The soft pulse of after-hours work lights drew odd shadows over the glassy conference room walls, catching pale reflections of Cyran as he hunched over his laptop, sleeves rolled to the elbow, dark hair falling untidily around his eyes. His shirt—half untucked, collar slightly wrinkled—hinted at how long he’d been here, how little he cared for the impression he made unless words were involved. He chewed at his lower lip, glancing toward the ticking clock, then back at the blank page, aware of how much he was failing to write and how fiercely he needed a spark.

A crash of laughter snapped his attention away. Vessa strode in, perilous and bright in shoulder-baring indigo silk, camera slung like a weapon at her hip. Her lipstick—a dangerous red—matched the wild flush on her cheeks. She moved with the casual, predatory grace of someone used to being watched, but her eyes flickered too quickly over the empty seats, searching for something to distract her from the hunger pressing in at the edges of her smile.

She threw herself into the chair across from Cyran, spinning it sideways and folding her legs up underneath her. “Stuck again?” she teased, her voice smoky with exhaustion and late-night intimacy. Her fingers tapped an erratic rhythm on the tabletop, bracelets flashing under the harsh lights.

Cyran met her gaze, a little wary, a little transfixed. “You make it hard to concentrate, you know.” There was a trace of humor, but he meant it—his chest tightening from her nearness, from the way her scent—something sharp, something sweet—rose between them.

Vessa’s lips curled into a half-smirk. “Maybe I should help.” Her eyes lingered on his mouth, openly. He felt his pulse ratchet up, heat rising under his skin. The tension, always coiled, stretched thinner, humming between them. Her foot grazed his calf beneath the table, deliberate. He inhaled sharply, watching her face melt from mischief to something naked and searching.

They barely heard the cleaning crew leave; the agency was theirs, a world shrunk to two. Vessa rose, standing above him, her hand drifting to the nape of his neck, forcing him to look up. Her breath was warm against his jaw. “You want to stop pretending?” she whispered.

He shook his head, breathless. “No. Please, don’t.” She surged down and kissed him, hungrily, her tongue flicking against his, drowning out every leftover fear. His hands found her waist, fingers sliding up the silk, feeling the warmth of her body, her shiver—eagerness disguised as impatience. Buttons fumbled undone, her dress slipping from her shoulder, his lips traveling desperately against her throat, her collarbone. She tugged at his belt, nails scraping his hip, both of them half-laughing, half-collapsing against the edge of the meeting table, spilling notebooks and pens onto the floor.

Their bodies pressed, clumsy with need, urgency building with every gasp. Vessa’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her thighs tight around his hips. Cyran breathed in the salt and heat of her skin, the racing thrum of her heartbeat. For a long moment, the world disappeared—nothing but frantic whispers, the scrape of teeth, the searing slide of skin, the ache of wanting and being wanted.

And then, suddenly, voices filtered in—the building wasn’t as empty as they thought. Vessa stilled, forehead pressed to Cyran’s, breath trembling. They started laughing in quiet shock, giddy and exposed, cradling each other in the near-dark, hearts hammering out their secrets onto the glossy table.

Later, as Vessa slipped back into her dress, redressed herself with calm defiance, Cyran watched her—hair wild, mascara smudged, mouth bruised with kisses—and felt something like hope spark in the hollow of his chest. She caught him staring, offered a crooked smile, vulnerability flickering in her eyes before she masked it with an easy wink. “Don’t fall in love, poet. Not with me,” she said, voice soft as a dare.

Before he could answer, Gaven passed by in the hall, pausing just long enough for his eyes to narrow and a knowing smile to twist across his face. Vessa stiffened, gathering her things, and left Cyran alone with the lingering scent of her, the press of her lips still burning, and the certainty that everything had just changed.

Later, alone at his desk, Cyran’s phone flashed—a new text, this time sharper, more personal: You’re not the only one being watched. Careful who you touch, or she’ll break too. His hands shook as he read it, staring into the darkness beyond the warehouse windows, wondering how close the danger truly was.

To be continued...