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Obviously, that's not acceptable. So Lando decides to remedy the situation by casually fixing his shirt sleeve, which requires him to tilt toward Carlos, of course. They just happen to hit a bump at the same moment, so Carlos leans into him anyway.
And they drift apart slightly. So this time Lando needs to turn toward Carlos to look over his shoulder.
They tell themselves this is just work. But late nights blur, assumptions settle in, and proximity starts to feel less like strategy and more like risk â especially when neither of them is quite trying to step back anymore.
âšReturn to Story Master Listâš
The first thing that changes is the calendar.
Not dramatically. Not with an announcement. Just a quiet shift in the way your name starts appearing next to Timâs on invites that are no longer phrased as requests.
Follow-up.
Continuity.
Clarifying questions.
Ethics documentation.
The board doesnât say we need you. They say it would be helpful.
Which is, in Gotham, the same thing.
You learn this on a Tuesday that should have been ordinary. The kind of day that starts with coffee and ends with a predictable amount of exhaustionâcontained, planned, survivable.
Instead, your phone lights up with an email chain that has grown teeth.
As part of the revised governance timeline, weâd like to schedule a working session with Mr. Drake and our external consultant to align messaging and documentation ahead of the January 30 vote.
External consultant.
It reads like a job title.
It feels like a collar.
You forward it to Tim with a single line:
You: Confirming you saw this.
His response comes too quickly.
Tim: I did. Iâm sorry.
You stare at Iâm sorry until it blurs slightly at the edges.
Heâs not apologizing for the work.
Heâs apologizing for the shape itâs taking.
You type back:
You: Itâs fine. Schedule it.
It isnât fine.
You schedule it anyway.
âž»
By six p.m., Wayne Enterprises is emptying out with the smooth inevitability of a building that believes in clean endings. The elevators carry people downward. Lights dim in stages. Offices go quiet one by one.
Timâs doesnât.
His desk lamp stays onâwarm, deliberate. A single human circle of light inside an institution that prefers fluorescent truth.
When you arrive, heâs already set up the conference table with documents and a laptop, his jacket draped neatly over a chair. His tie is loosened a fraction, not enough to look casual, just enough to admit heâs been here all day.
He looks up as you step in.
âThank you for coming,â he says.
Itâs the first time heâs said it like thatâlike the words arenât automatic.
You set your bag down. âWe both know I didnât have much of a choice.â
A beat.
Timâs mouth tightens, then softens. âNo. You didnât.â
He gestures toward the table, toward the agenda that has been laid out like a quiet battlefield.
âBoard wants to walk through the ethics narrative again,â he says.
He still hasnât explained why he left that day.
You havenât asked.
Some absences explain themselves by the way they lingered.
âTheyâre nervous about the amendment delay. They want⊠reassurance.â He continues
The word lands heavy.
Reassurance has never been about the numbers.
You sit, posture composed, pen already in hand. âThen we reassure them.â
Tim watches you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze flicks to your handsâsteady, readyâthen up to your face.
âYou shouldnât have to,â he says quietly.
You keep your eyes on the documents. âIâm here.â
It is not the same thing.
Tim doesnât argue. He never argues when the truth is inconvenient.
He just starts.
âž»
The work is methodical.
You go line by line through the revised documentation. You tighten phrasing. You remove anything that can be interpreted as emotional reasoning. You make the narrative clean enough for people who like their ethics in neat little boxes.
Tim answers questions you ask as if youâre any other consultant. Calm. Precise. Contained.
Itâs almost convincing.
Until it isnât.
â
An hour in, you pause over a paragraph and frown.
âThis sentence implies that the delay was due to internal disagreement.â
âIt was,â Tim says.
âYes, but weâre not framing it that way,â you reply. âWeâre framing it as due diligence.â
Tim nods. âRight.â
You read the next section more slowly. Then again.
âWait,â you say, tapping the page once.
Tim leans in. âWhat?â
âIf we leave it like this,â you say carefully, âthey can revisit approvals later. Pull funding. Adjust terms.â
Tim stills. He hadnât seen it â not yet.
âAfter?â he asks.
You lift your gaze.
âAfter,â you confirm.
The word hangs there â heavier than it should be, not because itâs dramatic, but because itâs finally been said out loud.
Timâs mouth tightens. âWhen things end.â
Not an accusation.
Not a fear.
Just a fact neither of you has named until now.
âTheyâll want language that outlasts⊠this,â he adds quietly.
Something sharp and unwelcome twists in your chest. You keep your voice even.
âThen we donât let it hinge on narrative at all,â you say. âWe make the justification independent. Clean enough that it stands even after.â
Silence stretches.
Timâs fingers curl slightly against the edge of the table. He hadnât planned on thinking past the end date tonight. He especially hadnât planned on hearing it framed like a contingency instead of a choice.
âWhat they mean,â he says finally, voice lower, âis whether Iâm stable.â
You donât look up. You donât have to.
âWhat they mean,â you correct gently, âis whether youâre legible.â
Timâs gaze catches on you again at thatâsomething flickering beneath his composure. Not gratitude. Not relief.
Something more complicated.
Dangerous.
He says your name like heâs grounding himself. âWe shouldnât be doing this.â
The words land without heat, without accusation.
Just truth.
You swallow, pen hovering. âNo.â
And then, because you are who you are, because you canât lie cleanly even when you want to:
âBut if we donât, theyâll start asking questions.â
Timâs eyes sharpen. âAbout me.â
âAbout us,â you correct, and feel the weight of it immediately.
Us.
The word wasnât supposed to come out that way.
Tim stills.
For a moment, he looks like heâs about to say something and decides not to. His jaw tightens. He nods onceâsmall, controlled.
âRight,â he says. âAbout us.â
Your pulse ticks up, quiet but insistent. You force it down by returning to the page.
âOkay,â you say briskly. âBack to the language.â
Timâs gaze stays on you for a second too long.
Then he follows you back into the work because he always does. Because he always chooses what can be managed.
âž»
By nine, the building has gone so quiet that even your breathing feels loud.
You rub at your temple, eyes gritty, and reach for your coffeeâonly to find the cup empty.
Tim notices without looking at you. He just stands.
âStay,â he says, and leaves before you can respond.
You sit there alone, staring at the documents, trying not to think about how intimate it is that he told you to stay like it was a given you would.
Ten minutes later, he returns with two coffees.
Not catered. Not ordered. Not delegated.
He has gone out himself.
He sets one cup in front of you with the care of someone handling something breakable.
âItâs late,â he says, as if that explains everything.
You look at the cup, then at him. âYou didnât have to.â
Timâs mouth quirks, barely. âI know.â
You wrap your fingers around the warmth. It steadies you.
It also does something worse.
It makes the night feel domestic.
Like you belong here.
You take a sip and close your eyes for half a second.
When you open them, Tim is watching you.
Not like a CEO assessing a consultant.
Like a man watching the one person in the room who doesnât ask him to be simple.
You clear your throat. âThank you.â
His gaze drops, just briefly. âYouâre welcome.â
And then, like he needs to put walls back up before they collapse, he sits and picks up his pen again.
âNext section,â he says, too professional.
You let him have it.
âž»
By ten thirty, youâve finished the last revision.
The document is cleaner than it was. The narrative tighter. The machine fed.
You should feel satisfied.
Instead, you feel hollow.
Tim leans back in his chair, eyes closing for a moment. When he opens them, he looks tired in a way he rarely allows anyone to see.
âWe did it,â you say, because you donât know what else to say.
Timâs gaze lifts to you. âYes.â
A pause.
Longer this time.
Not filled by work.
Filled by whatâs left when the work is done.
âYou should go home,â Tim says.
Itâs careful. Itâs polite. Itâs the right thing to say.
You nod. âI should.â
Neither of you moves.
Outside the window, the city glittersâindifferent and beautiful.
Inside, the air feels charged, like a storm that never breaks.
You stand first, gathering your things with unnecessary precision. Bag zipped. Notes collected. Pen capped.
Control.
You slide your coat on, and as you shift, the strap of your bag catches against the chair.
The motion pulls you off balance just slightlyânot enough to fall, just enough to stumble half a step.
A small thing.
Tim reacts instantly.
Heâs up and beside you in a blink, one hand reaching out to steady you.
His palm lands at the small of your back.
Warm.
Firm.
Protective.
Itâs the same gesture from the restaurant, the same careful touch meant to prevent a collision.
But thereâs no waiter here.
No crowd.
No excuse.
You still.
Tim stills.
For a moment, neither of you lets go.
You can feel the exact shape of his hand through the fabric of your coat. You can feel how his fingers flex once, like heâs checking himself.
Your breath catches. You hate that it does.
Timâs voice is close, lower than it has been all night.
âAre you okay?â
You nod, but you donât trust your voice. So you make yourself speak anyway.
âYes,â you manage. âIâm fine.â
Tim doesnât move.
His hand remains at your back, not sliding, not squeezingâjust⊠there.
Present.
As if letting go would be the real risk.
You tilt your head just slightly, not to look at him fullyâbecause that would be too muchâbut enough that your peripheral catches the line of his jaw, the concentration in his expression, the restraint held like a blade.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
Just for a second.
Then back up.
A quiet inhale.
The space between you narrows by a fraction.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
But the possibility of one hangs thereâbright, dangerous, unbearable.
Timâs hand lifts away as if it burns him.
He steps back.
The air rushes in between you like a door opening.
âIâm sorry,â he says automaticallyâlike last time, like a reflex, like an apology for wanting.
You swallow. âYou didnât do anything.â
Timâs eyes flick up, sharp with something you canât afford to name.
âExactly,â he says softly.
The words land like a warning.
Or a confession.
Or both.
You hold his gaze for one breath longer than you should.
Then you look away first.
Because if you donât, youâre not sure youâll be able to leave at all.
âGood night,â you say.
âGood night,â Tim replies.
And you walk out of his office with your posture composed and your steps steady, as if your body hasnât just learned something it canât unknow.
âž»
In the elevator, the reflection of your face in the mirrored wall looks the same as it always doesâcalm, controlled, unreadable.
But your heart doesnât match.
It keeps replaying the same moment on a loop.
The warmth of his hand.
The brief flick of his gaze.
The fraction of a second where the kiss existed like a door left slightly open.
This was supposed to get easier.
Instead, itâs getting closer.
And the worst part isâ
Youâre not sure either of you is trying very hard to stop it anymore.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
The booba pic inspired me to think; there is no way in hell heavy and medic are not secretly thinking about each others boobs but heavy is more secretive while medic like;
"I wear sunglasses so no one can see what I'm looking at" stares at heavy boobs