L. Conti:
“Then be prepared to use Comic Sans forever, brat baby. Your font choices are tragic, but your ass is criminally distracting.”
Line 3 – Enzo Doubles Down: Direct flirtation disguised as banter.
?Annotation: Use of “criminally” = textbook Daddy language. Irrelevant but hot.
S. Symanski:
“It is, isn’t it. Also: This is why we’re just friends. Emphasis on ‘just.’”
Line 4 – Seven Attempts to Reinstate Boundaries: The friend zone defense is invoked.
?Annotation: Weak. Jury may be swayed by consistent texting habits, body language, and smile frequency when reading these messages.
Final Summary:
This document has been submitted as proof that you’ve been flirting back this whole time despite protestations of friendship. For the record, the defense would like to add:
You laughed at my gifts.
You texted me “don’t be cute” last night, which implies acknowledgment of my cuteness.
Last week, you ate the cookie specifically labeled “Not a ‘just friend’ cookie.” You knew what it meant.
Respectfully submitted,
—Lorenzo Conti, Attorney at Law (still patiently waiting in the friend zone, but with slightly bluer balls)
Seven shook his head. The man was a menace. He drank down his protein shake, hoping it would cool him off a bit. He was in trouble here. He had no problem hitting pause on Daddy Enzo, overbearing Enzo, and foot-in-mouth Enzo. But flirty, adorable, charming Enzo was lethal to Seven’s defenses. His walls were crumbling. But the fear was still there. The fear that once Enzo got what he wanted, he’d realize the challenge was what he’d really craved, not Seven himself.
Still, it was getting harder and harder to say no. Seven didn’t want to say no. He wanted to fling himself into Enzo’s arms and end his own tragically long dry spell. Enzo’s balls weren’t the only ones turning blue. It was impossible to look at the man every day and not remember what it felt like lying beneath him.
He slid the file folder into his bag, then fished the pencil from the trash and did the same with it. He’d never admit it to a single soul, but he kept every one of the notes Enzo gave him in a box beneath his bed like a twelve-year-old girl with a crush.
When he looked up at Enzo again, he was locked in on his computer screen, his handsome face a mask of concentration, his colorful tattoos in direct conflict with his expensive Canali suit. He’d hung the jacket on the rack beside his desk, then rolled up his sleeves to the elbows. The bastard.
L. Conti
If you don’t stop staring at me, we’re both gonna be brought before HR.
S. Symanksi
Then put away those slutty forearms. They’re distracting. How is a man supposed to concentrate?
Seven watched Enzo laugh, then make a show of flexing said forearms.
S. Symanski
Shameless hussy.
Seven stood, snagging his now empty shake cup, walking to the break room just to calm his racing pulse. He stood at the sink, thoroughly washing the cup, lost in thoughts of the very man he’d gone there to forget. Seven sucked in a shocked breath as heat enveloped him, a steady weight pressing him into the counter. Enzo. Desire zipped through him, his blood igniting as his hips settled right against the curve of Seven’s ass.
“What are you doing? We’re in public,” Seven managed, bracing himself against the counter as Enzo’s solid frame pressed him farther over the sink.
“Hm?” Enzo asked distractedly, one beefy arm reaching up to open the cabinets above Seven’s head. “Oh, just grabbing some coffee. We’re out over there.”
Fucking liar.
