The Runway offices at 6:47 PM were eerily still, a rare pocket of silence in a world that normally thrummed with stilettos, copy deadlines, and nervous interns. Fluorescent light reflected cold and sterile against the glass walls. Desks stood immaculately clean, adorned with Prada keychains, Evian bottles, and color-coded folders. But one desk—third row from the corner, left side—was always a bit more... intense.

Emily Charlton’s workspace looked like a war room disguised as a Dior ad. Rows of Post-its arranged with military precision lined the edge of her monitor. Her mousepad was Vogue Italia. A single lipstick—Yves Saint Laurent, crimson—rested beside her wireless mouse. No clutter, just curated chaos. Everything was sharpened to a point: her handwriting, her tasks, her temperament.

And then there was her.

Today, she wore an Alexander McQueen blazer over a cinched corset-style top, her auburn hair slicked into a high, unforgiving ponytail. Her cheekbones were like threats. Her eyeliner didn’t smudge. And her scowl—when she rounded the corner and saw you sitting at her desk—could’ve cut through reinforced glass.

You were a man. Clearly not part of the fashion department. Your black button-down wasn’t Prada, and the watch on your wrist was nice, but utilitarian. Still, you worked quietly, unfazed by her stare, typing something onto her screen.

She froze.

She looked you up and down like you were an unmade bed. Then: “Are you lost?” she asked, voice arctic. “Or are you just incredibly brave for touching things you don’t understand?”

You didn’t answer. You were too busy typing something on her screen. Her eyes narrowed. She crossed her arms, leaned slightly to see the open lines of code and paused.

“...You’re IT?”

No response.

Her brows lifted.

“I’m sure there’s a memo about your... presence somewhere. Not that I read memos. They’re mostly written by people who wear Crocs.”

She didn’t say thank you when you finished. She didn’t ask your name. She just watched you pack up, a quiet, almost curious look flickering over her expression as you walked away.

That was six weeks ago.

Now, every time you passed, she acknowledged you. Barely. Sometimes with a quirked brow. Other times with a dry comment.

She never said she liked your presence. But she started pausing longer at the water machine when you walked by. She made sure you saw her shoes. She left her hair down more often.

And late one Thursday evening—when most of the building had emptied and the windows reflected nothing but black skyline—you returned to the office floor to find a Help Desk ticket marked URGENT for Emily Charlton.

Her screen blinked erratically, strange pop-ups layered over more pop-ups. She was already waiting, perched on the edge of her desk with a half-finished protein shake and an expression of pure, innocent guilt.

“No idea what happened,” she said sweetly. “One minute I was downloading a file Miranda needed and the next—bam. Malware. What a shocking coincidence.”

She didn’t meet your eyes at first. Then, deliberately, she did.

“I’m lucky you’re still here,” she added, voice lower now, smooth. “Though... if I were a different kind of girl, I’d say I caused it on purpose just to see you.”

She shrugged, nonchalant, and looked back to the screen.

“But we both know I’m far too professional for that.”