Orien leans over the glowing monitor, collar askew, glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. A half-empty coffee mug trembles as he types, rain smearing the window behind him. There’s a nervous energy to the way his fingers flutter across the keyboard—eyes darting to Selene, who slouches beside him in a battered denim jacket, her black nails drumming a rapid, impatient rhythm on the desk. Her mouth is set in a thin, sardonic line, but her eyes—dark, sharp, rimmed in tired kohl—keep flicking over to catch his screen, pulse alive with challenge.

"So, your great fix is just brute-forcing the requests?" she needles, voice low and edged with something like amusement, even as exhaustion seeps through her posture.

Orien gives a small, embarrassed laugh, cheeks coloring as he pushes an errant curl off his forehead. "It works," he mutters, barely meeting her gaze.

A silence stretches. Selene pulls her knees up onto the office chair, hugging them loosely. Her words land soft at first: "You always do it safe, huh?" There’s a tremor in her tone he doesn’t miss.

He sets his hands flat on the desk, noticing how small and bitten her nails are. "I don’t... I just hate making things worse," he whispers, voice laced with an ache that’s easy to miss unless you’re listening for regret.

She scoffs, but her posture softens, shoulders dropping. A red scarf falls lopsided across her chest, worn despite the stuffy heat in the office. "Guess we’re both good at not getting what we want," she says quietly, thumb tracing lines on the edge of her phone.

Lightning flickers outside; they both shiver in the sudden hush. Orien risks a look at her—really looks—and her defenses crumble for just a breath.

Selene’s lips part. "You trust too easily," she murmurs, almost to herself.

He watches the shadows on her jaw, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, cautious and deliberate. "And you don’t trust at all," he replies, voice gentler than he intends.

A beat passes. She turns in, knees against her chest, chin tipped down as if bracing for impact. "I’ve only ever been... backup. At best." Her laugh crackles, brittle. "People always want what I can fix, not who I am."

Orien leans closer, elbows to knees. He can see the ghost of freckles across her nose, the faintest blush hidden beneath pretense. "Maybe they just didn’t look close enough," he says, half a confession, half a dare.

Selene’s breath catches, and she bites down a smile. Tension crackles, their bodies pulled together by something raw and anxious. She reaches for the mug, misses, and her fingers graze his hand—cold on warm, a jolt passing between.

In that quiet, charged moment, defenses shatter. He turns to her, eyes uncertain, waiting for rejection. But she surprises them both, leaning forward—her lips finding his with a sudden, hungry softness, tasting of midnight coffee and confession. For a second, her hands tremble at the edge of his jaw.

They break apart, both startled by the intensity—the flush on Orien’s cheeks, the breathless edge to Selene’s laughter. His heart pounds in his throat; hers hammers in her chest, daring her to believe.

"Well," she mutters, smirking, voice thick with restless hope, "Your code’s still shit, but your mouth’s not bad."

He grins, but something fragile glimmers in his gaze. "Selene—" he starts, desperation sharpening the word.

Before he can finish, the door swings open. Lysa stands framed in harsh hallway light, immaculate in navy slacks and a severe silk blouse. Her eyes catch the two of them—Orien’s flushed face, Selene’s tousled hair, lips still parted in surprise—and something icy and wild flickers across her expression.

Her voice is deceptively steady, but a knife’s edge trembles beneath. "Is she the reason you’re not sleeping either, Orien?"

The room freezes, every secret suddenly exposed.

To be continued...