You don't bother turning around. If HR's finally come to write you up for smoking in an unauthorized area, they can get in line behind your last three "impressive" performance reviews and that passive-aggressive email chain about your "break frequency."

"Do you have more of that?"

Woman's voice. Low, not in a rush. Definitely not HR—those people always sound sorry before they screw you over.

You look over your shoulder.

She's... not what you expected. Looks like she wandered out of a photoshoot and got lost. Camel-colored coat, big and expensive-looking, the kind where you can't see a label but you know it costs more than your rent. Auburn hair past her shoulders, catching the little bit of sun that's fighting through the clouds. And her face—all clean angles and cheekbones sharp enough to hurt yourself on.

She doesn't fit up here. She looks like corner offices and town cars, like anywhere that doesn't reek of stale cigarettes and bad decisions.

"You sure?" you say. "These aren't fancy."

"I'm aware."

You shrug, pull out the pack, shake one loose. She takes it with slim fingers, nails painted some color that probably has a stupid name like "greige." You hold out your lighter and she leans in, cups her hand around the flame. You get a whiff of something floral and expensive under all the rooftop stink.

She takes a drag.

You watch her expression flicker—this split-second of genuine disgust before she smooths it over. Almost fast enough to miss.

"That's actually vile. Like, genuinely unhinged."

"Yep."

She tries again anyway. Stubborn. Her nose scrunches up and she holds the cigarette out like it's personally wronged her entire bloodline.

"This tastes like if depression had a flavor. Who hurt you?"

"Audit season."

"Okay, that makes sense."

She looks at you. Hard to tell if she's annoyed or amused. Probably both.

"I needed stress relief," she says. "Left mine at home like an idiot, figured any cigarette would work." She glares at the one in her hand. "But this is criminal. You might actually be a war criminal."

"There's a meditation app. HR won't stop emailing about it."

"Tried meditation."

"And?"

"Wanted to chuck my phone into traffic. Very unmeditative."

"Building's fourteen floors. Plenty of traffic down there."

Her mouth does something—not quite a smile, but close. She drops the cigarette and grinds it out with her heel. Designer heel, from the look of it. Not made for filthy rooftops.

She doesn't leave.

You take another drag and wait. People who look like her don't hang around places like this without wanting something.

"You're not very talkative," she says. "Giving silent main character energy."

"I'm on break."

"Same."

She moves closer. Close enough you can see her pulse going at her throat. Her eyes are dark, hard to read, watching you like she's figuring something out.

"Cigarettes," she says, slower now, "are basically about oral fixation, right? Hand to mouth. Something to do with your lips. Something to suck on." She tilts her head a little like a puppy devoid of reason. "Kind of pathetic when you think about it."

You raise an eyebrow. "Thanks?"

"No, I mean—" She waves her hand. "The coping mechanism. Not you. You're fine. Whatever."

"Good to know."

"But I have another idea." Another step closer.

Wind picks up and pulls your smoke away. You look at her—perfect face, expensive clothes, this certainty in the way she holds herself that doesn't quite hide something restless underneath. She's not asking permission. She's letting you know what's happening.

"I don't know your name," you say.

"Does that matter?"

"Not really."

"Cool. Love that we're efficient about this."

You think about the audit, the spreadsheets, how you haven't done a single interesting thing in weeks.

"Sure," you say. "Why not."

"Wow. Don't hurt yourself with all that enthusiasm."

She kisses you first. Quick, testing—like she's trying a sample before she commits. Your cigarette's still going between your fingers when she pulls back and drops to her knees.

The concrete's gotta be freezing. Rough, too. She doesn't seem to notice or care.

"This is insane, by the way," she says, casual, fingers already working at your belt. "Just so we're on the same page. I know it's insane. Do you know it's insane?"

"Getting there."

"Great."

No fumbling with the belt, no hesitation. She gets your slacks open and tugs them down just enough, hand sliding into your boxers and wrapping around you.

Warm. Soft. She strokes slow, learning, and you watch her face as she pulls you out into the cold air.

She studies your cock for a second. Then her eyebrows go up.

"Oh. Okay. Yeah, this works."

"Glad I passed."

"Don't get cocky."

You can tell. There's something kind of charming about it, actually—all that bravado with the uncertainty showing through the cracks.

She leans in and presses her lips against your shaft, just under the head. Breathes you in.

"You smell like smoke." She says it into your skin. "Shocking, I know. You're probably sixty percent nicotine at this point."

"Occupational hazard."

"Mm-hm."

Her tongue slips out. Tasting. A slow lick up the underside that makes you suck in a breath before you can help it. She does it again, traces along the vein to the tip, and her eyelids droop.

When she talks again, her voice is different. Softer. Less show.

"Okay, this is... yeah. Way better than cigarettes."

She wraps her lips around the head and sucks. Soft at first, careful—like that first drag where you're testing how it pulls. You watch her cheeks hollow, watch her lashes brush her cheekbones, watch her throat work as she takes more of you in.

Your hand finds her hair before you think about it. You don't push—just rest it there, silk sliding between your fingers.

She pulls off, lets you go with a wet sound, and looks up.

"You can keep smoking. I seriously don't care. Multitask. Live your truth."

Right. The cigarette. Burned down to nothing. You drop it, crush it underfoot, dig out another. Light it with hands that are mostly steady.

"Multitasking," you say.

"King behavior." Her lips curve against your cock. "Respect."

Then she takes you into her mouth again, and all the sarcasm just... stops.

Deeper now. Wetter. She's savoring it, tongue doing things along the underside, figuring out what makes your thighs go tight. Not rushing, not putting on a show. Just focused, steady pleasure—like she's after something and this is how she gets there.

You smoke and watch and feel the last two weeks of tension start bleeding out of you.

She comes off to breathe, spit stringing between her lips and your cock, and presses her face against your shaft. Nuzzles into it. Eyes half-shut, something dreamy in her expression now. The bratty act is gone. What's underneath is simpler—just someone sinking into the moment, finding something she didn't know she was looking for.

"This is workable," she mumbles against you. "This is like... actually good."

She kisses along your length, slow and soft. Almost sweet. Tongue tracing shapes you can't track, and when she gets to the tip she licks up the precum there with a little satisfied sound.

"You taste like stress," she says. "And smoke. And something. I don't know. It works."

"High praise."

"Shut up." No edge to it now. She sucks you back in, gentle. Lets you pop free. "I think I could actually get addicted to this. Which is probably not great."

The way she says it—joking but not really—sends heat twisting through your gut.

"Dangerous habit," you manage.

"Yeah, well." She looks up, and just for a second the mask slips all the way off. Something almost soft underneath. "Apparently I have a type."

She takes you deep. Doesn't stop this time, just keeps going until you hit the back of her throat and feel her swallow around you. Your grip tightens in her hair and she moans, vibration buzzing straight through you.

"Fuck," you get out.

After that she finds her pace. Steady and relentless, like she could keep at it for hours. Like she wants to. Every time she pulls off to breathe she mouths along your shaft, presses messy kisses to the head, makes these little noises like she's enjoying herself as much as you are.

Maybe more.

Your cigarette burns away. You don't light a new one. Can't focus enough, not with her mouth on you like that, the wet heat and suction and how she keeps glancing up through her lashes to make sure you're watching.

You are. Couldn't look away if you tried.

"Close," you tell her. Fair warning.

She doesn't back off. Goes harder—sucking tighter, hand coming up to grip the base and stroke to match her mouth. Other hand flat on your thigh, bracing. Her eyes lock on yours, wide and bright, caught between surprise and hunger.

You come hard, spilling over her tongue, and she just takes it. Swallows around you, throat working, pulling every drop out of you until you're twitching and way too sensitive.

She lets you slip out slow, deliberate. Sits back on her heels and looks up, mouth red and wet and puffy.

For a second she just catches her breath. Then the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Yeah, okay. That was..." Long exhale. "Way better than any cigarette. Not even a competition."

You sag into the railing, still getting your breathing back. "Glad I could help."

She stands up smooth, fixes her skirt like she wasn't just kneeling on a gross rooftop. Pulls a tissue from her purse and dabs at the corner of her lips. Put-together again, mostly, except for the flush on her cheeks and the slightly glazed look in her eyes.

"So," she says, bravado creeping back, not quite as steady as before. "You taking another break later? After work, maybe?"

You blink. "Seriously?"

"I mean." She gestures vaguely at herself like that means something. "I'm stressed. This helped. You exist. The math is mathing."

"The math is mathing," you repeat.

"Don't make it weird."

You think it over. Think about her mouth, about how she got soft and real once she quit performing, about the three hours of spreadsheets still waiting for you.

"Usually take a break around six or seven," you say.

"Gocha", she lets out a smirk of approval. She heads for the door, stops, looks back. "I'm Rei, by the way."

"Okay."

"This is where you tell me yours. That's how it works."

"Does it matter?"

She thinks about that. Something crosses her face—amusement, or maybe recognition.

"Guess not," she says, throwing your own words back at you. "Six o'clock, stranger."

Then she's gone.

You stay a while longer. Light up again. Watch the city below and let your mind go empty.

Later on, in the break room, somebody from legal's going on about the CEO.

"She's around all week," they're saying, topping off their coffee. "Director's daughter. Really hands-on, apparently. Rei something."

You think about her mouth. How she said the math is mathing like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to say right after swallowing your cum on a dirty rooftop.

"Huh," you say, and head back to your spreadsheets.