THRAKA
Ifigured out the lavender part three days ago when she leaned over my shoulder to fix whatever I'd broken on the glowing screen box. Some kind of lotion or soap or one of those human potions they rub on their skin to smell like flowers instead of sweat and honest work.
The fury is newer. Sharper. Mixed with something else I recognize from hunts and raids and the moment before a battle when everything goes quiet and focused.
Want.
She wants this. Wants me. Even though her mouth keeps forming words about policies and procedures and professional boundaries that don't mean anything in this small dark space where the air tastes like her accelerating heartbeat.
"Terms," I prompt, because watching her try to organize chaos into neat little categories is somehow as arousing as the scent of her arousal itself. "You were establishing parameters."
Her throat moves when she swallows. Such a delicate thing, that throat. I could span it with one hand. The thought makes my pulse kick up another notch.
"No one can know," she says, each word clipped and precise despite the tremor underneath. "What happens here stays here. We maintain complete professionalism in all other contexts."
"Agreed."
"This is a one-time occurrence driven by temporary stress and proximity. It doesn't mean anything beyond immediate physical relief."
I grin at that obvious lie but don't call her on it. "Continue."
"We stop the moment either party indicates they want to stop. Clear verbal communication throughout."
"Yes." I shift closer, watching her pupils dilate. "Anything else?"
"I..." She loses her train of thought when I brace one hand on the shelf beside her head. Regains it with visible effort. "We never speak of this again after today."
"No."
Her eyes snap to mine, startled. "What?"
"That term I reject." I lean in until our faces are inches apart. "If we do this once, we do it again. And again. Until one of us decides we're finished. I don't do temporary, Little Manager. I don't do meaningless."
"That's not, we can't?—"
"Then we stop now." I straighten up, giving her space even though every instinct screams to press forward. "You walk out that door. Return to your color-coded papers and your anxiety bean water. Pretend your heart isn't racing."
She regards me like I've spoken in Old Tongue. Processing. Calculating. Running whatever complex human arithmetic happens in that sharp mind.
"You're serious."
"Always."
"This is insane." But she's not moving toward the door. Not putting space between us. "Completely unprofessional. Career suicide if anyone finds out."
"So we don't let anyone find out."
"You tried to duel Steve over a sandwich this morning. You're not exactly subtle."
I shrug, unconcerned. "Steve challenged my honor."
"He asked you to stop eating his lunch."
"Same thing." I tilt my head, studying her flushed face and rapid breathing and the way her fingers keep flexing like they want to grab onto something. "Do you accept my counter-offer or not?"
The silence stretches between us like a rope pulled taut, ready to snap. One second passes. Then two. Then five. The air in the supply closet feels thick, charged with electricity, with possibility, with a decision that cannot be unmade once chosen.
Her eyes are locked on mine,those sharp, calculating eyes that miss nothing, that analyze everything, that right now show nothing but raw want and barely controlled panic. I can see the war happening behind them. Logic versus desire. Professional reputation versus this thing burning between us. All her carefully constructed walls crumbling in real time.
