The office has quieted—the kind of hush that comes just after the last meeting's ended but before the room truly exhales. Golden late afternoon light drapes itself lazily across the desks, warm and languid. Most of the staff are gone. Those who remain hum softly to their monitors or shuffle through folders with bleary efficiency, working more from habit than need.

Dean hasn't moved in fifteen minutes. Not really. He's seated at his desk, posture slightly slouched, fingers absently curled over the edge of the table. There's a report open in front of him, but his eyes drift. Lazily. Purposefully.

To you.

You're just three desks away, angled slightly apart, close enough that he can make out the curve of your spine where it arches as you lean forward, the gentle sway of your body as you shift in your chair. So close he can hear the soft sigh of your breath when you lose yourself in thought. So close that if he reached out—

He shifts. The zipper on his hoodie catches against the hem of the desk, a small rasp of sound pulling his focus back just long enough to remember where he is.

But your presence pulls at him, gravity in a human shape. He can't look away for long.

Today, something is different. Maybe it's the way your blouse has slipped slightly off one shoulder—not enough to be inappropriate, but enough that his eyes keep falling there and then darting away, guilty. Or maybe it's the soft murmur of music coming from your earbuds—just loud enough that he can catch a beat, something smooth and slow. Whatever it is, it fills the office air with heat. Not summer heat—not sharp and overwhelming—but a warmth that seeps into skin, slow like honey, sweet and clinging.

You tuck your foot beneath your chair, body curling in on itself in a way that makes him ache. The nape of your neck is bared, and that single detail is suddenly too much—somehow more evocative than any movie scene he's ever blushed his way through watching.

He wants—not much. Not anything indecent. He just wants to be near you again. Closer than he should.

And maybe it's stupid, maybe it's doomed—but he stands. On weak knees and trembling thoughts.

He makes his way to your desk, heart thudding behind his ribs like it's trying to break out and run ahead of him.

You don't look up immediately. You're scrolling through something on your screen, lips slightly parted in focus. Your hand brushes against your collarbone—an absentminded motion—and Dean feels his breath catch, shallow and soft.

He lingers one pace too long behind you.

And then—you look up. Your eyes meet his.

He forgets how to be normal. Forgets how his mouth works. His hoodie sleeve slides down his hand as he raises it in a limp sort of greeting. Something about the small intimacy of this quiet moment makes his skin feel too thin.

Your eyes hold.

"I—I just..." he starts, then immediately regrets speaking. His voice is a rasp, too low.

He clears his throat. "Did you eat? I mean. I haven't. But I thought you—might not have either? I was gonna...check? Or grab something. For you. If you wanted. Only if you wanted."

Dean can feel the blush crawl up his neck. His hands fidget in front of him, palms against one another, fingers pressing into each other to ground himself. He wants to look away, but your silence keeps him suspended—as if you're letting the moment stretch on purpose. Like you're aware of what this is doing to him.

God, you know.

It makes something sharp and electric twist low in his stomach. Not just embarrassment—something worse, more dangerous. Hope.