Zevan leans against the slick marble countertop in the locker room, chest still heaving from the tension of the day’s meetings. His tie hangs loose and his mussed dark hair sweeps recklessly across his brow, eyes hooded and unsettled. He glances at his reflection: the feigned bravado is slipping, replaced with something raw and heavy. The door creaks open. Rysa steps inside, sharp in a crimson blouse—half untucked, collar open, her cheeks stained with the flush of battle and bottle-green eyes steeled by something hungry. Neither speaks, but the silence shimmers.

She stalks toward him, heels clicking and then abandoned, stockinged feet nearly silent. Zevan tries to swallow his nerves, but his hands tremble as he fumbles with his cufflinks. He wants to say something sarcastic, to resurrect the banter that’s kept her at arm’s length, but all he manages is, “You shouldn’t be in here.”

Rysa’s lips curl into a smirk, then soften as she closes the space between them. She’s close enough for him to see the caution in her gaze, the way it wars with riptides of want. “Neither should you,” she whispers, and her fingers find his jaw, thumb tracing the morning stubble. Zevan’s breath catches. For a moment, neither moves—then suddenly he’s backing into the shower, and she’s following, hands reaching for buttons and belt. Her touch is rough, almost defiant, as if she’s daring him to flinch.

The tile is cool against Zevan’s bare back as the last of his shirt falls away. Water hisses overhead, steam blurring edges as Rysa steps beneath the spray beside him. Her blouse clings, half-transparent, and she peels it off with restless fingers before pressing herself, skin to skin, against him. He tilts her chin up, eyes flickering over her swollen bottom lip, damp lashes, and the slight bruise of a hickey already darkening at her collarbone.

“I don’t want to need you,” Zevan says, the confession burnt and bitter. Rysa closes her eyes, jaw quivering with something that almost looks like grief. Still, his hands are at her hips, pulling her closer, desperate. Their mouths crash together—hot, deep, unguarded. Her nails rake down his spine, leaving stinging trails, and Zevan moans against her throat as she claims him, every motion brittle with longing.

When he sinks to his knees, she tangles both hands in his hair, fighting to stay upright, gasping his name—raw, pleading, almost angry. In this fevered tangle of limbs and heat, there’s nothing but them. The outside world dissolves. Only need remains: her sharp breath, his trembling hands, apologies muttered against damp skin, and the kind of kiss that feels like a dare.

After, wrapped in nothing but towels and exhaustion, Rysa sits with knees against her chest, staring at the floor. Zevan’s arm hovers, wanting to pull her close, but guilt sticks his hand in midair. “We can’t keep doing this,” she says quietly, voice the edge of breaking. He mutters agreement, but neither moves. She watches the water bead down his wrist and shakes her head, like she’s angry at herself for wanting him anyway.

Elsewhere, in the shadowed corridor, Caelix watches them disappear into the shower—jaw clenched so hard his temples pulse. He’s dressed to the nines, as always: navy jacket sharp, every hair in place, but his hands curl into fists in his pockets. He forces a charming smile as Miris wanders past and calls out a faux-innocent HR quip, but his eyes stay locked on the locker room door. Jealousy twists through him, familiar as an old scar.

Later, in the breakroom, Rysa finds Theron curled up at a table, shoulders hunched protectively, fiddling with the hem of his oversized hoodie. He looks up, eyes huge and wary behind his glasses, as if expecting to be chastised. She sits beside him, bumping his knee gently. “Rough day?” she asks. He nods, his voice barely audible: “Sometimes I wish I was invisible.” She smiles softly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Sometimes it’s a superpower. But not when you need help.” He nearly flinches at her kindness, but the gratitude is undeniable. For a moment, the world feels quiet.

Somewhere else, in the sterile light of his corner office, Caelix slips a flash drive into his jacket and cues up a video sent anonymously. On the screen, Zevan’s voice—hoarse, confessing, “If anyone knew, it’d ruin me. I can’t—I can’t let it come out.” Caelix’s reflection in the black screen is victorious, but his eyes burn with betrayal.

He closes his laptop with a snap just as a message pings, unsigned: Evidence delivered. Ready when you are. Caelix grins—a smile sharp as broken glass.

To be continued...