs into action. His hands grab you by the shoulders and pull you out of your hiding place, lifting you off the floor and pulling you toward him with force. Before you can say anything, his lips capture yours, shiny and slightly swollen. He kisses you hungrily, urgently, savoring the salty, intimate aftertaste of himself in your mouth.

He pulls back only an inch, his ragged breathing mingling with yours. “You’re going to drive me crazy, love,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough whisper full of adoration and exasperation. Then he leans in again, claiming your mouth hungrily.

And you, in his arms, can only smile devilishly against his lips.

Six months.

That’s how long it had been since The Overlook burned.

Since Rose the Hat invaded your mind.

Since you saw Danny at his worst.

Since you saw Abra risk her life to save a friend.

Life was quiet for them since. But not for you.

There were nights you would wake up screaming, covered in sweat as your brain replayed everything Rose did to you. Other nights, Danny would secretly use his shine to quiet your thoughts and help you sleep. You didn’t know what “Shine” was until you met him and Abra. Lucky for them, you didn’t have much of it. Unlucky for you, the thoughts and images flashing through your mind at night weren’t something you could just lock away and forget. To combat this, you gave up trying to sleep, only passing out when your body could no longer keep itself awake.

Danny noticed instantly that the little shine you did have would spike after staying up for too long. He started hanging around afterwards. Taking a leave of absence from work, since one of his good friends died during the incident with Rose.

Tonight was brutal.

Rain streaked the window behind you, blurring the streetlights into smears of gold against the dark. You normally watched the water dance on your window, but not tonight. You heard the key turning, but couldn’t bring yourself to look towards the door. Footsteps dragged as Danny swiped his feet on the doormat, trying not to track mud inside. He knew you hated having to mop. As he made his way to your living room, his steps stilled as he took in your appearance.

You sat curled on the sofa, knees drawn tight to your chest, staring blankly towards the television. His heart burned inside his chest as he continued to really look at you. Scars littered your body from that night, eyes hollow as you continued to replay memories that stole your nights.

He knew how they deepened when the old house’s phantom creaks became screams in your mind. There were some nights when the quiet house was somehow just too noisy.

“Come here,” He murmured, the words barely audible but carrying the faintest strength of authority in his voice.

You blinked, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction as you unfolded yourself from the couch and drifted towards Danny. Your movements dragged. It was like watching the shell of a loved one moving around your place. The cold air in the room went unnoticed by you, but not by him. Your body was freezing; short sleeves and bare feet against the hardwood floor weren’t helping. He carefully took hold of your hand, tracing the frantic pulse underneath your skin.

“Let me help you, please.” Danny’s words were comforting, laced with traces of the shine, hoping to get you to listen to him.

He wrapped his arms around your cold body, waiting for you to snap out of whatever daze your mind was in. He stood there until you finally decided to return the hug. He didn’t even have to be inside your head to know you needed this.

Someone who understands what you went through.

Someone who knew you weren’t crazy.

Danny rested his head against yours, silently steering your thoughts to focus only on him. Your breathing relaxed, no longer frantic.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

Your voice is broken and scratchy, muffled against his chest.

“Help me forget, please.”

Danny pulled away to look at you. Eyes red and puffy from countless nights awake. There was a silent agreement between the two of you, but he needed to hear you say it.

“Are you sure?”

You knew what he was asking, and despite it terrifying you, you still nodded your head and muttered a “Yes.” He took your hand and led you to your bedroom, the enclosed space feeling empty and hollow after you had not wanted to spend more than a couple of minutes inside. Danny’s hand pressed into your back, and you sighed, the tension in your body slowly going away. You could feel pressure in your body, wrapping your mind in velvet—dark, soft, and impossibly warm. The sound of rain outside became distant white noise.

Danny lay you down on the cool sheets, his fingers lingering at the hem of your shirt. You gave him a small nod, giving him permission to continue. The shirt was tossed on the floor, and your breath hitched in anticipation as warm hands caressed your body.

You could see Danny inside your head, holding your hand and walking you away from every nightmare that plagued your thoughts over the last six months. He locked them away in his own box, allowing them to haunt you no longer. His mouth found yours, and the pressure in your body returned, dissolving the sharp edges of your nerves. It was like a current passing between you two, carrying reassurance and hunger in equal measure. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, a wordless plea for more.

A low vibration hummed through your bones as Danny eased your shorts down your hips. A soft gasp left your lips as he mapped your skin with his mouth, tracing the curve of your hipbone, the dip of your navel, each touch infused with that warmth spreading throughout your body. Replacing the anxiety with the heat that pooled in your stomach. Your body trembled, the denim of his jeans a rough contrast to your skin before taking them off.

He pushed inside you slowly, the shine flowing as a protective barrier between you two. Every inch of you yielded-not just your body, but the fear that settled deep in your muscles, the fractured thoughts behind your eyelids. He could feel you unraveling: horrible memories locked away dissolving into the slick heat of you around him. Your hips lifted to meet his thrusts, breaths coming in ragged, open-mouthed gasps that fogged the air between their faces.

There was no room for ghosts here.

No more nightmares, no monsters. Only the driving rhythm of your bodies, the fuzzy pressure of the shine amplifying every shared sensation until your whimpers sharpened into cries that had nothing to do with pain, and everything to do with pleasure.

Danny moved slowly, but deliberately; each thrust was a measured calculation. His shine was strong and pulsed between them, turning every nerve ending into a live wire singing with satisfaction. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, head thrown against the pillow as your mind was overwhelmed with sensation. The shadows behind your eyes weren’t nightmares now; it was electricity.

Your body arched aggressively, a choked sob tearing from your throat as your body clenched around him, wave after wave crashing through you until you went utterly still, breath shaky and body trembling. Danny stayed buried deep within you, feeling the aftershock ripple through your body as his own release surged, hot and thick. He softened the shine to a gentle hum, a low warmth that seeped into your bones, soothing the last tremors from your limbs. Your eyes fluttered once, heavy as stone, your breath already deepening into the slow, even rhythm of exhaustion. A small smile touched your lips, the first one in six months.

After catching his breath, Danny pulled out of you carefully, the mattress groaning against his shifting weight. Rain was still rapping at the window, but the air in the room had shifted. You lie utterly still, limbs resting against the bed. Your breathing deepened into the slow, rhythmic sleep he’s fought for months to hear. He watched the rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted slightly with each exhale. No twitch in your eyelids, no restless curl of your fingers. Just sleep, thick and consuming.

He sat upright on the edge of the mattress, silence broken through the room only by your light snoring. Your face looked younger through the intermittent flashes of lightning. Tension lines smoothed away, dark hollows beneath your eyes softened into mere smudges. A small strand of hair clung to your temple. He resisted the urge to push it back, not wanting to risk disturbing your peace. The silence felt blessed, thick with the absence of your usual nightmares.

Rose couldn’t hurt you anymore.

The Overlook couldn’t hurt you anymore.

🖤 He can be an obsessive little freak<3

🖤If you can look past the unhygienic, angry man you can see Dan for what he is. A very traumatized person.

🖤Treat him like a normal person and he is, so Confused. Probably thinks you're fucking with him or pulling some cruel joke.

🖤When he realizes you're not and you're actually just chill like that. He clings like a leech.

🖤That being said. He will not treat you any different. Maybe a little better but it's not much.

🖤Your enemies become his enemies. Yes he will attempt to mail them anthrax.

🖤 "Whaaat it's not even real anthrax just flour, yknow, just to scare them..yeah!"

🖤the couple that stays together stays on a government watch list together.

🖤He will yell at you because thats the only way Dan will feel heard at times. He does apologize eventually and take you to burgerphile. You will have to pay though.

🖤2 options if you yell back. Hes kinda pathetic in that he will pout or ignore you or he's into it.

🖤Is Clingy. Dan will cling to you while you sleep or at home doing nothing but in front of Chris or Elise he is very aloof. Cat behavior.

🖤He does love and cherish you, he's just horrible at showing it.

🖤will probably tell you all the sappy crap he wishes he could tell you face to face while you sleep. If you wake up during one of these moments and ask what he's talking about. Expect to be smacked and told to shut up.

🖤Will kiss your head once he's sure you're asleep.

🖤Youll wake up and find him curled up on your chest.

🖤fiercely loyal. Will put aside his cowardice if he feels like you're being treated unjustly. You may have to hold him back so he doesn't go back to jail.

🖤You both did date night with Chris and Elise. Once. It ended in a revenge ploy by Dan because he swears the chef put cream in his soup when he specified clearly that he is very lactose intolerant.

🖤He cares deeply for you he's just a very angry if not broken man. If you stay long enough he still acts like a jerk but he will work on himself enough that its more funny than annoying for you.

২ blair waldorf

২ chuck bass

২ dan humphrey

২ nate archibald

২ serena van der woodsen