Thalen practically bounds into the glass-walled office, hair rumpled, navy shirt carelessly half-tucked, tie askew as if it’s challenging anyone to fix him. He offers Cael a crooked smile and a knuckle-knock against the open door, but Cael just glances up from his laptop, jaw tight behind his glasses, unreadable as ever. Sirae is by the window, arms folded, pinstriped blazer perfect, face impassive except for the way her eyes track Thalen’s every move with the faintest shadow of annoyance—an annoyance that’s laced, today, with something else.

Liseva strolls into the bullpen with measured, feline grace—her black dress simple but precise, lips twisted into a crooked, knowing smile. She flicks her gaze up from her phone, meets Thalen’s eyes, and holds the look a beat too long. “Hey,” she says, cool and bright all at once, “You’re the assistant, right?” Thalen’s cheeks go pink. “Executive assistant,” he amends, over-eager, shifting his weight from foot to foot. She steps closer, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, the move almost daring. “Executive. Sounds important.” Thalen laughs too loudly, almost grateful for someone seeing him—even if it’s through a fog of nerves and misplaced bravado.

Cael watches Thalen and Liseva from behind his screen, eyes narrowed, feeling a pulse of unease he can’t quite name—and not only because Sirae has been watching him all morning, gaze sliding over him when she thinks he won’t notice. She’s impossible today, her posture razor-sharp, every word clipped, as if daring him to break through her cool exterior. He wants to; god, he wants to. But it’s an impossible day for vulnerability. Their fake romance is all eyes and whispers in the corridors, and Cael’s chest tightens every time he passes Sirae in the hall—especially after the elevator incident. He tries to focus, but his thoughts keep returning to the way her lips felt on his, to her hand gripping his shirt when no one else could see.

Lunchtime finds them alone again, Sirae perched on the low balcony wall, legs crossed, blouse slightly open at the throat, her composure at war with the anxious knot in her brow. Cael stands beside her, gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He lets out a slow breath. “Did you ever wish it was real?” he asks, voice rough. She looks at him, face unreadable. “Real is dangerous,” she says, but there’s a tremor in her voice, a flicker of longing she can’t deny. Cael’s jaw tightens. “Maybe that’s the point.”

For a moment, neither speaks. He studies the delicate movement of her throat as she swallows, willing himself not to reach for her. Then Sirae turns to him, sudden, her defenses cracking. “I’m tired of pretending,” she whispers, too quiet for anyone but him. He steps closer. The city noise falls away. She catches his wrist, firm and urgent, her fingernails biting lightly into his skin; it’s all the permission he needs.

In the dim parking garage, the air is thick and secret, lit by the pulse of their shared recklessness. Sirae backs against the cement wall, breath catching as Cael presses against her. He kisses her hard, desperate, the pretense gone. Her hands claw at his shirt, pulling him closer, and he lifts her, pinning her hips between his and the concrete, all caution forgotten. Her fingers slide under his collar, down his chest; heat building with every frantic caress. She gasps, head thrown back, arching into him as his hands slip beneath her skirt, trembling with want. Every secret, every wall between them dissolves in the shadows.

She tugs his hair, mouth crushes his, and they are lost—heat, skin, need, the raw pulse of sensation overtaking judgment. Urgent whispers, low moans, hands roaming where they shouldn’t. His voice breaks against her ear—“Tell me you want this,”—and she answers with a desperate kiss, body answering where words fail. They shatter together, breathless and undone, the tension finally breaking. For a moment, the world is only them.

Then—headlights flicker across the wall, a car engine revs nearby. Cael goes rigid, heart hammering. Sirae stiffens, eyes wide as the realization dawns: they’re not alone. Someone has seen them, or worse—could have.

They disentangle, shaky and silent, hearts pounding louder than the echoing garage. As they slip back toward the elevator, a shadow lingers behind a nearby pillar—watching, waiting.

To be continued...