A little work from home...

The apartment had been quiet for days in a way that didn’t feel peaceful — just empty.

You had been working nonstop lately. Meetings bleeding into calls, calls bleeding into emails, the office door closed more often than not. I’d gotten used to hearing your voice through a headset instead of across a room. The glow of your monitor replaced you at dinner. Even when you were home, you weren’t really *home*.

And I was bored.

Bored turned into restless. Restless turned into lonely.

I lingered outside your office door for a minute, hearing the low cadence of your “professional voice” — calm, focused, patient. The voice you used for coworkers. The voice that meant you were in work-mode and I wasn’t supposed to interrupt.

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, considering it.

Then I looked down at what I was wearing — which was, objectively, not enough to be considered accidental. A loose shirt slipping off one shoulder, shorts that barely counted as clothing, bare feet quiet on the floor. I hadn’t *planned* it when I got dressed.

But now…

If I was going to be lonely, you were going to suffer with me.

I pushed the door open without knocking.

You didn’t look at me immediately — still talking, eyes locked on your monitor, pen tapping absently against the desk as you listened to someone on the other end of the call. You lifted a finger in a “one second” gesture without even turning.

I ignored it.

I walked in slowly, deliberately, and sat on the edge of your desk instead of the chair across from you.

That got your attention.

Your words faltered mid-sentence. Just for a fraction of a second — barely noticeable to anyone else — but I saw it. Your eyes flicked up, then froze. Completely derailed.

I smiled, sweet and entirely unhelpful.

You recovered fast, clearing your throat and continuing your conversation, but now your pen wasn’t tapping anymore. Your posture had gone rigid. You weren’t looking at your screen as much as you were trying *very hard* not to look at me.

I swung my foot lightly where it hung off the desk.

“You’ve been working a lot,” I said softly — not loud enough for your microphone to clearly pick up, but loud enough for you.

Your jaw tightened.

You muted your mic.

“What are you doing?” you whispered sharply.

“I’m bored,” I replied, entirely unapologetic. “And you’ve been ignoring me for three days.”

“I have a meeting.”

I leaned a little closer, lowering my voice. “Then I guess you have a distraction.”

You stared at me for a long second — that warning look you used when you were trying very hard to stay calm.

“Go sit on the couch,” you mouthed.

I didn’t move.

Instead, I slid a little closer across the desk, careful not to touch your keyboard, my knee brushing your thigh under the table like it was accidental.

It wasn’t.

Your shoulders went tight.

You unmuted yourself.

“Yes — sorry, I’m here. Go ahead.”

I watched you talk, watched the way you forced your voice steady while your hand clenched around the pen hard enough your knuckles blanched. You kept your eyes glued to the screen now, refusing to look at me again.

Which, obviously, made me worse.

I leaned forward just enough that my arm rested beside your laptop. My fingers traced slow, absent patterns over the wood of your desk — closer, closer — until they brushed the back of your hand.

You stopped mid-note.

A pause on the call.

You recovered fast.

“Right, that timeline works.”

Your foot shifted under the desk, pressing lightly against mine — a silent warning.

I only smiled.

“You’re tense,” I whispered.

Your hand moved to mute again.

“Do not start,” you said quietly, not even looking at me.

I tilted my head.

“I didn’t do anything.”

My fingers slid over yours this time, fully, deliberately, curling just enough to make you notice. Not holding. Not innocent.

Your breath hitched — barely — but I heard it.

You inhaled slowly, eyes closing for half a second, then opened them again at the screen.

You were losing.

I leaned down just slightly, my hair brushing your shoulder, my lips hovering near your ear but not quite touching.

“You used to look at me when I walked into a room.”

Your jaw flexed.

“I’m working.”

“So work,” I said softly.

Then I pressed a quick, light kiss just below your ear.

You froze.

Completely.

On the call, someone asked you a question.

You did not answer.

I watched the exact moment your composure cracked — not outwardly, not visibly to anyone else — but your hand moved instantly, grabbing my wrist before I could pull back.

Not rough.

Firm.

Your mic was still unmuted.

You muted it with your other hand almost violently.

“Are you trying to get me fired?” you whispered.

I leaned closer instead of pulling away, my mouth almost brushing yours when you finally looked at me.

“No,” I said.

“I’m trying to get your attention.”