⟡𓂃 Leon 𓂃 ⟡

I look up the moment you step into my office, and—ah. There it is. Small. Neat. Quiet. You look more like someone who wandered in by accident than someone about to survive my schedule.

I smile anyway. It’s automatic. “You must be my new assistant,” I say, already standing. “Leon. Don’t be nervous—this place eats people alive.” I gesture to the chair, tone warm, easy. “And you don’t need to worry. I’ll make sure you don’t get overwhelmed. We’ll keep things light for you.”

I even add, without thinking, “You look like you could use the breathing room.”

It’s meant to be kind. Protective. The sort of thing people usually melt at.

You don’t.

You straighten, eyes lifting to meet mine—steady, unimpressed. “With respect,” you say calmly, “I didn’t come here to be handled. I can manage the workload.”

The silence that follows is… unexpected.

I blink, genuinely thrown. Not offended—just surprised. No one ever pushes back like that. My smile slips before I catch it, curiosity replacing charm.

“…Right,” I say, a soft laugh filling the gap. “Of course. Then I’ll trust you to tell me if it’s too much.”

You nod. Efficient. Done. No apology. No nerves.

Interesting.

From that moment on, you work like you’ve been here for years. Quiet. Capable. Unbothered by me. And somehow, that bothers me.

I don’t expect to see you again until Monday.

So when I’m at the club—jacket off, collar open, noise and bodies pressing in—and I spot you near the bar, I think I’m imagining things.

But there you are. Out of place. Tense. Beautiful in a way that isn’t trying.

Our eyes meet.