His mouth curves. "Yes."
"This is inappropriate." I’m undermining the professional objection I'm trying to raise. "Wildly inappropriate. We have a fraternization policy. I helped draft the fraternization policy."
"Very," he agrees, completely unbothered by corporate governance or the three-page addendum I wrote about workplace relationships creating conflicts of interest.
My brain scrambles for another objection, something concrete and logical that will break whatever spell this is. "Someone could need printer paper," I manage, gesturing vaguely at the shelves behind me stacked with office supplies. "Or toner cartridges. Or sticky notes. This is a high-traffic area during business hours."
His grin widens, showing teeth. "Let them suffer."
A laugh bubbles up, half hysteria and half something that feels dangerously close to joy.
This is insane. Completely, utterly, categorically insane.
I'm losing my mind. That's the only rational explanation for why my heart is racing like I've had six espressos instead of my usual four, why my professional persona is crumbling like a poorly formatted spreadsheet, why I'm seriously considering—actually genuinely considering—doing something that violates not just company policy but every personal code of conduct I've lived by for the past twenty-eight years.
I've finally cracked under the pressure of quarterly reports and passive-aggressive email chains and Chad's smug face in meetings.
Or.
Or maybe I'm just tired.
Tired of being controlled. Tired of being perfect. Tired of rules that protect everyone except me.
Thraka's eyes search mine with an intensity that strips away every corporate defense mechanism I've ever constructed.
Waiting.
Patient in a way that feels entirely at odds with his reputation as someone who solves problems by charging through them with an axe. He's giving me space to breathe, to think, to calculate the cost-benefit analysis of what happens next.
Giving me the choice.
The option to step back, smooth down my blazer, and pretend this moment of temporary insanity never happened. To return to my desk and my color-coded calendar and my five-year plan that definitely does not include supply closet encounters with orcs who think HR stands for "Human Resources" in the cannibalistic sense.
The out.
The escape hatch. The emergency exit. The safe, sensible, professionally appropriate retreat that any reasonable person in my position would take without hesitation.
And God help me, I don't take it.
"If we're going to do this," I hear myself say, "we're doing it correctly. With clear boundaries and expectations and a mutual understanding of discretion."
His smile unfurls slowly across his face, absolutely devastating in its effect on my carefully maintained composure.
"Little Manager," he rumbles, voice dropping to a register that does unfortunate things to my internal temperatureregulation. The nickname that should irritate me—thatdoesirritate me in meetings when he uses it in front of the quarterly review committee—sounds entirely different in this context. Dangerous. Promising. "Are you actually negotiating terms and conditions for a reward?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. He sounds genuinely delighted by the prospect, as if the idea of contractual parameters around what we're about to do is somehow foreplay rather than simple risk management.
Which it absolutely is. Risk management. Nothing more.
"I'm establishing parameters for a mutually beneficial arrangement that maintains professional decorum in public settings."
"You are delicious when you talk like a contract."
Heat floods my face. "I'm serious."
"So am I." He leans in, as his breath tickles my ear. "Tell me your terms."
6
