Welcome, Losers

Ongoing series ୨ৎ

Dress and the Dirt

Ruined by you

One Shots ୨ৎ

Quiet Hours

Red Heaven

An Eternal Reckoning

What The Fire Couldn’t Burn

The door clicks shut behind you.

He’s already close enough to touch, sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose. You don’t give him a chance to speak. Your fingers hook into the silk, twist once, and pull him forward.

“Down.”

He drops before you’ve blinked. No hesitation. Knees to the concrete.

His eyes flick up hungry, almost dazed while you push your skirt high on your hips. The lace barely covers you. He leans in to kiss over the fabric, warm breath seeping through.

You fist your hand in his hair and push him closer until he has no choice but to inhale you.

“Open,” you say, voice low, breath tight.

He does. Tongue out, waiting.

You lean down just enough to spit into his mouth, slow, deliberate. He doesn’t flinch—just groans once, deep in his chest before dragging his tongue up the thin strip of lace.

When you shove the fabric aside, it’s with zero ceremony. His mouth is on you instantly messy, wet, urgent but every movement is still deliberate, as if he’s afraid to miss something.

Your head tips back against the wall. One heel braced beside his shoulder, the other planted wide. His tie brushes your thigh every time he shifts closer.

“Don’t you stop,” you hiss through your moan, nails curling into his scalp.

He doesn’t. He’s groaning into you now, every sound vibrating through your body. The rhythm builds—tongue and lips and just enough pressure from his hands gripping your thighs.

It hits fast, but not carelessly. Heat curls through you, pulling you tighter, sharper, until you’re grinding against his mouth. When it comes, it rips out of you low, breathless, and mean.

He stays there, lips dragging one last time across the inside of your thigh before you push his forehead back.

You reach beneath your skirt, slide the lace thong down your legs. Press it into his open palm.

“Keep these,” you say, smooth and final.

He’s still kneeling when you step out, skirt falling back into place, heels clicking down the hall toward the party.

You rejoin the welcome party like nothing happened.

The banner over the drink table says WELCOME TO THE NEXT GENERATION! in big block letters, sagging in the middle like it’s already given up. HR’s idea of a warm reception: lukewarm prosecco, cupcakes with the company logo in edible ink, and a playlist built for dentists’ offices.

It’s meant to celebrate the new hires, people like you but no one seems to care beyond the free booze.

You slip between clusters of chatter, past a junior exec retelling the same “first day” story for the third time. At the mixing table, you grab two drinks: one for yourself and one for Nadia.

Jack steps through the doorway like he’s walking onto a stage. The noise hits first music, chatter, glasses clinking but it’s the sight of you that stops him dead.

You’re leaning against the table with Nadia and that HR girl Ally? Abby? laugh softer now than it was in the stairwell. No trace of what happened in the closet. No smear of lipstick, no mussed hair. Nothing for anyone else to notice.

But he knows. Knows the way you taste. Knows the sound you make when you’re close. Knows the feel of lace in his palm.

It’s a celebration for the new hires supposed to be about them and yet he can’t remember a single name in the room except yours.

He forces himself to circulate, nodding through small talk, making eye contact with people he couldn’t care less about. But every so often, his gaze slides back to you, uninvited. Like muscle memory.

When Maeve catches him staring, she raises an eyebrow. He gives her a tight, noncommittal smile and moves on. Still, the taste hasn’t left his mouth.

You’re mid-laugh when you slide the cup into Nadia’s hand. “You’re a saint,” she says, grinning at you before turning back to the conversation. “We were just talking about that ridiculous onboarding quiz.”

“I liked it,” you say, leaning in with a smirk. “I mean we did get paid for it.”

They laugh. You sip.

No one notices the faint scent of bleach still clinging to your skirt. No one sees the flash in your eyes when your gaze skims the room.

One Week Later

Maeve steps into Jack’s office without knocking, dropping a folder on his desk with the satisfying slap of paper against wood. “New board schedule. Try to make eye contact in at least one of them.”

Jack doesn’t look up from his screen. “I always make eye contact.”

“Not with me. With the people you’re allegedly listening to.” She crosses her arms. “Last meeting, you stared through me like I was frosted glass.”

Jack smirks faintly. “Maybe you were just boring.”

Maeve sits, crossing one leg over the other. “Or maybe your attention’s… elsewhere lately.”

He gives her a look. “Meaning?”

“Meaning,” she says, drawing it out, “I’ve been your assistant for six years. I know when you’re distracted, I know when you’re brooding, and I definitely know when you’re circling something you shouldn’t touch.”

Jack leans back in his chair, feigning disinterest. “I think you overestimate your psychic abilities.”

“Maybe.” Maeve stands, straightening her skirt. “But if I were a betting woman, I’d say you’ve got a tell.”

He raises an eyebrow. “A tell?”

“Yeah,” she says over her shoulder as she walks to the door. “You check your watch every time the elevator dings.”

The door clicks shut behind her, and Jack stares at the closed wood for a beat too long before going back to his screen.

Downstairs — Floor 35

Your new floor smells different. Less burnt coffee, more expensive perfume. The chatter is sharper, faster full of people who already think they’re indispensable.

Three days into the role and you’ve already noticed the hierarchy. The unspoken rules. And the one woman Monica who seems to have made it her mission to hate you on sight.

She’s older, maybe mid-thirties, and gives you those I’ve been here longer smiles whenever you get praised in a meeting. Yesterday, she “accidentally” left you off an email thread for a project you’d been assigned.

Doesn’t matter. You caught up, fixed the issue, and handed in a cleaner version than hers. Now she’s glaring across the open floor, which you take as a compliment.

Ryan, your current shadow, notices. “She’s going to start making little dolls and sticking pins in them,” he whispers, leaning just close enough to make you laugh.

Ryan’s… pleasant. Witty without trying too hard. He’s twenty-five, tall, with an easy smile that probably gets him free drinks. The type who always has a comeback but knows when to shut up.

“You’re terrible,” you murmur, flipping through a briefing packet.

“Accurate,” he corrects. “But terrible works for me.”

By Friday, Jack’s patience has eroded. You’ve been in your new role barely a week and he’s barely seen you outside passing moments in hallways or conference rooms.

So he calls a board meeting with your department. Not because it’s necessary half the items could’ve been emails but because he knows you’ll be there.

When you walk in, he feels it. The shift. The pull. You’re all polished efficiency in a fitted blouse and sharp skirt, sliding into a seat without even glancing at him.

He spends the first twenty minutes pretending to care about a budget presentation, stealing looks when he can. When you finally meet his eye across the table, it’s a brief, cool acknowledgment—nothing for anyone else to clock, but enough to make his pulse kick.

He’s already planning another “urgent” meeting for next week.

Same Day — 7:30 Pm.

The text finds you as you’re zipping your bag.

Come upstairs.

You don’t rush. You shut your laptop. Slip your phone in your pocket. Take the stairs, not the elevator.

By the time you hit 36, the floor’s gone to hush: distant vacuum, exit signs humming.

His office door is cracked. You push it with two fingers and slide in, closing it softly behind you.

He’s in the chair behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled, trying to look bored. You let the silence stretch. Then you start toward him unhurried, eyes on his, your fingers trailing the edge of his desk as you round it, a slow circle like you’re sizing up prey. You come to a stop between his knees, close enough that the leather sighs when he shifts.

“You wanted to see me?” Calm. Almost sweet.

“I’ve heard you’ve been excelling already.” He says it like feedback. His gaze says something else.

You set your bag down. One step closer. He starts to rise

Your palm presses his sternum and pushes him back into the leather. The chair rolls an inch.

You kneel, flick both wheel locks down. Click. Click.

His mouth tilts. “What are you doi—”

You slap him. Not hard. Just enough to shut the question in half.

He goes quiet. Breath catches. Confusion flickers; his cock answers for him.

You take his tie. Slide it loose from his collar, the silk whispering through your fingers. You loop it and tug it snug over his eyes, knotting it at the back of his head. He gives a short, nervous chuckle he can’t swallow.

“You’re—”

“Quiet.”

Your hands move like you own the room belt, zipper, knuckles grazing heat. He’s already hard. Heavy in your hand. You spit into your palm, slow enough that he hears it hit skin, and wrap him, stroking lazy, thumb circling the head until the first groan slips out unguarded.

Your other hand drags your skirt up, bunching it at your hips. Nylon, then lace. He tilts toward the sound like he can smell it.

You lean in, lips at his ear. “Wasting my time with that meeting today… just to see me?”

He swallows. Nothing.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” he breathes, wrecked already.

“Silly.”

You line him up and sink down in one long, unbroken slide. His head knocks back against the chair, a curse torn out of him as you take all of it. The stretch punches a little sound out of your throat; you bite it back and set the pace slow, deliberate rolls of your hips that make him feel every inch on the way in and out. Wet gathers and spills, slicking down the length of him, spotting his slacks.

“Fuck—” he rasps, fingers flexing against the armrests. You tighten around him just to hear it again.

“You think you can waste my time with bullshit?” you murmur, palms on his chest as you ride him deeper, steady and cruelly good.

He nods under the blindfold, mouth open, breath hot. You keep him there following your rhythm, chasing it, losing himself. The chair doesn’t budge; the wheels are locked. The only sounds are the wet slide of you dripping over him, the leather creak, the stunted noises he makes when you roll your hips just right.

You feel him coil chest tight, thighs braced, one heartbeat from begging. You lift off him in a smooth, merciless pull.

He spills across himself with a strangled sound hot stripes on shirt and slacks, blindfold slipping a fraction with the force of it. You stand over him, skirt falling, pulse steadying, and watch his chest heave.

You smooth your blouse. Pick up your bag. Pause at the door.

“Next time,” you say, light as a kiss, “use your words. Not a boardroom.”

Then you’re gone leaving him blindfolded, and pathetic.

Weekend — Your Flat

By the time Nadia’s on your couch, the wine’s open, the pizza’s cooling on the coffee table, and your bra is somewhere on the floor.

“I’m serious,” she says through a mouthful of crust, “if I die and come back as a man, I’m only dating older women. Like, older older.”

You laugh, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Define older.”

“Mid-forties. Maybe fifties if she owns property. I want her seasoned, cynical, and with at least one divorce under her belt.”

“That’s… oddly specific,” you say, pretending the words don’t feel like a landmine.

Nadia shrugs, topping up both your glasses. “Younger guys are all talk. Older men? They’re either terrible… or they’ll ruin your life in the best way.”

You keep your face neutral, like you’re agreeing in theory. “Sounds risky.”

“That’s the point,” she says with a grin. “God, I haven’t had good risky in forever.”

The front door creaks open and your roommate walks in, keys clinking as she drops them on the counter without looking at you. A nod, maybe a hum of acknowledgment. She passes through like a ghost on a mission.

“Hey,” you call after her.

“Mm.”

Once her door clicks shut, Nadia leans closer. “She’s terrifying.”

“She hates everyone,” you say, grabbing another slice. “It’s her thing.”

“Still,” Nadia whispers dramatically, “I think she hexed me once.”

You snort wine up your nose.

The conversation slides easily from bad dates to terrible hookup stories ones that require exaggerated hand gestures and at least three different accents to tell properly.

“That’s why I don’t do situationships anymore,” Nadia says, refilling her glass for the third time. “It’s either fun or it’s commitment. I’m not doing the in-between.”

You hum like you agree, chewing slowly to buy yourself a pause. “Yeah… in-between’s messy.”

She doesn’t notice the way you glance at your phone for half a second too long before flipping it face down.

At some point you pull your laptop over, legs folded under you, and open up the bookmarked apartment listings.

“Ohhh,” Nadia says, eyes wide. “We’re finally doing this?”

“Thinking about it.” You shrug. “The new position’s paying better. Feels possible.”

Her hand shoots out for the laptop like it’s hers now. “This is my World Cup. ”

For the next hour, you two become self-appointed real estate critics, scrolling through tiny kitchens and overpriced closets masquerading as bedrooms.

“This one’s cute,” she says, pointing to a bright studio.

“Too cute. Looks like it smells like essential oils and disappointment.”

“Perfect for you.”

The night dissolves into corny romcoms, wine-stained laughter, and snack crumbs between the couch cushions. For a few hours, you let yourself just be here warm, full, tipsy.

Your phone buzzes once. You don’t look.

Saturday morning

Jack wakes before his alarm. Not from any great burst of energy, just habit years of early meetings, gym sessions, flights. The flat’s quiet, the kind of quiet that almost echoes.

He makes coffee in the half-light, scrolling aimlessly through emails until Maeve’s name pops up with a short line:

“I know you’re off today, but just a heads-up about Monday’s board agenda.”

He answers with a quick Got it, even though he won’t look at the agenda until tomorrow.

The kettle clicks off. The mug warms his hands.

By ten, he’s outside Lisa’s building. Noah’s already at the door, camera bag slung across his shoulder, hair sticking up like he’d been too busy to bother. Jack feels that usual pinch in his chest part pride, part guilt.

“You ready, mate?” Jack asks.

“Yeah,” Noah says, lifting the strap of his bag. “Got some new shots to show you.”

Lisa appears behind him, keys in hand. She’s in jeans and a sweater, hair still damp from the shower, smelling faintly of whatever shampoo she’s used since they met.

“You’re early,” she says. It’s not accusatory. Not warm, either.

Jack shrugs. “Traffic’s lighter on weekends.”

They stand there for a beat too long. Noah breaks it, already halfway down the stairs.

In the car, Noah pulls out a stack of prints — black and white, crisp detail, better than Jack expected. Buildings, people, a cat in a window.

“These are good,” Jack says, meaning it. “Really good.”

Noah smiles without looking up, flipping to the next one. “There’s an exhibit at the community center next month. They asked me to put some up.”

“That’s great,” Jack says, a warmth settling in his chest. “You’ll knock it out of the park.”

When they return that afternoon, Lisa’s waiting out front. She crouches to check Noah’s bag before standing.

“He told you about the exhibit?” she asks.

Jack nods.

“I think you should come,” she says, brushing her hair back. “He really wants you there.”

There’s a weight in the way she says it not an invitation, not quite an olive branch, just… a request that matters.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Of course I’ll come.”

Their eyes meet for a second too long. There’s something familiar there not love, but the echo of it. Comfort and history wrapped around all the reasons it didn’t last.

Noah’s already inside, calling for her to come look at something. Lisa gives Jack a small, tired smile before following him in.

Jack stands by the car a moment longer, thumb brushing the inside of his palm the same hand that had been gripping lace in a locked closet days ago.

The contrast makes him dizzy.

By week four in your new role, the shine of the title has worn off for everyone but you. The 35th floor hums with the usual mid-morning rhythm phones ringing, keyboards clacking, someone in the corner trying to eat chips like they’re committing a crime.

Ryan’s leaning against the edge of your desk, long legs crossed at the ankles, idly spinning your stapler in his hands. “You’re making Monica twitch again,” he says without looking up.

You glance across the aisle. Monica’s got her headset pushed to one ear, pretending to listen to someone on the phone while very much listening to you. “I’ve literally been here for ten minutes.”

“Exactly,” Ryan says, like that proves his point. “She probably set an alarm.”

Monica chooses that moment to walk over, dropping a single sheet of paper on your desk like she’s delivering a court summons. “Since you’re so quick with these,” she says, voice dipped in syrup, “maybe you can get this to the 36th floor before lunch.”

You look at the single page. Look at her. “I’ll see if I can squeeze it in between breathing and blinking.”

Her smile doesn’t move, but her eyes narrow just enough to make Ryan smother a laugh. When she walks away, Ryan murmurs, “I’m taking bets on which vein in her forehead goes first.”

By late morning, you’ve cleared more work than half the floor. Ryan props his chin on your partition. “Hey,” he says, sliding his phone toward you, a listing already pulled up. “Two-bedroom near the river. In-unit laundry. Balcony.”

You skim the pictures. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I just think you should have a balcony. Imagine the wine nights.”

Before you can answer, your inbox pings with a meeting invite from the 34th floor.

From his office, Jack’s got a sliver-view of the 35th floor through the angled glass and the reflection off the opposite building. He shouldn’t know exactly which desk is hers. He shouldn’t be able to pick out the tilt of her head when she’s reading, or the way her hand curls under her chin when she’s listening to someone talk. But he does.

Maeve walks in without knocking, a folder in one hand, coffee in the other. She drops the folder on his desk like she’s claiming territory. “Here’s your agenda for next week. Try to read it before the meeting for once.”

“I always read it,” Jack says, not looking away from the window.

She follows his line of sight, then smirks. “Uh-huh. And I run marathons.”

He finally turns to her. “You done?”

“Not even close,” Maeve says, settling into the chair opposite. “You’ve been humming lately. Humming. And unless you’ve suddenly developed a passion for jazz, something’s put a spring in your step.”

“Maybe I’m just in a good mood,” he says, flipping the folder open.

“You’re not a ‘good mood’ kind of guy,” she says, leaning forward. “You’re a ‘barely tolerates people before noon’ kind of guy. So yeah—colour me curious.”

He gives her a flat look. “It’s called job satisfaction, Maeve. Try it sometime.”

She grins. “Oh, I’m satisfied. Just wondering what’s satisfying you.”

Jack shuts the folder. “Get out of my office.”

Maeve stands, still smiling. “Spring in your step, O’Connell. Just… don’t trip over it.”

When she’s gone, Jack looks back at the window. Still not enough. Never is.

Photography Exhibit

Jack doesn’t usually do public events not the kind with name tags, polite laughter, and people pretending to be fascinated by things that don’t matter to him. But tonight’s different.

Noah’s work is on the wall framed, spotlit, printed big enough that you can see the texture of the film grain from across the room. That alone makes the crowd tolerable.

The gallery smells faintly of varnished wood and bitter coffee from the pop-up café in the corner. Soft jazz hums from speakers hidden in the ceiling. People drift between prints, murmuring in that hushed, self-important way that makes everything sound like an insider’s secret.

Lisa stands beside him, posture perfect, navy dress fitted without being flashy. She’s wearing the same perfume she wore when they first met faint bergamot cutting through the varnish every time she shifts.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” she says, eyes on the photograph in front of them a brick wall washed in late-afternoon light, every crevice edged in gold.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “He’s got an eye.”

Lisa’s mouth curves into a small smile. “Gets it from me.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Debatable.”

Across the room, Noah’s surrounded by classmates and his instructor, explaining something about depth of field while pointing to a cracked sidewalk with a single leaf perfectly in focus. There’s a confidence in him tonight Jack hasn’t seen in a while.

For a moment, it makes his chest feel… heavier. Not in the bad way more like there’s still something worth showing up for.

Lisa glances at him sideways. “You’re quiet.”

“Just… thinking.”

She lets it hang there. They’ve gotten good at talking around the things they’re not ready to drag into the open.

Dinner with Parents

The restaurant smells like money — truffle oil, imported wine, some perfectly grilled cut of meat you can’t pronounce without sounding it out first.

You’re paying with your time, not your wallet.

Your mother’s pearls glint in the low light. Your father’s in his “weekend jacket,” convinced it’s timeless.

“You’re really happy there?” your mother asks, voice light but testing.

“I’m good at it,” you say, sipping your wine.

“Good isn’t enough in this market,” your father adds, eyes still on the menu.

You swallow the sigh before it escapes. Here, you’re the kid again — the one whose choices are weighed, measured, and found in need of improvement.

Then you hear it.

A voice you know so well it might as well be another heartbeat.

Jack.

He’s at the host stand with a woman in a muted navy wrap dress, her hand light on the arm of a boy — sixteen, maybe — whose hair falls into his eyes in that effortless way only a teenager can get away with.

Your grip on your wine stem tightens.

He sees you, too. Just a flick of recognition, buried quickly under the neutral mask he saves for boardrooms and press photos.

They’re seated not far from you.

For the next twenty minutes, the two tables live in parallel. Jack steals glances when Lisa is talking to Noah. You catch him once, maybe twice, but give him nothing back.

Your mother’s voice cuts through the hum of family gossip and wine profiles. Across the room, Jack watches the polite way you smile and nod, wondering if that’s the same look you use when you’re trying not to flinch.

At his table, Noah talks about his photographs. Lisa beams. Jack listens, but part of him stays tethered to you.

It happens by chance.

You slip away between courses, heels soft on carpet. The bathroom’s empty when you enter, but seconds later, the door opens and Lisa steps in.

Up close, she’s even more composed — like she carries her own climate with her. She offers a warm, easy smile. “That’s a beautiful dress,” she says, washing her hands. “Yellow’s hard to pull off, but you make it look effortless.”

“Thank you.” Your voice is calm. Neutral.

She reaches for a paper towel. “Do you work around here?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. Uptown.”

She nods. “It’s a small world. My—” a tiny pause, measured but natural “—my husband works with a lot of people in that area.”

The word lands heavy. Husband. You keep your expression still, but inside, something twists — sharp, a little thrilling in its wrongness.

“It is a small world,” you say.

There’s a flicker in her gaze curiosity, not suspicion and she tucks it away quickly.

You leave together, parting at the door.

Jack looks up when Lisa sits down. “Everything alright?” “Fine,” she says easily. “I met the sweetest young woman in the bathroom. Works uptown.”

Across the room, your father catches a manager stopping by Jack’s table greeting him by name, thanking him for coming. You see the recognition click into place in your father’s mind. The name. The title. Your father leans back, low-voiced to you ,

“That’s the big boss man, isnt it? ”

You keep your expression calm, even as your pulse climbs.

Jack thinks he’s timed it right lets your table stand, waits for the gap, moves toward the exit.

He’s wrong.

Your father slows, that businessman’s instinct flaring the second he hears a passing manager greet Jack by name full name. It lands like a match dropped into kindling.

“Mr. O’Connell?” he says, his tone pitched with a kind of impressed curiosity you know too well. He extends his hand. “We’ve never met. I’m Richard [ last name ] ” A pause, the faintest sideways glance at you. “—her father. And this is my wife Dona. I just wanted to thank you for picking up this stray.”

You could kill him for that.

Jack’s polite smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s been a great addition to the team.” His voice is even , just barely covering the tension in his shoulders.

And then she steps forward.

Lisa. Her handshake is warm, deliberate.

Lisa steps forward, warm handshake, deliberate. “We met earlier,” she says lightly and you know exactly which moment she means.

Her gaze lingers a beat too long before she adds, with a quick smile, “When I said small world, I didn’t think this small.”

Jack’s mouth pulls into something that looks like agreement, but his pulse ticks up hard enough to feel in his throat.

You chuckle polite, perfectly timed but there’s an edge under it. A private amusement that has nothing to do with coincidence and everything to do with the fact that you’re standing here, smiling at his wife, knowing what you know.

Noah steps forward next, polite and quick. “Hi.” You return the smile, softer than you intend.

It’s over in less than a minute, but every second feels stretched thin. Jack’s calculating his out without making it look like one.

When the goodbyes come, they’re as smooth as they are necessary. But the moment you turn away, you feel it that weight, pressing between your shoulder blades.

You don’t have to look to know it’s his eyes on you.

Jack

The restaurant’s hum still lingers in his head when they reach the car. Noah’s slouched in the back seat, scrolling on his phone. Jack drives like always measured, unhurried.

He’d planned to be across town by now. But Lisa’s “It’s late, just stay” landed like an instruction, not an offer. No point in refusing.

Her flat smells the same as when he left bergamot in the air, cedar underfoot. She moves easily through the space, setting water to boil, slipping out of her heels. For a second, it feels like they’ve stepped into an old photograph, the kind that fades at the edges.

When Lisa hands him a mug and settles at the far end of the sofa, he nods through her updates about Noah, her sister, the exhibit. But his head’s somewhere else entirely, already wondering how far he can push before the whole thing tips.

You

The cab ride is short. You slip inside, the flat quiet, city noise pressed thin against the windows.

You set your bag down, pour a glass of water you don’t drink. Lisa’s voice echoes in your head not the word itself, but how easily she’d dropped it.

It doesn’t change anything. If anything, it sharpens the line you’ve been walking.

You check your phone. Empty. That’s fine.

You leave the dress on, sit at the edge of the bed, and let the night stretch. Not planning your next move

just knowing there will be one.

Across the city, Jack lies awake in Lisa’s guest room, the ceiling a pale blur above him. Sleep doesn’t even bother trying.

From the doorway, her voice drifts in light, amused. “… her parents were lovely. She’s so young, though. Must be a prodigy.”

It’s meant as praise. But to Jack, it lands like a stone dropped in still water ripples pulling him back to the table across the restaurant. your yellow dress, the moment your father said his name.

And yet, seeing you tonight only sharpened the truth: all of it could collapse in an instant.

And the worst part? He’d still want it.

You lie in your own dark, the city glow cutting faint lines across the ceiling. You replay her voice in the bathroom, that single word

husband

delivered like it was nothing. You think about the look Jack didn’t give you. And the ones he couldn’t help.

Neither of you sleeps.

And by morning, you both pretend the night never happened.

For now.

You sink deeper into the bath, knees just breaking the surface, skin warm and flushed from the heat. Your phone’s propped against a candle jar, balanced just right so you can scroll without thinking too hard. No music. No wine. Just the low hum of the city through the window and the soft ripples of water licking porcelain.

Jack O’Connell’s page is as dry as you expected tucked, professional, almost aggressively boring. But you scroll anyway. Old press photos. A headshot. A single candid from some industry summit where he’s barely smiling. His tie’s too tight in all of them. His jaw clenched.

You’ve watched them more times than you care to admit.

Your hand drifts beneath the water.

Not because you miss him.

But because you remember.

The way his breath hitched. The way his fingers trembled at your waist. The way he looked at you, like he didn’t know whether to beg or run.

It hadn’t gone far. Not yet. Footsteps down the hallway, a muffled voice near the copier, and you’d pulled away first. Of course you had.

You’d buttoned your blouse like nothing happened.

But his face flushed, desperate, undone still lingers.

You circle your fingers under the water, slow and unhurried. Not chasing anything. Just… reclaiming.

A little reminder.

You don’t moan. You smile.

A call comes through. Nadia.

You don’t answer immediately. Just stare at the screen. Then hit accept, voice smooth as ever.

“Yo.”

“You better be getting ready.”

“For what?”

She groans. “We’re going out. Intern drinks. Tonight. You need it.”

You glance at the water. The phone. The photo of Jack is in your last tab.

“Yeah,” you say. “I really might.”

⸻

You wear something fun.

White oversized tee. Vintage mini skirt you thrifted. Leopard-print bag. Slick bun. A hint of gloss. Gold hoops catching the light when you move. You look exactly like a 23-year-old girl on the edge of something beautiful and dangerous. Which, to be fair, you are.

The bar’s dim, packed with a Friday crowd half your cohort’s already there. Nadia’s sipping something neon. A few guys from accounting are too drunk to stand up straight. You slide into it like muscle memory.

Laugh. Sip. Deflect questions you don’t care to answer.

“So,” Nadia leans in, eyes sparkling. “What’s it like being Maeve for the week?”

You smirk. “Glamorous. Endless admin requests and three missed lunch breaks.”

She snorts. “You love it.”

You shrug. “I’m good at it.”

The drinks keep coming. Someone orders fries. A girl from marketing starts crying in the corner about her ex and you half-listen, half-watch the bartender’s hands. Everything’s loud but not unpleasant. Just bright enough to distract.

You like this part of yourself—the soft sarcasm, the laughter. The version of you that isn’t performing.

But even here, under the din of the bar and the cling of cheap beer perfume, you feel the tug.

Jack. His stare. That kiss.

You keep hearing it I’m your boss.

And you keep answering in your head And I’m still here.

Nadia nudges your side. “You always zone out when you’re scheming. What is it now?”

You smile. “Nothing. Just… tired.”

She gives you a look. You know the kind.

But she doesn’t press. Just order another round.

And you let yourself float a little longer—feet crossed, mouth full of someone else’s vodka, trying not to think about what happens Monday morning.

Or what you’ll do the next time Mr O’Connell looks at you like he’s drowning.

The Next Morning

You wake up with your lashes sticking together and your mouth dry. There’s a faint imprint of mascara on your pillowcase and a hair tie strangling your wrist. The room is too bright and too warm—sunlight slanting in through the blinds like a silent accusation.

You blink twice before remembering where you are.

Home. Barely.

The rent-controlled apartment smells like stale coffee and coconut conditioner. You tug on a hoodie and shuffle toward the kitchen.

Your roommate’s already there.

A robe. A slick bun. That same green juice she always makes in the blender that sounds like a chainsaw. She’s slicing strawberries with the same energy she does everything else: too precise, too clean.

“Morning,” she says, not looking up.

You grunt in return. Grab the chipped mug with the fading feminist quote and pour what’s left in the coffee pot. It’s lukewarm. You drink it anyway.

She glances over at you once. “You good?”

“Alive.”

She hums. Neutral.

Then, after a beat, “The internet bill’s due Tuesday. And rent hits tomorrow. Just FYI.”

Your stomach knots. You stir your coffee with a spoon that isn’t clean.

“Right,” you say. “I’ll transfer tonight.”

She nods. Doesn’t push. She never does. But the silence after feels just a little longer than necessary.

You take your coffee and sit on the stool, trying to count backwards in your head—how many shifts left in your balance, how long you can stretch last week’s grocery run, whether your credit card will let you pretend a little longer.

The internship’s a blessing. A foot in the door. An impossible name on your resume.

But it doesn’t pay enough.

Not really.

You’ve been smiling through it, pulling it off. Mixing Zara with vintage and praying no one notices how often you recycle blazers. But every latte, every Uber when you’re too tired to walk home—it adds up.

And your parents would never understand. They’re too proud of you to imagine the cost.

You finish your coffee and rinse the cup. The silence stretches again.

Your roommate finally says, “You’re not falling behind, are you?”

You force a smile. “Nope. Just… mentally budgeting.”

She raises an eyebrow but lets it drop.

You head to your room, grab your laptop, and stare at your banking app long enough to regret it. Then you start getting ready—because the world doesn’t stop for burnout. Or overdraft warnings.

Not for girls like you.

You slick your hair back and pick out something quiet. Professional. Just enough to say I belong here, not enough to say I’m trying too hard.

Because you’re always trying. You just can’t afford for anyone to see it.

The elevator always smells like over-applied cologne and gum. You stand in the corner like always, bag slung high on your shoulder, earbuds in with nothing playing. Just enough of a barrier.

The floor dings. You walk past reception, offer a polite smile to the woman whose name you never learned. Your heels echo with a soft, purposeful rhythm.

You like rhythm. You like patterns.

Control.

That’s the thing. You like control because you’ve never had much of it. Because your mom’s love came on a timer and your dad’s attention was always two inches out of reach. So you learned how to take up space without asking. How to charm people into telling you things they didn’t mean to. How to fold your ambition into politeness.

Office politics? Please. This is just theater.

You’ve played better roles for worse pay.

At your desk, you boot up like clockwork. Calendar invites. Admin replies. Everyone thinks you’re so organized. So sweet. So easy to be around.

They have no idea.

You feel him before you see him. Jack. The click of his shoes is a heartbeat now. Familiar. Predictable.

You don’t look up. Not right away.

But you do adjust your posture.

You don’t flirt.

You perform disinterest.

Because you know he’ll look anyway.

And he does.

You see him out of the corner of your eye. Just a glance. Just long enough.

It’s not that you want him.

It’s that he distracts you.

From the bills. From the guilt. From that call last night where your mom reminded you gently, always gently that this is your one shot. That you better not fuck it up.

So, no.

You don’t want Jack O’Connell.

You want the game.

You want the break.

And you’re getting better at playing it every day.

Or so you thought,

But games have rules.

And Jack O’Connell’s been playing dirty lately.

Not with words. He’s too clean for that. Too careful. But it’s the way he lingers. The way his gaze flicks toward you in meetings like he’s trying not to. The way his fingers tap the desk in that exact same rhythm you tap your pen when you're thinking about him.

You know when someone's unraveling. You can smell it. And he—he's fraying at the seams, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

Maeve’s still out.

You knock once before entering.

A formality. You’re already through the door by the time he looks up.

Jack’s behind the desk. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something probably something stupid and human like “about the other night” but you beat him to it.

“Vendor call’s been rescheduled to noon,” you say, tone cool and crisp. “I updated the calendar. And forwarded the Q3 figures to your private inbox.”

He nods once. Silence lingers.

You don’t offer more.

You just stand there, waiting. Professional.

But Jack doesn’t let it go.

He shifts forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the desk like he’s trying to shrink the space between you.

“We should talk.”

You blink slowly. Tilt your head.

“About?”

He hesitates. Just for a second. But you catch it. You always do.

His voice is low. Careful. “You know what.”

You smile, soft and unrevealing.

“I don’t assume things about my superiors.”

The words land like a slap.

Jack exhales through his nose tight. Controlled. Trying.

“I just think,” he starts, eyes locked on yours, “it might be better for both of us if we cleared the air.”

You let the silence bloom between you. Let it stretch.

And then you step forward.

Just one step. Close enough to mean something.

You place the printed agenda on his desk with gentle precision.

And you don’t look up when you say

“Some things are clearer when left unspoken.”

That gets him. You hear it in the stillness of him. The way his breath hitches not loud, not obvious, but raw.

You finally meet his gaze.

His mouth parts. You’re not sure if it’s apology or defense either way, it doesn’t matter.

Because you lean in, just slightly, and add almost kindly

“Besides… I’d hate for you to confuse impulse with intention.”

That’s when the phone on his desk rings.

You straighten.

He fumbles to answer, voice clipped, all business again.

But as you turn to leave, you feel his eyes still on your back.

And you don’t look over your shoulder.

Because you already know he’s watching.

Breakroom , Late Morning

The breakroom's quiet. Just the low buzz of the fridge and the occasional clink from the microwave.

You’re leaned against the counter with a protein bar in one hand and your phone in the other, scrolling like it might reveal some kind of answer. It won’t.

Nadia slips in like a breeze, oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder, hair tossed into a lazy claw clip, iced coffee sweating in her hand.

“Jesus, I needed a break,” she mutters, dropping onto the stool beside you. “I swear if one more partner sends me a ‘quick request’ that’s actually a four-page deck…”

You snort. “Just unplug your monitor. Tell ‘em it crashed.”

“Tempting,” she says, cracking open a yogurt. “You good, though? You’ve been quiet today.”

You shrug. “Didn’t sleep much.”

“Anything fun?”

You smirk. “Define fun.”

She narrows her eyes. “You’re being cagey.”

“I’m always cagey.”

“True.” Nadia takes a sip of her coffee. “Anyway this guy from compliance asked me out.”

“Scandal.”

“I know. But here’s the kicker. He’s bringing a friend. Sooo…”

You glance over at her. “You’re trying to set me up?”

“Why not? You’re hot. You’re bored. You could use the serotonin.”

You smirk. “You’re so romantic.”

“I try.”

You’re quiet for a second. Then: “I’ll think about it.”

“That’s not a no.”

You smile into your drink. “No, it’s not.”

She leans back. “Anyway. HR’s been whispering. About the interns.”

You blink. “Whispering how?”

“Like... decisions are being made. You didn’t hear it from me.”

Your stomach tightens just a little, but you keep your face smooth. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

She shrugs. “You’ll be fine. Everyone knows you’re killing it.”

You don’t answer right away.

Then your eyes flick down to the time on your phone.

“Shit,” you mutter, straightening. “Vendor meeting. I’m sitting in for Maeve.”

“Oh, right.” Nadia makes a face. “Godspeed.”

You grab your folder from the counter, tossing the rest of your protein bar in the trash.

“I’ll text you about the date thing,” you say, already halfway out the door.

Nadia calls after you, grinning: “Wear something slutty!”

You don’t turn around but your smile says everything.

-----------------

The glass is already frosted when you arrive.

Smart privacy engaged.

You smirk to yourself not because it’s unusual. Jack always does this during Zoom meetings. But today, it feels performative. A desperate illusion of control. As if you don’t already know what’s behind that fog.

You knock once. Soft. No theatrics needed.

“Come in,” he calls. Clipped. Controlled.

You enter without hesitation. He’s seated behind the desk, laptop open, blazer gone, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His posture’s stiff, straight-backed, like he’s trying to hold something in or hold something back.

You take the seat just off camera, tablet balanced on your knee. Cross your legs slowly. Flip to the agenda without acknowledging him.

The vendor from Overseas is already mid-pitch. You type deliberate, steady but your body tells another story. Loose. Poised. Unbothered.

Jack speaks. Cool. Measured.

But you feel him.

Every glance. Every flicker. Every time his gaze skims your legs like it’s against his better judgment.

You shift again. Uncross. Re-cross.

Slower.

The air tightens.

He clears his throat. Responds to a projection update but there’s tension threading his voice now. A rasp beneath the polish.

You tug your skirt higher on your thigh.

He notices.

Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.

But his fingers curl tight around the pen he isn’t using.

You slide a page across the desk. Just close enough for your fingers to brush. Your voice stays clean, detached:

“They’re pushing for Q4 integration. You’ll want to review that.”

There’s a pause.

Just long enough to confirm what you already know:

He’s coming undone again.

The call wraps muted thank yous and email sign-offs. You don't move when the screen goes black. You just lean back in your seat, eyes finally lifting to meet his.

Your voice, smooth: “Would you like me to forward the transcript?”

He nods once, jaw clenched. Eyes unreadable.

You watch him shut the laptop with care, like even that might give him away.

And then, finally—

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” he says, low.

You tilt your head, feigning confusion. “I’m just doing my job.”

He leans forward slightly. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Your eyes trail lazily over him.

He blinks. Once.

“This has to stop.”

You smile. “Then stop it.”

His stare drops. To your lips. Your legs. Your breathing.

Then rises, lands sharp on your eyes like he’s trying to find your weakness.

You smile.

Because you know he won’t find it.

He starts to stand—but you beat him to it. You walk around the desk, fingers trailing the edge of it like you own the damn building.

He doesn’t move.

Just watches.

Breathing like he’s run a mile.

You walk behind his chair, unhurried.

“Your camera’s off, Jack,” you murmur—closer now, near the shell of his ear. Your fingers graze the back of his neck. “They can’t see you.”

He shivers.

You lean in. Close enough to smell the citrus on his skin and the faintest trace of cologne that always lingers too long.

“No one can.”

His hands grip the arms of the chair.

Still, he doesn’t stop you.

“You could tell me to go,” you whisper, lips brushing his collar. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”

No response.

Only that tight, trembling breath.

You smile, slow.

Then you drag the chair back from the desk softly and sink to your knees between his legs.

He stares down at you. Torn. Unraveling.

“You gonna pretend you’re not hard right now?” you ask, palm pressing flat over his slacks.

He doesn’t answer.

But his hips twitch. His hand finds your wrist no pressure. No force.

Just trembling.

You grip him firmer now, and his mouth parts. Ragged.

“You gonna beg?” you murmur. “Or should I make you?”

A strangled sound escapes him. You lean up, mouth ghosting the edge of his jaw.

“I’d let you come in my mouth,” you breathe, “if I thought you could stay quiet for it.”

His eyes flutter shut.

You undo his belt.

Slow.

Cruel.

“Look at me, Jack.”

He does.

And for a second just one second you let your lips hover over his waistband. Eyes locked. Breath warm against skin.

But then you smile.

And pull back.

You rise, slow and smooth, brushing invisible lint from your skirt like you weren’t just on your knees seconds ago.

Jack blinks like he’s waking up from something.

You lean over him, drag the zipper back up with care, fingers brushing against the bulge still heavy between his legs.

Then you say it quiet and devastating.

“I’d let you.”

You tug the belt through the loops, buckle it again with a smirk.

“But not today.”

His chest rises, sharp. His hands grip the arms of his chair like he’s holding himself back from begging.

You lean closer, mouth at his ear.

“Next time, maybe,” you whisper. “If you ask nicely.”

And then just like that you walk away.

Not a single glance back.

Not even as you open the office door and slip out into the hallway, back into the rhythm of a regular workday like nothing just happened.

You leave him there.

Hard. Unspoken. Undone.

Exactly how you like him.

He’s breathing hard.

Not because of the heat or the scotch he barely touched. But because she’s still there—under his skin, behind his eyes. That look. That voice. The way she walked out like she’d left him a gift, and it was his own humiliation.

Later That Night

His hand wraps around himself again, but slower this time.

Not for relief.

For remembrance.

He hates how much he likes it.

How weak she makes him feel. How every glance from her strips him clean. His control his careful, quiet control cracking every time she so much as shifts in her seat. It terrifies him.

And still—he’s hard. Thinking about her. Thinking about how she didn’t even touch him all the way. Didn’t have to.

The sickest part?

He wants to thank her for it.

The phone buzzes.

Lisa.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the screen, chest rising and falling like he’s drowning in air.

Then he picks up, voice low. Choked.

“Yeah.”

The joint burns low between your fingers. Ash drops onto your window ledge, but you don’t flick it away.

The box fan drones. The light from your phone glows blue against your bare thighs.

The Venmo screen blinks: $1420.00 – Rent + WiFi.

You hit send.

And exhale.

Smoke slips from your mouth and curls into the dark like a secret. Like something leaving your body just to make space for more.

You’re tired. The kind that lives in your bones. The kind that doesn’t fix itself overnight.

But you feel better now.

Looser.

Not because you’re high.

Not because the money’s gone and there’s nothing left to rearrange.

Because somewhere probably alone, probably quiet Jack O’Connell is coming undone with your name in his mouth.

And for the first time in awhile, you feel like something in your life is yours.

Thursday Afternoon

The conference room hums with quiet tension. Late afternoon sunlight bleeds across the table, catching on glass water cups and creased folders.

Maeve’s back, sharp as ever. Fresh blowout, neutral blazer, not a beat missed. She’s running point on the intern evaluations, scrolling through her tablet like it’s muscle memory.

Jack sits across from her, jaw tight, barely pretending to care.

One knee bounces under the table. His tie is loose. His focus somewhere else—until Maeve speaks her name.

His foot stills.

Maeve doesn’t notice. “She picked up my entire slate while I was out,” she says. “No handholding. No mistakes. She’s—honestly—sharp as hell.”

One of the HR leads nods. “Top of the list. Assertive, composed, technically overqualified.”

“She’s already doing half the admin prep the role requires,” another adds. “If we don’t offer her something soon, someone else will.”

Jack’s voice cuts in. Quiet. Measured.

“What position?”

A pause.

Maeve glances up, surprised to hear him speak.

“We’re recommending Executive Liaison,” she says. “It makes sense.”

She doesn’t say to whom she’d report.

She doesn’t have to.

Jack’s eyes stay locked on the screen. On her name. One hand curls slowly around the arm of his chair.

No one says a word.

Then:

“Let’s revisit that,” he says, low. “I want to take a closer look.”

The meeting clears out slowly. HR files out with polite nods. Papers shuffle. Chairs slide. But Jack doesn’t move.

He hasn’t since they said her name.

The rest of the interns were a blur Excel scores, personality flags, performance summaries. But when they landed on her, everything else disappeared.

He didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until the door shut behind the last person.

Maeve stays seated. Silent for a moment, tapping her pen against her pad.

Then, without looking at him, she says, “You’re making that face again.”

Jack blinks. “What face?”

“The one where you’re pretending not to care, and failing.”

He leans back. Rubs a hand across his mouth. “I didnt get much sleep last night.”

Maeve sets her pen down. Folds her arms.

“She’s good,” she says quietly. “Sharp. Calm under pressure. Deadlines, feedback, strategy she handles it. People listen to her.”

Jack doesn’t answer.

“She’s the only intern who got unsolicited praise from two different department heads.”

Still nothing.

Maeve sighs. “Jack. You’ve already made your decision. You’re just pretending it was someone else’s.”

He finally meets her eyes.

“I’m not stupid,” she adds, a little softer. “I know there’s something going on.”

Jack stiffens. “It’s not—”

“I don’t want to know,” she cuts in. “Not really. But I know you. I know the way you look at people. And I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at her.”

Silence stretches between them.

Maeve stands, smoothing her skirt.

“Offer her the job,” she says, moving toward the door. “But don’t lie to yourself about what it’s costing you.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

Jack’s still in his chair.

Still thinking about the way her voice sounded when she said, “Then stop it.”

And knowing full well he never will.

Later That Night — Office After Hours

The office floor is quiet, bathed in muted blues and grays, shadows lengthening under dimmed lights. The hum of the HVAC is the only sound, soft and constant, masking the chaos beneath Jack’s ribs.

He stands by the window, sleeves rolled up, one hand pressed flat against the glass. His jaw is tight. The air feels thick, pressing down on him, smothering.

A gentle knock breaks the tension. The door creaks softly, and her heels announce her presence even before she speaks.

“You wanted to see me?”

Her voice is smooth, composed perfectly unbothered. But Jack knows better; he’s seen glimpses of what lies beneath.

He doesn’t turn. Just keeps staring out at the darkening city.

“Close the door,” he says quietly.

She does, the soft click echoing between them.

When he turns, she’s watching him. Chin lifted, eyes calm but sharp, assessing. She looks entirely in control.

He hates how easy this is for her.

“You’re a bright girl,” Jack says, voice strained but steady, finally stepping away from the window. “You don’t need to fuck your way to the top.”

A silence settles sharp, tense.

Something flickers in her eyes. She tilts her head slightly, expression unreadable.

“Careful,” she says softly. Her voice is velvet-wrapped steel. “Or I’ll think you’re projecting.”

Jack’s jaw clenches. “Then tell me what is it you want from this? Is it the money?”

She holds his gaze, unflinching, a subtle edge of amusement touching the corner of her lips.

“Do I look like someone who needs to fuck for money?”

It hits him harder than he anticipated raw honesty, wrapped neatly in disdain.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he murmurs, instant regret seeping through his composure.

“No?” She steps closer, voice dropping just a touch. “Then how exactly did you mean it?”

Jack exhales sharply, frustration and shame tangled in his chest. “I’m saying you have talent. You have options. Why risk all of that for…this?”

She takes another step closer. He doesn’t move away.

“Because I wanted to,” she replies coolly. “ And because you allowed me too.”

Jack stiffens, heartbeat loud in his ears.

She moves past him smoothly, the faintest scent of perfume brushing his senses.

“But clearly,” she continues, voice barely above a whisper, “this is harder for you than it is for me.”

The door shuts quietly behind her, leaving Jack alone again, breath heavy, pulse pounding.

—

The Next Day – Office Balcony, Mid-Afternoon

Jack steps out onto the balcony, craving air. The sun is bright and sharp against his eyes, but he welcomes the discomfort. He pulls out a cigarette, tapping it against the railing. The flame from his lighter flickers weakly in the wind.

He’s halfway through when he hears the door slide open behind him. He doesn’t have to look to know it’s her the rhythm of her footsteps, confident yet easy, gives her away.

He breathes smoke out slowly. Waits until she leans against the railing, pulling her own cigarette from a slim case.

For a moment, neither speaks. There’s only silence, smoke drifting into blue sky.

“I was out of line,” Jack finally says, his voice low. Honest.

She pauses, cigarette poised just before her lips, then takes a slow drag. “I’ve heard worse.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” he says quietly. He glances sideways at her. “You’re good at what you do. You deserve better.”

Her lips curve into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “So, is this the part where you apologize for caring too much?”

“I’m apologizing for making assumptions.” He taps ash off the edge. “Not for caring.”

She exhales slowly, watching the smoke dissipate. “Fair enough.”

Another silence, comfortable now, though heavy. He lets it linger, carefully considering his next words.

“You scare me,” Jack admits softly, his voice edged with reluctant vulnerability. “Because you don’t need this. Because you’re playing a game I don’t know how to win.”

She smiles a little more genuinely this time, turning to face him. “Maybe that’s why it’s fun.”

Jack studies her eyes calm, unreadable, controlled and suddenly understands exactly why he’s drawn to her, again and again, despite himself.

“You’re not the only one who likes playing with fire,” he murmurs, eyes locked onto hers.

Her gaze sharpens, the challenge clear. She drops the cigarette, grinding it out beneath her heel, eyes never leaving his.

“Careful, Jack,” she warns softly, amusement returning. “You might get burned.”

She walks away first, confident and calm, leaving him in the sunlight, pulse quickening, breath caught again.

But this time, Jack knows he’s ready for it.

Friday Night - Double Date

You're wearing a black dress, something short and stylish that Nadia swore would be perfect. In her defense, she wasn't wrong the bartender’s lingering gaze confirmed as much but your date hasn't noticed anything besides the sound of his own voice. Across from you, Nadia's glowing, her laugh genuine and frequent. She’s clearly having the time of her life, lost in her own romantic comedy.

Your date, however, missed that memo. He's mid-sentence, droning on about quarterly profits, office dynamics, and the new espresso machine in the breakroom. You swirl the cocktail in your hand, ice clinking softly, and try to remember if you’ve ever cared less about something.

If he says one more thing about his Q4 projections, you’re going to stab yourself with the salad fork.

You lean forward, interrupting his latest monologue with a polite smile. “Excuse me. I need some air.”

He pauses, slightly surprised, but nods. Nadia shoots you an apologetic look, and you wink at her—don’t worry, babe, I’ll survive.

Outside, the night air feels like freedom, cool and crisp against your flushed skin. You lean against the wall beside the restaurant, fingertips grazing the cigarette case in your purse. But before you can slip one out, your phone buzzes.

You glance down. Unknown caller. Curious, you answer, voice cautiously teasing.

“Hello?”

“You answered quicker than I thought,” says a familiar, low voice.

Your pulse spikes, even as you smirk into the darkness. “Didn’t realize you had my number. Should I be worried about a restraining order?”

Jack chuckles softly. “I have my ways—though HR would probably frown on them.”

“Stalker behavior,” you tease lightly.

“I prefer proactive.” There’s amusement in his voice, but a slight edge of nervousness. “What are you doing right now?”

You glance back at the restaurant window, seeing your date animatedly explaining something to no one in particular. You sigh dramatically, smiling to yourself. “Currently? Considering poking my eyes out with a salad fork.”

“Sounds dire.” Jack pauses, a comfortable silence lingering for a beat. “Let me send a car.”

You raise an eyebrow, though he can’t see it. “Bold.”

“Call it a calculated risk,” he counters gently. “I’m across town. A place more...interesting than wherever you are now.”

“Where exactly?”

“The Sinclair.”

You whistle softly. “Expensive taste.”

“You’d know something about that,” Jack murmurs. “So, is that a yes?”

You bite your lip, making him wait. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he echoes, voice lowering. “Let’s make it definitely.”

You glance once more through the glass at your forgotten date, then back down the street, quiet, dark, and waiting.

“You better hurry,” you say finally. “If he gets to Q4 before you get here, I can’t promise I’ll be alive.”

His laugh is soft, warm, and filled with relief. “Car’s on its way.”

You end the call, slipping your phone back into your purse, and smile into the night.

Tonight might not be such a waste after all.

The Sinclair lobby feels opulent soft lighting cascading over polished marble, jazz notes drifting through air perfumed with expensive liquor and candle wax. You pause for just a beat, admiring how effortlessly grand everything seems. Your heart is steady, but beneath that careful calm, it races just a little.

Across the room, tucked away in the shadows of a velvet-lined booth, you see Jack. His sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to hint at nerves beneath his practiced cool. The way his fingers tap restlessly against his whiskey glass makes your pulse jump.

As you approach, his eyes lift to meet yours, relief and something deeper flashing in his gaze.

“You made it,” he murmurs, voice low, uncertain despite himself.

You slide into the booth across from him, crossing your legs smoothly. “You sound surprised.”

His lips twitch, half-smile barely hidden behind his glass. “Maybe just relieved.”

“You didn’t think I’d leave you stranded,” you tease lightly, reaching for the drink he's already poured. “Not tonight, anyway.”

His jaw tenses, a small acknowledgment of the risk you’re both taking. “I’m glad.”

You watch him carefully over the rim of your glass, noting the slight shift of his eyes, the way he clears his throat quietly.

“Nervous?” you ask, softly playful.

He chuckles, the sound tight, embarrassed. “A bit. You?”

“Never,” you lie smoothly, making him grin genuinely this time.

It softens the tension, and soon, you’re both laughing gently between sips of bourbon, stories about akward dates, and absurd late-night flings. The alcohol loosens the careful lines between you, and the façade of professionalism slips away, replaced by something warmer, realer.

Eventually, your eyes drift toward the room key carelessly placed beside the ice bucket. Room 1608. Your heart jumps, anticipation curling low in your belly. Without hesitating, you slip the card between your fingers, catching Jack’s startled, almost boyish expression.

“Stealing my room key now?” he murmurs, voice thickening.

“Borrowing,” you correct gently, rising to your feet. “Coming?”

He pauses just long enough for the flush to rise in his cheeks, the hesitation fading into surrender. Standing quickly, he falls in step behind you, carefully keeping just enough distance to preserve appearances, yet close enough that you feel the heat of him at your back.

The lift doors slide open, and you step inside, quiet tension thickening around you like smoke. The moment they close, something snaps.

You turn to him at the exact second he reaches for you, mouths colliding messily, desperately. There’s no finesse this time, just need and burbon and months of restraint unraveling. Your back hits the elevator wall, his hips pinning you in place, hands rough and hungry as they grip your waist.

His tongue slides against yours, hot and insistent, swallowing your breathy sighs. You arch into him, fingers tangled in his hair, lips swollen, dizzy from his urgency. His hand slips down your thigh, gripping, bruising. A raw sound escapes your throat, muffled by his lips.

Ding.

You freeze, breath ragged, quickly separating just as the doors opennot your floor. A guest steps inside, blissfully unaware, while you bite your lip hard to contain the wild giggle threatening to break free. Jack clears his throat roughly, adjusting his shirt with a subtle glance your way, eyes dark and fiery.

Three floors tick by painfully slow. You can practically feel Jack vibrating with impatience. The second the doors open again and the guest leaves, you crash back together, fiercer than before. This time Jack presses you against the mirrored wall, mouth greedy, hands sliding boldly under the hem of your skirt. You gasp softly, biting at his bottom lip, tasting bourbon and something purely him.

Another ding. Your floor.

Jack pulls away just enough, chest heaving, eyes heavy-lidded, dark. “Come on,” he breathes roughly, guiding you out with his hand tight on your waist, fingers gripping you possessively.

It’s quiet when the door clicks shut. Not peaceful. Just quiet enough to hear your own breath.

Jack doesn’t move at first.

He just stands there, fingers still curled around the handle, like if he lets go, this all becomes real.

You step deeper into the room. Slow. Deliberate. Like walking into water you know is too cold.

Neither of you says anything.

You hear the hum of the minibar fridge. The blood in your ears. The thud of your own heart.

He closes the door.

That sound is louder than it should be.

His gaze finally meets yours. And whatever’s left of restraint it’s gone.

He reaches you in two steps.

The kiss is clumsy. Not sweet. Not romantic. It's the kind of kiss people have when they’ve already made every wrong decision and decided they’ll make one more.

His hands are on your waist, then your back, then fisting in your hair. Yours grip the collar of his shirt, pulling until buttons snap, until his mouth is crushed to yours again.

You’re both breathing like you’ve run a mile.

There’s no rhythm, just desperation. Hands sliding under clothes, bodies pressing close, neither of you bothering to undress properly.

He lifts you.

You let him.

Your back hits the wall near the window. One heel falls off. The other stays on.

Jack presses against you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

Like he’s trying to forget something.

You don’t ask what.

You already know.

His hands drag your dress up, bunch it at your hips. His fingers find the edge of your panties, already damp. He groans into your neck.

"Fuck," he breathes. “You’re—”

He stops.

Doesn’t finish the sentence.

You reach down and unbuckle his belt. The sound of it sliding loose is sharp, loud in the stillness.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

The first time he slides into you is quiet.

There’s no moan. No gasp. Just a pause.

A raw, shaking breath from both of you.

Like it hurts. Or like you’ve finally exhaled something you didn’t realize you were holding.

It’s not graceful.

He’s still half-dressed. Your dress is still on. One shoe’s still dangling from your foot.

But none of it matters.

Because it’s happening.

Finally.

Jack’s forehead presses to yours as he starts to move. Slow, dragging strokes. Like he’s trying to savor it. Or like he’s scared he’ll fall apart too fast.

Your arms wrap around his shoulders.

Not because you're feeling tender.

Because you need something to hold on to.

He fucks you against the wall until the window fogs.

Until the only sounds are your breathing, the slap of skin, and the soft, wet slick of your bodies meeting.

Your fingers dig into his back. His mouth finds your throat, biting gently, then harder when you clench around him.

You feel it building hot and deep and unrelenting.

He’s trying to hold back. You can tell.

He’s trying to be good. Careful.

You don't want careful.

You grind down harder, pull him deeper, bare your teeth against his jaw.

“Jack,” you whisper not commanding, not teasing.

Just needing.

And that’s what undoes him.

His hands grip your thighs tighter, his pace falters. He groans low and broken and buries his face in your shoulder as he thrusts harder, faster, rougher now.

You come first.

Silently.

Eyes shut. Body shaking. Legs tightening around his waist.

He feels it groans like it hurts.

“Don’t,” he chokes. “Don’t do that—fuck, I’m—”

You don’t stop him.

He pulls out just in time barely and comes across your stomach in rough, desperate strokes. Head bowed. Breathing wrecked.

Neither of you says a word.

Not for a long time.

He leans his forehead against your collarbone. You stare over his shoulder at the city lights through the fogged-up window.

There’s no kissing after.

No soft words.

Just the sound of your breathing slowly calming, your bodies cooling, and everything between you shifting.

You feel the guilt start to creep in like a second skin.

You don’t fight it.

You just let it sit there, warm and familiar.

He finally pulls back.

His eyes flick down—to where he’s left himself on you.

To your flushed chest. Your wrecked dress. Your shoe hanging off one heel.

To the mess you both are.

You wipe yourself with a tissue from the minibar.

Then turn your back and walk to the bathroom.

The sound of the shower starting is your only goodbye.

He’s still lying there when you go. Staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him answers. Like if he focuses hard enough on the crown molding or the warm hotel light bleeding across the carpet, he won’t have to think about what just happened.

But he feels it.

In the tremble still humming through his thighs. The raw burn on his knee where the corner of the wall scraped him mid-thrust. The faint scent of your perfume still clinging to his chest.

And in the ache.

That low, shameful ache that starts somewhere beneath his ribs and radiates outward into his throat, his jaw, his clenched fists.

His body is satisfied.

His mind is ruined.

He hears the water shut off.

The bathroom door opens.

He doesn’t look.

He tells himself not to.

But he does.

You step out barefoot, a towel slung around your shoulders, your hair dripping a lazy line down the dip of your spine. You don’t say a word. Don’t look at him right away.

You’re calm. Too calm.

Like you didn’t just fuck your boss in a hotel room on a Friday night. Like you didn’t make him beg. Like you didn’t grind down on his cock like you owned every part of him and then walk away like it never happened.

He shifts slightly, pulling the edge of the blanket over his lap. His cock is soft but twitching again just from seeing you.

He hates that.

Hates how easily you disarm him. How quickly you slid under his skin.

And now you’re just walking around like nothing happened.

He opens his mouth to say something. Anything.

But you move before he can.

Cross the room.

Wordless.

Eyes on him now. Sharp. Curious.

You kneel on the bed beside him. The towel slips a little, showing the slope of your shoulder. A drop of water clings to your collarbone.

He wants to lick it off. He wants to run.

You don’t touch him at first. Just stare.

Then, slowly, deliberately, your hand slides beneath the blanket.

Jack sucks in a breath.

He’s already getting hard again. He doesn’t even understand how. He’s still dazed from the first time. From the way you sounded when you came. From the way your body clenched around him like punishment.

Your fingers wrap around him—light, teasing.

He groans. Sharp. Helpless.

You look up at him, almost waiting for him to beg.

"Pleas—” he tries, but it dies in his throat.

You lean in.

Kiss the hollow of his neck.

Then lower.

Your mouth trails down his chest. Your nails scrape lightly across his ribs. Your breath ghosts over his stomach as you shift down between his legs.

His breath is ragged now.

His hips buck once when you kiss the head of his cock. Slow. Wet.

“Fuck—”

His voice breaks. He can’t stop shaking.

You lick him again tongue flat and lazy and he swears he sees stars behind his eyelids.

Then you take him in.

All the way.

No warning.

No mercy.

Jack arches clean off the mattress.

Your mouth is hot and tight, tongue circling him while your hand works what you can’t reach. You moan low in your throat like you’re enjoying it.

Like this is for you.

He looks down.

Makes the mistake of looking.

Your eyes are already on him.

Locked. Unblinking.

You suck him harder, deeper owning him and he whimpers. Actually fucking whimpers.

“I’m gonna—” he gasps. “Fuck—I’m—”

He doesn’t even finish.

You don’t stop.

He comes hard, body curling forward, hand gripping the sheets like a man drowning. Your mouth swallows all of it. Slow. Methodical. Clean.

You don’t look away once.

When you pull off, your lips are slick. Your eyes still fixed on him.

You wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb.

Then you stand.

Walk back to the bathroom.

Door closes.

Water runs again.

And Jack?

Jack’s still shaking.

Still hard.

Still reeling.

Because you didn’t say a word.

Didn’t ask for anything.

And he gave you everything.

Monday Morning – Executive Conference Room

Jack hadn’t spoken a word in the last ten minutes.

He sat still at the far end of the table, jaw locked, the pad of his thumb brushing once, twice, again along the edge of his folder. His expression said focused. Blank. Appropriately disengaged for someone listening to HR run down bullet points about offer structure and contract details.

But he wasn’t listening.

Not to them.

His eyes had flicked toward her only once since the meeting started when she walked in. Hair tucked cleanly back. A structured blazer. That same unreadable calm she wore like a tailored coat.

She didn’t look at him.

Didn’t need to.

She already knew he was watching.

Maeve spoke with ease, a practiced rhythm of praise and data.

“She’s been exceptional under pressure, in tempo, always two steps ahead. I’ve worked with high-level coordinators who can’t keep pace like she does. I don’t want her going anywhere.”

Across from her, the she didn’t shift. Didn't smile. Just took a quiet breath and nodded once, pen tapping silently against her notepad. Her legs crossed slowly beneath the table.

Jack’s mouth was dry.

The rest of the meeting unfolded without him. HR noted the proposed title Executive Liaison. Discussed a transition plan. Mentioned a raise that would still be lower than what she deserved. They talked about culture, “fit,” values.

Jack heard none of it.

All he could focus on was the memory of her thighs. The drag of her mouth. The way she didn’t speak after. The way she never looked back.

“Mr O'Connell?”

Maeve’s voice cut in.

His head snapped up, like surfacing from a dream.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Yes. I agree with the recommendation.”

That was all he gave.

Sharp. Bare.

But it landed too late, and too obviously.

She didn’t react. Not even a blink.

Of course not.

When the meeting ended, she rose with the others Calm. Professional. Perfect.

And walked out.

Not a glance. Not a word. Just the clean sound of her heels disappearing down the hall.

Jack didn’t move.

He just watched the door long after it closed.

—

Downstairs – Main Floor Corridor

The second she turned the corner, she let herself exhale. Quietly. Controlled.

Her heart had been pounding for forty straight minutes.

She didn’t show it. She never did. But underneath the pressed fabric, the practiced nods, the polite expressions her body was taut. Ready to crack.

This job meant everything.

Not just a paycheck. Not just a title.

It meant staying.

It meant not going back.

It meant rent that wasn’t scraped together. It meant not having to text her mom back with lies about how well she was doing. It meant quieting the voice in her head that still carried her father’s disappointed sigh.

It meant, finally, a kind of control that wasn’t just for show.

And it was hers.

Almost.

“There she is!”

Nadia’s voice rang out like a champagne cork in a quiet room.

She was grinning, striding toward her in a soft cream sweater and too-high boots, iced coffee clutched in one hand like a trophy.

“You just got out of HR, didn’t you?”

She smiled, just a flicker, eyes flicking up from her folder. “Maybe.”

“Maybe, my ass.” Nadia’s grin widened. “You’re glowing. Like freshly-fucked glowing. Oh wait unless you were?”

She snorted, biting back an actual laugh.

“I’m kidding. Mostly. But you did ditch me Friday.”

“Regretfully.”

“Bullshit.”

She a brow. “You survived.”

“Barely. Your date kept talking about crypto and had the audacity to order milk at the bar.”

A soft chuckle.

As they turned toward the elevators, Nadia leaned in again, casually: “So where’d you go after dinner, anyway?”

The question hit light.

But she still paused.

Just slightly.

Not enough to be noticed by anyone who didn’t know her.

But she did glance up.

Toward the floor above.

To the stretch of glass at the end of the hallway.

Mr O’Connell’s office.

He was standing behind the glass.

Watching.

Expression unreadable. Hands in his pockets.

And just like that something inside her clicked back into place.

She turned away.

“No place worth mentioning,” she murmured.

The lift doors opened.

And let Nadia lead her forward.

The doors closed behind her with a soft hiss, and Jack stayed right where she wanted him, watching.

“You’re such a fucking idiot, Cook.”

She didn’t mean to start it—not really. She came here to have a good time, not to be pissed off two hours in, clutching a half-lit joint and staring across the room at him with that girl.

Of course it was a blonde. Tall. Laughing too hard at something he said. And of course, he was looking at her like he didn’t already have someone who knew how he liked his tea and what song made him cry when he thought no one was watching.

She held her tongue at first. Tried to act unbothered. But then he looked over. Right at her. Smirked. Held the cig to the girl’s lips like he was daring her to swing first.

So she did.

By the time Freddie got involved—muttering, “Jesus Christ, can you two not for once?” and gesturing upstairs like he was the party’s emotional support mascot—they were already snapping at each other loud enough to make people stare.

The door slammed behind them.

Now she stood across from him, the joint burning between her fingers. Cook lounged on a stubby little corduroy couch in someone’s bedroom like he hadn’t just been acting brand new downstairs.

“Say what you wanna say then,” he drawled, arms stretched along the back like he owned the place. Like he owned her.

She exhaled sharply, smoke curling toward the ceiling, her gaze sharp and full of heat.

Then she crossed the room.

Straddled him.

Took a long, slow drag, deep enough to calm the shake in her chest, to push back the scream building in her throat. Then she leaned in, close—so close their noses almost touched.

She blew it in his face.

Cook grinned, that same stupid, crooked smirk he always wore when he knew he was wrong but liked the way it made her look at him. His eyes fluttered shut when her free hand slid into his curls.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, low.

Then she yanked.

Hard.

He flinched, sucked his teeth. “Oi!”

But she wasn’t done.

“You think I’m just gonna stand there and watch you act like I don’t exist?” Her voice cracked, tight and furious. “You knew what you were doing.”

“I weren’t even—”

Slap.

Not too hard. Just enough.

Then again—harder.

“Fucking hell, alright!” Cook barked, half-laughing, half-pissed, but still letting it happen.

Because he knew. Knew he deserved it. Knew he’d poked too far. And because this was them—raw and messy, stitched together by adrenaline and ache.

He caught her wrist. “Gimme that.”

Took the joint from her and flicked it over his shoulder without looking. A lazy arc. A few sparks scattered. Neither of them noticed where it landed.

His hands found her waist. He stood in one motion, lifting her like it was nothing, and carried her over to the bed.

She didn’t fight it.

Didn’t speak.

She just looked up at him, and her eyes shimmered.

“I hate you,” she whispered, fists curling in the fabric of his shirt.

He shook his head slowly. “Nah. You don’t.”

He kissed her.

Soft. Deep. Like he meant it.

She kissed him back—once—and then shoved him off with both hands.

Cook landed beside her on the bed with a groan, flopping onto his back. He stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched, breath ragged. Her quiet crying filled the space between them.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t know how.

But after a moment, he reached over, let his fingers brush her cheek, hesitant.

She turned into it. Kissed his palm.

Pulled him closer.

They kissed again, slower this time. Hungrier. Her nails dragged down his back. His hands gripped her thighs. Tongues clashed and breath tangled. It wasn’t sweet. It was heat and ache and all the things they didn’t know how to say.

Then—

BEEP.

BEEP BEEP.

They froze.

“...You smell that?” she mumbled against his mouth.

Cook sat up straight. “Shit—”

Smoke snaked across the ceiling. A sharp smell filled the air. His eyes darted to the couch.

It was on fire.

The joint had landed right between the cushions, and now one arm of the couch was spitting out orange flames like it held a grudge.

“FUCKIN’—”

Cook scrambled off the bed, barefoot, shirtless, panicking like a cartoon.

“WHERE’S A CUP—WHERE’S THE SODDIN’—”

She bolted upright, stunned, then doubled over laughing, tears still wet on her cheeks.

“You didn’t even check where it landed—!”

“Didn’t hear you say not to throw it, did I?!”

“Because you never listen, Cook!”

“Now’s not the fuckin’ time, is it?!”

He grabbed a half-empty water bottle and chucked it at the flames. It hissed. Did nothing.

She howled with laughter, knees to her chest.

Cook whipped around, towel in hand, slapping the couch like it owed him money.

Footsteps thundered upstairs. Someone yelled from down the hall.

Chaos.

But in the middle of it—smoke rising, alarms screaming, the room glowing orange—they both looked at each other and cracked up.

The fire got put out.

Eventually.

Someone dumped a bottle of warm beer on the couch. Cook flung open the window to fan out the smoke with a poster he’d ripped off the wall. 

They got kicked out, of course.

Cook stumbled down the front steps barefoot, smoke in his hair, still laughing under his breath like it was the funniest thing that ever happened. She trailed behind him, hoodie pulled over her head, expression unreadable.

Outside, the air was cooler. Quieter. The music from inside was muffled by brick and distance.

They collapsed onto the patchy grass in the front yard, shoulder to shoulder.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at him.

Just picked at the hem of her sleeve and stared out at the road like she wished she’d never come.

Cook swallowed hard. Laid back with a groan, eyes on the sky.

“…I didn’t mean it,” he said, eventually. “Back there. With that girl. I was just being a dick.”

She didn’t respond.

“I dunno why I do it. Push you like that. Ruin shit that’s good.”

He turned his head, looked at her.

She was blinking slow, lashes wet. Jaw set.

“I do love you, y’know.” His voice was quiet now. Real. Not slurred or smug. Just small. “I just… I don’t know how to be good at it. Never been taught.”

A beat passed.

Then she reached over and took his hand.

Didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at him.

But she held on.

And he squeezed back.

They lay like that—fingers tangled, smoke still clinging to their clothes, the faint wail of sirens in the distance—and for a second, Cook let himself believe maybe that was enough.

Maybe holding on was all he had to offer.

Maybe she’d take it anyway.

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