If I don’t fuck it up.
The door opens without waiting for my answer. I glance over my shoulder. Tatiana tentatively steps inside.
“I thought you’d gone,” I say, turning to face her and sitting down at my desk.
“Too much work to be done.”
She glides closer, then leans against my desk—shoulders angled, hips tilted, arms crossed just enough to lift and press her breastsupward. An old strategy of hers. One she doesn’t need, yet she’s deploying it on instinct.
Her fingers go to her blouse. She undoes a button. Then another.
I don’t move. I don’t say a word.
“You’re tense,” she says, her voice pure velvet. “Understandable. Long day. Long month, really.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You think this helps?”
“It could,” she murmurs, tilting her head slightly. The lights from outside catch the swell of her breast, the gleam in her eye. “If you let it.”
Another button slips free, revealing a black lace bra underneath.
She moves to sit on the edge of my desk, one long leg crossing over the other in a slow, practiced motion. Her skirt rides higher, the silk whispering over her skin like an invitation too well-rehearsed to be accidental. She watches me—openly, intently—as though she's waiting for the moment I stop pretending I’m immune.
“Yuri. I’m not asking for a ring. Just a moment. A little comfort between colleagues.”
She reaches for my hand, her skin light and warm against mine. There’s familiarity in the way her fingers trace my knuckles. She’s not wrong; there was a time I might’ve responded. Might’ve leaned in, taken what she was offering and written it off as practical, easy, harmless.
But I’m not that man anymore.
Because now, all I see is Astrid.
I don’t want anyone else.
Not even close.
I pull my hand back.
Tatiana doesn’t flinch, but something in her eyes flickers. Disappointment, resentment, maybe the sting of her pride being bruised. She’s a woman used to winning, used to being the answer, not the consolation prize.
“Tatiana,” I say, my voice calm but unyielding, “this isn’t going to happen.”
She straightens slightly. The air shifts between us. Her blouse still hangs open, delicate lace framed by silk, but the allure fades as she exhales.
“Because of her,” she says. There’s no malice in her tone, just quiet knowledge.
“Because of me,” I retort. “Because I don’t want this. And I won’t use you to forget something I’m not finished with.”
That lands. Her posture falters a fraction, just enough to betray the blow. She nods slowly and buttons up with deliberate, almost regal grace. No hurry. No shame. Just a woman reclaiming her armor.
“Fair enough,” she says, standing. “Just thought I’d offer. Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
I say nothing.
She walks to the door, pausing before she opens it. “Good luck with her,” she says without turning. “You’ll need it.” Then she’s gone.
I’m alone again, but not in the way I was before.
Before, I was adrift—caught between uncertainty and responsibility, between guilt and longing. But after Tatiania’s move, I now know what I want to do, what I need to do.
