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“Depends what ‘okay’ means,” he whispers. “I mean, yeah—I’ll live. But…” He trails off, jaw flexing as he looks down at his shoes. Then he glances back up, eyes catching mine.

“You know why we have to do this…” I murmur, stomach twisting in on itself.

“I know.” He nods. “If anyone finds out, it’s over. Meetings. Forms. Goodbyes. I get it.”

The words punch low in my gut. I open my mouth, then shut it again, because what the hell am I supposed to say? That I want him, but not here? That I liked waking up with his arms around me, but I can’t afford to want it? That this thing is one long tightrope walk, and one slip means free-fall into unemployment and maybe even a lawsuit if Marla catches the scent.

From the bathroom, Sam starts belting something off-key and absolutely ridiculous.

Noah shifts, shoulders brushing the coats. “I should… I should go,” he mumbles.

I force down a hard swallow and nod. “Yeah. Yeah.”

He steps past, close enough that his arm brushes mine, and before I can brace for it, he bends down and presses the softest kiss to the corner of my mouth. Barely there. A ghost. By the time my breath hitches, he’s already pulling back, already slipping through the door, gone like he was never here at all.

Chapter 17

Noah

Freezing rain lashes the window, streaking the glass in jagged lines, the concrete-grey light bleeding into my office until everything feels washed out. I sit hunched at the desk, pen tapping a dead rhythm against a pad of notes I can’t focus on, words on my laptop screen bleeding into static.

I drag a hand down my face, pressing my palm hard into my eye socket until sparks flare behind my lids.

The closet.

It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. My dumb ass had fallen asleep with her tucked under my chin, too wrecked by the feel of her skin and our pleasure to remember there was someone in the other room. Next thing I knew, she was shoving me in there in full-blown panic—half-asleep, clutching my shoes, her coats smothering me into near suffocation.

I get it. I’m not an idiot. I know why it happened. I know the rules. Stay quiet. Keep it secret. Don’t blow everything up.

But it stings—worse than I’ll ever admit out loud. Because the contradiction’s killing me. She shoved me into a fucking closet like I was a dirty secret—and if she did it again, I’d go without blinking. I’d let her fold me up and hide me away like I don’t even exist, if it meant getting her mouth on mine again.

And what the hell does that make me? Pathetic. A joke. Thirty-two, senior title, corner office, but I’d crawl into darkness on command if she asked, and thank her for the privilege.

Jesus. Calloway, you’re a goddamn cliché.

I shove up from the chair too hard, the legs screeching against the floor, my knee clipping the underside of the desk. Pain shoots up my thigh and I curse under my breath, grabbing the file I don’t even need. It’s not for the copier. It’s not for anything. It’s just a prop. Something to justify getting up, moving, breaking the loop before I grind myself into dust.

The bullpen hums with the usual Monday morning energy—phones trilling, keyboards clattering, the low drone of half-hearted chatter blending together into one monotonous, miserable hum. I fix my eyes ahead and shove into motion, weaving through the mess of noise, bodies, and burnt coffee.

She’s at her desk, head tipped down, a mug balanced in one hand as she scrawls something across her tablet with the other. Her hair’s fallen loose around her face, catching the glow of the monitor. God. It would be so easy to walk up behind her, lean down, wrap my arms around her waist and bury my face into the crook of her neck, breathing her in until the smell of paper and toner fades and there’s nothing left but her vanilla shampoo and the warmth of her back pressed into me.

No. Keep walking, dumbass. Don’t stand there gawking. Go straight to the copier room.

There’s a knot of interns huddled around the printer, pretending they don’t know how it works, flipping through papers and snorting under their breath. I shoulder past, drop the folder onto the copier tray with a hard thunk, and start jabbing at the buttons. They give me a look, all wide eyes and nervous shuffling, and scatter the second I dump the file into the tray with a little more force than necessary.

The machine wheezes awake, clunky gears grinding, light strip crawling across the glass. I jab at the buttons, jaw tight, fingers drumming against the plastic edge while it warms up. Pages start to spit out, but I don’t even look. What am I even copying? Hell if I know. Something I’ll probably dump in the shredder in ten minutes.

A giggle filters through the door, right over the low hum of the copier. “I’d do anything to have the boss man drag me back home when I’m drunk off my ass.”

My shoulders go rigid, paper crumpling under my fist.

“Wait—what? That was Noah?!”

Air lodges tight in my chest. I glance sideways, just enough to see out the open door. Sam’s sprawled against Eleanor’s cubicle wall, one hand waving as he talks. Eleanor’s leaning back in her chair, smile sharp, eyes glinting like she’s enjoying this far too much.

“Yeah,” she says, lowering her voice a notch. “Volunteered himself. They live in the same building, apparently. He had to, like, haul you into the Uber while you were muttering something about—what was it—‘strategic carbs and hydration’ or some shit⁠—”

Oh, fuck. No no no, shut up.