"You... pervert," muttered one employee under their breath, loud enough to count as an HR incident, but quiet enough to pretend they didn't say it.
"We're never believing your words again," added another, shooting him a look like he'd just confessed to kicking a puppy on his way to work.
In the background, Sean smirked—the kind of smirk that deserved its own slap track. The self-satisfied, I-told-you-so curve of his lips that made Mr. Lee's skin crawl.
And just like that, as if someone hit a giant corporate reset button, everyone shuffled back to their desks, screens glowing, keyboards clicking, pretending nothing had happened—except it definitely had.
Mr. Lee stood there, eyes downcast, the fluorescent office lights making his shame look especially unflattering. The kind of moment that didn't just bruise your pride—it deep-fried it.
Then came Paul—quiet, steady, the kind of friend who didn't need to say much to say everything. He approached, not with judgment, but with the kind of tired sympathy only someone who's also made public mistakes can offer. Without a word, he placed a reassuring hand on Mr. Lee's shoulder.
"Come on," he said gently. "Let's grab a coffee."
Mr. Lee blinked slowly, lips pressed in a tight, unreadable line. He didn't answer. Just looked at Paul with hollow eyes and the kind of sad expression you'd see on a dog who just got yelled at for knocking over a vase—again.
IN DANICA'S CABIN
Alfred walked in.
The moment Danica saw him, her breath caught in her throat like it was betraying her. Her gaze dropped instantly, lashes lowering, shame burning bright behind her eyes. She couldn't look at him—not after what had happened. Not when her body still remembered the heat of his lips, the way her heart had tried to break out of her chest.
She'd never gone that far with anyone before. Never felt that much.
Alfred stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like he couldn't help himself. And maybe he couldn't. Every time he saw her, something in him uncoiled. His restraint cracked, just a little more.
He wanted to touch her. To hold her. To press her against him and taste her again until she forgot her own name.
But he held himself back.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice low.
Danica flinched at the sound of it. It was gentle, but it curled around her spine and left her more unsteady.
"I didn't mean to kiss you like that. It was the only thing I could think of... to stop you."
"To stop someone?" she repeated, voice laced with disbelief. "There are a dozen ways to stop someone, Alfred. Kissing them isn't exactly textbook."
Her eyes still refused to meet his, and it only made him want her more. That slight tilt of her head, the stubborn defiance in her tone, the way she bit her bottom lip like she was trying to trap every emotion inside—it drove him mad.
He shouldn't have loved that kiss. But he did. Every fucking second of it.
And if he hadn't been holding himself together with threads, he would've taken her right there on the damn table. Torn her apart until she was trembling and breathless, gasping his name.
Should I flirt with her? he wondered, eyeing the delicate flush crawling up her neck.
"So…" He tilted his head, a slow, wicked smile tugging at his mouth. "You don't like kisses?"
Danica stumbled over her own breath. "Eh…I…"
Come on, sweetheart, just say it.
"I do," she whispered, barely audible.
He leaned in slightly, just enough to make her squirm. "You do like my kisses?"
"What?" she gasped, eyes darting to his. She hadn't been expecting that curveball, and it showed.
"No!" she blurted, too fast. Too loud. Too fake.
Liar.
Alfred chuckled, deep and dark, and it rolled through her like thunder. "Every time I kissed you, I did it softly…" he murmured, his voice like silk brushing skin. "So I guess what you're saying is… you prefer it rough."
He paused, then added, "I can be rough. If you want."
Danica's mind exploded. What the hell was wrong with this man? She should run. She should. But her feet didn't move.
"I hate rough kisses," she snapped. "Got your answer? Good. I'm leaving."
She turned. She meant it. She was going to walk away.
But then he grabbed her wrist—gently, but with purpose—and pulled her into him like he was gravity and she was always meant to fall.
His arms wrapped around her from behind, and his breath skimmed her skin as he leaned in.
"I'm not letting you go," he whispered against her ear, his voice rougher now, tinged with something unfiltered. "Not this time."
Danica froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. He did not just—
"You pervert!" she growled, twisting in his arms.
"I swear to God, if you don't let go—"
He spun her around, hands firm but never harsh, and kissed her.
Hard.
His mouth captured hers with heat, hunger, and no hesitation. It was messy. Passionate. Like he'd been holding back for too damn long and couldn't anymore.
Her breath stuttered. Her hands braced against his chest. And still—she didn't pull away.
Breathe, Danica. Just breathe. But she couldn't. Not when he kissed like this. Like she was air and he'd been suffocating for years.
When he finally pulled back, her lungs collapsed in a desperate gasp. He looked at her with that maddening smile, like he'd just won something.
"If you ever get mad at me," he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, "I'll kiss you like that again. No arguments. Just us."
She opened her mouth, ready to unleash hell—to spit venom, slap the smirk off his infuriatingly handsome face, and remind him exactly who she was. But instead, all that came out was a breath. Shaky. Shallow. Useless.
Her voice had deserted her, buried somewhere deep beneath the chaos he'd set off inside her.
Her heart thundered. Her legs wobbled beneath her like they were made of glass. She couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. The air between them was too thick, too electric, charged with every unsaid word and every touch they hadn't yet allowed themselves to crave.
She needed to get out.
She needed distance, clarity, oxygen. But before she could even pivot to leave, before logic could override lust, he kissed her again.
This kiss was different.
Not desperate—dangerous.
Slower. Hungrier. Possessive in a way that stole the ground from beneath her feet.
His mouth moved against hers with exquisite precision, like he was memorizing the shape of her lips, the rhythm of her sighs. Like he had all the time in the world and every intention of making her forget anyone else had ever kissed her before.
One hand slid into her hair, threading through the strands like silk, tilting her head back to give him full access. The motion was tender, reverent even, but there was nothing innocent about the way his other hand cupped her ass—tight, firm, full of intent.
Danica gasped against his lips, the sound swallowed into the heat of his kiss. Her body betrayed her, arching into his touch, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if her survival depended on it.
A soft, involuntary moan escaped her throat.
The second it did, Alfred growled.
Low. Guttural. Primal. A sound that vibrated through her bones and settled right between her thighs. Like he needed her. Like she belonged to him and he was seconds away from proving it.
She felt herself unraveling.
Bit by bit, thread by thread, she came undone in his arms. Each stroke of his tongue, each subtle pull of her bottom lip between his teeth was a blow to her resolve. Her mind screamed run, but her body whispered more.
He didn't just kiss her. He devoured her.
Every inch of him pressed into her—his chest against her racing heart, his hips brushing hers, his mouth claiming her breath and replacing it with a fire she couldn't put out.
She whimpered when he deepened the kiss even further, his lips moving with a sinful patience that made her knees buckle. Only his arms—strong, immovable—kept her upright. He anchored her when the world around her spun.
And in that moment, nothing else existed. No shame. No anger. No logic.
Just him. His lips. His touch. His body, sinfully close. His scent—clean, masculine, laced with something dark and addictive—wrapped around her like a spell.
She should've pushed him away.
She didn't.
Because deep down, part of her didn't want to.
She wanted to drown in this. In him.
But then—he stopped.
His lips lingered an inch from hers. His breath hitched. Control yourself, he told himself.
She was panting again, flushed and undone, and he pulled her into him, holding her like he was trying to slow her heartbeat with his own.
Seconds passed.
When her breathing finally steadied, he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said, voice softer now.
"Should I drop you home?"
"No need," she snapped, reclaiming whatever pride she had left, and stormed out of the room.
Alfred watched her go, lips twitching in amusement.
I'm sorry, Danica. I really am. I tried to hold it in—the ache, the want, the goddamn storm you stir in me—but the second I saw you, all that control I swore I had? Gone. Blown to pieces. You walked into the room, and it was like everything else vanished. Like the world shifted just to put you in front of me.
I know I should've stopped. Should've walked away. But I didn't, because the truth is... I don't want to. I don't want to pretend that I'm unaffected. I don't want to lie to myself anymore.
I want you. Not in some quiet, polite way. I want you in the kind of way that's messy and full of sharp edges. In the way that consumes. In the way that keeps me up at night, imagining what it would be like if you were mine—not just in passing, not just for a moment, but completely. Every breath. Every heartbeat. Every broken, beautiful piece of you.
That's what I feel when I look at you.
IN PARKING LOT
What the hell just happened? Danica stomped toward her car, mentally flipping him off with every step.
He thinks he can just kiss me like that? Like he's in a bloody rom-com and I'm his unsuspecting, emotionally repressed co-star? she raged internally, stabbing her key into the lock like it was his smug face.
She glanced into her rearview mirror—and immediately regretted it.
"Oh for the love of overpriced lip gloss," she muttered. Her cheeks were practically flaming, glowing like a Victorian maiden after her first waltz. Her lips were swollen. Her pupils? Criminally dilated.
She slapped her face with both palms like she was trying to reboot her system.
"How dare he?" she hissed to her reflection. "How dare he kiss me like that? Like he invented kissing and I should be honored to witness the patent in action?"
And then, because the universe was apparently committed to ruining her day in exciting new ways, a commotion drifted through the air—a loud, heated argument just a few cars over.
Because why not? It wasn't like she had just been existentially violated via hot smooch or anything.
She followed the noise, heels clicking like a soundtrack to a very dramatic showdown.
---
A man in a creased button-down was grabbing a woman—one of her employees, no less—by the arm, practically shoving her toward his car like it was 1823 and women didn't have bodily autonomy.
"Come with me, you little brat!" he barked, his grip tightening.
"I said I don't love you!" the woman snapped, yanking her arm. "You can't force me!"
"That baby's mine!" he growled, wild-eyed. "You don't get to walk away. I don't care if you love me or not—you're staying with me for that child."
Danica blinked. Did she walk into a telenovela? Was this real life?
"Wow," she said loudly, arms crossed and tone dripping with disdain. "Ever consider not being a complete garbage fire of a human?"
The couple turned, startled.
The woman's eyes lit up like a kid spotting their mom mid-bully beatdown. "Boss!" she cried and scrambled away from the man, practically flying to Danica's side.
"He was—he tried to—" the woman stammered.
"I know," Danica cut in coolly, tilting her head. "He's got 'walking red flag' written all over him in Comic Sans."
The man squared up. "Who the hell are you?"
Danica stepped forward slowly, her expression flipping from amused to murderously blank in half a second.
She grabbed his left wrist in a fluid, practiced move and yanked it up.
She reached for his arm and grabbed it like she was selecting produce she didn't plan to pay for.
"This the arm?" she asked the woman without breaking eye contact. "This the one he used to play caveman?"
The woman nodded, breathless. "Mmhm"
"You psycho—" the man started, but Danica was already twisting his arm behind his back. There was a sickening pop, followed by a shriek.
"OH MY—OW, MY ARM—"
"And this," she said calmly, taking a graceful step back before launching her knee right into his groin with the force of a feminist deity on a warpath, "is for thinking your sperm entitles you to anything."
He collapsed like a deck chair under a drunk uncle.
Danica circled him slowly, her heels digging into his back until he whimpered. "How's this working out for you?" she asked, crouching slightly.
"Enjoying this?" she asked sweetly, bending down just enough to make him very nervous.
"AHHH—please—stop—" He screamed louder. The woman winced sympathetically.
Danica wasn't done. She grabbed a fistful of his greasy collar and leaned in, her voice dropped to a low growl, right into his ear. "You disrespected a woman. That makes you scum. And just so we're clear? Woman is God. And you just sinned."
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he sobbed like a toddler caught stealing cookies and also being punched in the soul.
Danica yanked him up by the collar and flung him like yesterday's trash at the woman's feet.
"Apologize to her, you pathetic excuse for a protein shake."
The man actually crawled and clung to the woman's ankles. "Please forgive me! I'll leave—I swear—I'll never show my face again!"
The woman, trembling but steady, looked at Danica. Danica nodded.
"Tell him," she said.
The woman took a deep breath. "Leave. Forever. If you ever come near me or my baby again, I'll let her finish what she started—with a baseball bat."
"Y-yes. I will. I'm gone. I swear." He staggered off, still limping, probably rethinking every life choice.
Danica pulled off her sunglasses just long enough to raise a single eyebrow.
"Next time," she called after him, "I won't stop at your pride."
The woman turned to Danica, visibly shaking. "Thank you, Boss," she said, tears now mixing with something like awe.
Danica reached out and patted her belly gently.
"If it's a girl," she said, "raise her into a woman who burns down boardrooms and doesn't apologize for taking up space."
The woman smiled. "I will."
The woman smiled, a real one this time. "I'll make sure of it."
Danica gave a tight nod and slipped her sunglasses back on with dramatic flair worthy of a Marvel movie.
"Come on. I'll drive. I need to wash this man's blood off my shoe anyway."
SAME NIGHT, AT BAR !
Paul was tipsy. Okay, scratch that—he was obliterated.
He sat slumped at the bar, swirling what remained of his fifth glass like it was some tragic potion holding all of life's answers. Across from him sat Mr. Lee—stoic, serene, and annoyingly sober—as usual.
Mr. Lee had a superpower. Not one of those dramatic Marvel ones that involves capes or explosions. No, his was quieter, more terrifying: His liver was presumably made of granite and magic because he did not get drunk. Not tipsy. Not dizzy. Not even slightly flustered. He could probably walk a tightrope over a pit of flaming sharks after three bottles of whiskey and still critique your posture. Ten glasses in? No problem. Still remembered your mom's maiden name, your deepest secrets, and your social security number. And unfortunately for Paul, Paul had no idea about this borderline demonic gift.
"Ish my fren', Lee," Paul slurred, squinting one eye at the man across from him like he was trying to identify a UFO.
Mr. Lee arched a brow. "You don't say."
Paul leaned in, his expression a mix of solemnity and tragic romance. "I think—I think I'm in love."
Lee didn't blink. "You think? You've been in love for three years. This isn't a 'breaking news' situation, Paul. It's more of a rerun."
"I love Nina so much," Paul mumbled, eyes glassy and dramatic like a soap opera heroine who'd just learned her twin sister was her mother.
Mr. Lee's brows lifted a fraction. What did he just say? Nina? Not Danica, right? This was the same universe, right?
Now this was interesting. A rare, unscripted moment from Mr. Guarded Feelings himself. He knew Paul would never admit this sober. Sober Paul would deny, deflect, and probably throw in a spreadsheet to prove his emotional detachment.
So naturally, Mr. Lee did what any morally gray best friend would do—he slid out his phone and started recording.
"I'm sorry, could you say that again?" he asked, too sweetly. "I just want to make sure I… cherish this moment properly."
Paul, now fully transformed into a drunk Shakespearean fool, flung his arms wide like he was announcing his candidacy for tragic romantic martyr.
"I LOOOVE NINA. I LOVE HER SO FREAKING MUCH," Paul declared, arms flailing like he was about to launch into a drunken opera.
"Adorable," Lee said, while internally throwing confetti. "Okay, let's play pretend. Suppose I'm Nina. Lay it on me, Romeo."
Paul turned to him with the sincerity of a golden retriever proposing marriage. "I love you, honey. You're the warm banana bread to my soul."
Mr. Lee bit his cheek, hard. He almost felt bad. But not enough to stop.
"Every time I see you, my heart goes wub-wub-wub," Paul continued, completely unaware he sounded like a malfunctioning pacemaker. "I love you to the moon, and like… the next galaxy after that. Marry me, Nina. I want five babies. Five. Like, a full basketball team. Maybe a spare. All with your nose. I—"
And just like that, he faceplanted onto the table with a dramatic thud, bringing his monologue to an abrupt end.
Mr. Lee waited a beat to ensure he wasn't about to pop up with a sixth declaration, then stopped the recording and saved it with the smugness of a man who'd just discovered blackmail gold.
"My dear Paul," Mr. Lee said, leaning over his unconscious friend with mock affection. "You magnificent disaster. You're going to hate yourself in the morning. And it's going to be delightful."
He slung Paul's arm over his shoulder with the care of a man handling vintage wine—or a ticking time bomb. As he half-dragged, half-carried him out the bar door, he muttered:
"Should I send this to Nina?" He paused, considering. "Nah. Let's not rush the chaos. Tomorrow's going to be so much more fun."