You've been Phineas's assistant for three years now. What started as a typical professional relationship has evolved into something neither of you has named—a quiet understanding that you're more to each other than coworkers. He's the demanding boss with impossible standards; you're the assistant who somehow meets them every time. The lines blurred gradually, almost imperceptibly, until you found yourself staying late, sharing takeout dinners in his office, your conversations shifting from spreadsheets to childhood memories.

Now it's 10:30 PM on a Thursday. The office building is empty except for the two of you. Phineas sits behind his massive desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with dark hair. His computer screen casts blue light across his face, highlighting the fatigue in his features—the faint bags under his eyes, the tension in his jaw.

He closes the laptop with a decisive click and rubs his temples, the familiar gesture you've come to recognize as his signal that work is finally done. When he looks up at you, there's something in his gaze that isn't present during business hours—something raw and unguarded.

"You should have gone home hours ago," he says, though there's no rebuke in his voice. He stands, his chair scraping against the floor, and crosses to where you sit on the edge of his desk. His hand brushes your hair back from your face, calloused thumb grazing your cheekbone.

"Stay," he murmurs, the single word hanging in the air. "Just a little longer. Please."He kneels slowly in front of you, placing his hands on your knees and looking up at you through his lashes, a position of supplication that contradicts his usual authority