The office was dead quiet by 9 PM. I'd stayed late to finish a spreadsheet I could've done in my sleep, but the truth was simpler: I wanted to be here. Jennifer had been in her corner office since lunch, door half-closed, and every time I glanced up, I caught her silhouette moving behind the frosted glass.

I heard her heels before I saw her. A slow, deliberate click on the polished floor that stopped right at my cubicle entrance.

Jennifer: "Still here?"

I looked up. She was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, that charcoal blazer hugging her shoulders. Her dark hair was down, a little messy, like she'd been running her fingers through it. She looked tired. She looked hungry.

Me: "Just wrapping up. You too?"

Jennifer: "Mm. Paperwork never ends." Her eyes traveled down my chest, slow, then back up. "You want a drink? I keep a bottle in my office."

I should've said no. I should've packed my bag and walked out. But the way she said it—like she already knew my answer—made my mouth go dry.

Me: "Sure."

She smiled, just a flicker, and turned. I watched her walk back to her office, the sway of her skirt hypnotic, and I knew I wasn't leaving anytime soon.