She huffs something that might be laughter. "Shut up."
I'm about to respond when the door handle jiggles.
We freeze.
Every muscle locks. Her eyes go wide, meeting mine in shared panic.
The handle turns again, meeting the resistance of the lock.
"Hello?" Male voice. Unfamiliar. "Is someone in there?"
The janitor.
Neither of us breathes.
7
ORLA
I've never been this mortified. Or this satisfied. The two sensations war inside me while I'm pressed against Thraka's chest, trying to regulate my breathing, trying to pretend my legs aren't still trembling.
"Hello?" The janitor jiggles the handle again. "Maintenance needs to access the supply closet."
Thraka's hand moves to my mouth, covering it gently. Not silencing me exactly. More like reminding me that breathing too loud right now would be catastrophic.
My professional reputation flashes before my eyes. Orla Peace, Senior Project Manager, found disheveled in a supply closet with the new Conflict Resolution hire. The HR paperwork alone would be nightmarish.
"Must be stuck," the janitor mutters. I hear the jangle of keys, the scrape of metal.
Thraka's other hand tightens on my hip, steadying me. His expression is calm. Completely unbothered by the possibility of discovery. Of course he is. He probably considers getting caught mid-conquest some kind of badge of honor.
The key scrapes into the lock mechanism with a metallic grinding sound that makes every muscle in my body lock up in pure, crystallized panic.
My heart doesn't just beat—it detonates against my ribs with such violence I'm absolutely certain the janitor can hear it through the thin wooden door. Each thunderous pulse feels loud enough to echo down the entire hallway, a biological drumbeat announcing my presence, my complete and utter unprofessionalism, my catastrophic lapse in judgment.
I stop breathing entirely. My fingers dig into Thraka's shoulders hard enough that my manicured nails probably leave crescent-shaped indents in the fabric of his ill-fitting jacket.
This is it. This is how my career ends—not with a failed project or a miscalculated budget, but caught in flagrante delicto in a supply closet like some reckless intern without a shred of impulse control.
The lock mechanism clicks. Starts to turn with agonizing slowness.
Then a voice from the hallway. "Hey, Rodriguez! We got a spill in the break room. Someone knocked over the entire coffee station."
"Are you serious right now?" The janitor's voice carries clear irritation through the door, and mercifully, the metallic jangling of his keys stops mid-turn. "That's the third damn time this week someone's knocked over that entire station."
"I know, I know. It's a complete disaster in there, coffee's dripping off the counters, pooling on the floor. You're gonna need the industrial mop and probably that absorbent powder stuff too."
Footsteps retreat. Both sets. Fading down the corridor until there's nothing but blessed silence and the hum of the ventilation system.
I sag against Thraka, relief flooding through me so intensely my knees actually buckle.
He catches me easily, tucking me against his chest. "Close."
"Close?" I hiss, finding my voice. "That was a complete disaster narrowly avoided."
"You say disaster. I say excitement." He grins down at me, completely unrepentant. "Your heart is still racing."
"Because I was approximately thirty seconds away from career-ending humiliation and termination," I snap, turning away from the dispenser to glare at him.
