Callen stands before her, hands braced on the desk, knuckles white against the glare of a laptop screen. His dark suit jacket hangs open, tie askew, the early hour painting bruises beneath his restless eyes. Rysa faces him, crisp blouse taut at the collar, jaw set, arms folded with studied precision that belies the heat in her gaze. The only sound is the whir of distant printers and their ragged breaths—until she leans in, voice a low challenge.

“You’re spinning data, not reality,” Rysa murmurs, her lips so close he can taste spearmint and coffee. The tension crackles—Callen’s reply is a smirk, but his pulse betrays him, racing squirrel-quick beneath his skin. He steps around the desk. Her shoulders stiffen. “Reality doesn’t always sell,” he counters, daring her to blink.

Her eyes flash—a warning, a dare—all at once. When he reaches out, she doesn’t move away. His hand finds the curve of her waist, fingers hesitating on starched cotton, searching for something softer. Rysa’s breath hitches; her mask falters. For a heartbeat, neither moves, trapped in the charged air between what should happen and what desperately will.

He kisses her hard, mouths colliding with pent-up longing, months of restraint snapping. The desk bites into her back as his hands slide beneath her blazer, urgency making her gasp. She fists his shirt, tugging him closer, bodies flush. Her lips taste of anger and old ache, tongue fierce and unyielding. He drinks her in, losing himself in the heat and defiance, his hand tangling in her hair as she arches into him, desperate for friction, forgetting the world outside these four glass walls. Her nails dig crescents into his shoulder, pulling him deeper. For a dizzy, endless moment, nothing matters but the electricity between them and the ache of being seen.

She’s the first to pull away, throat exposed, cheeks flushed, breath stuttering as she steadies herself on the edge of the desk. A trembling laugh escapes her, brittle at the edges. Callen searches her face, hoping for softness—but her walls rebuild in seconds.

“You always want too much,” she whispers, voice wrecked.

He straightens, smoothing his hair with shaking hands, vulnerability leaking through. “You make me want it,” he says, quieter than he intends.

Rysa’s eyes linger, dark and stormy, before she ducks past him—her fingers trailing fleetingly along his wrist in apology, in warning. She collects her scattered papers with shaking hands, too careful, too controlled, pretending nothing happened. Callen watches, shame and longing warring in his chest.

Later, in the hush before sunrise, he finds her alone by the vending machine, blazer swapped for a hoodie, jaw tight with resolve. There’s a ghost of last night in the way her gaze flicks away, in the crack in her voice as she says, “We can’t do this again, Callen.” He tries to speak, to reach her, but she flinches—turns away, shrouded in the cold light, leaving him with only his regrets.

Dawn bleeds through the lobby glass as Rysa slips into her car, hands clenched on the steering wheel, shoulders shaking—silent tears slipping down her cheeks. She lets herself break for a moment, then wipes her face, drawing herself back together with force. Her phone buzzes. Anonymous sender. The message is simple: “You failed to protect him. What will you let happen next?” Rysa’s fingers tighten. The wound of old loss reopens, raw and hungry.

She inhales, then forces herself to smile in the rearview mirror, steeling for the day ahead—a day that will bring new faces and, perhaps, new threats. Behind her, the sun rises, cold and unfeeling.

To be continued...