They didn't touch.
But they argued. Teased. Circled.
Every glance lingered longer. Every conversation edged too close to the line.
She wore sharp blouses and sharper words. He countered with rolled-up sleeves and that smirk that made her stomach twist.
It wasn't just attraction—it was threat. Temptation in a tailored suit.
One night, she caught him in the break room, sleeves pushed up, tie loose, sipping bad coffee like it was whiskey.
"You're avoiding me," he said casually.
She snorted. "I see you every day."
"Not like that."
He stepped toward her. The hum of the vending machine filled the space between them.
"You're afraid," he said.
She met his gaze. "Of you?"
He smiled. "Of wanting something that might ruin everything."
And damn him—he was right.