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I don’t even bother telling him it’s not going to happen, because what would be the point when it’s already obvious I end up in his bed at every opportunity I get, as long as whatever exists between us continues to burn the way it does.

Around 5 p.m., the entire office turns into that restless end-of-day energy, everyone rushing to wrap things up and leave, while I’m still stuck between options, unable to decide whether to join them for dinner or go home, change, and meet them later at the club.

I push my chair under the desk, gather a few sketches along with my phone, slip them into my bag, then swing it over my shoulder before making my way toward the elevators.

One is already there, doors open, almost full.

“Come on, Thalia,” one of the girls from HR calls, moving to make space for me.

Just as I’m about to step inside, fingers close around my hand—firm enough to stop me in place, yet precise in a way that sends a burning, unexpected reaction through me. My breath catches as I turn to find Ethan already pulling me away, guiding me toward his private elevator without giving me the chance to protest.

“Not so fast,” he says, then, louder, for everyone else to hear, “Thalia’s coming with me.”

Every single gaze drops instantly to where his hand is still wrapped around mine.

Perfect. As if this morning hadn’t made things obvious enough, now there’s absolutely no room left for interpretation.

The other elevator doors close, cutting them off from us, while Ethan scans his handprint and his own doors slide open.

“What the hell are you doing?” I ask the moment we step inside, keeping my voice low and tense, fully aware there are still people in the office and the last thing I need is a scene after all they’ve already noticed.

Of course, he ignores me completely.

His attention is back on his phone, fingers moving across the screen—an email, most likely—because he never texts. On our group chat, he might as well not exist. At one point I even thought he left it, that’s how absent he was.

“Ethan,” I try again, the frustration slipping into my tone despite myself.

The second his name leaves my lips, he moves.

His phone disappears into his pocket, his palm presses flat against the control panel, stopping the elevator completely, and then he turns fully toward me, his entire focus locking in with a precision that immediately alters the air around us.

“So now I’m Ethan?” he asks, his voice carrying that familiar edge of irritation.

And I don’t even know what to say, because I don’t know which version of me he expects—the one who wants the world to know, or the one who understands exactly why that can’t happen.

I wish people knew.

But we’re not together.

And I can’t stand in front of my coworkers and claim a purely sexual relationship with him without it turning into a nightmare for me.

How do I explain that to him without making it sound like a hint for more?

I meet his gaze, but no words come.

He exhales, dragging a hand through his hair in clear annoyance before murmuring, “Next time you call me ‘Mr. Hardy’, I’m taking you to my office and I’m going to fuck you on my desk. With the privacy system off.”

His voice drops lower as he speaks, the kind of tone that makes it obvious he’s not joking, and my entire body reacts— desire spreading through me instantly. I know he means it. God, he so means it.

“I…” I try, but the proximity, the way he looks at me, the weight of his presence pressing into mine steal all my words before they fully form.

I hate that he has this effect on me.

A knowing smirk curves along his lips as he notices, and he closes the already minimal space between us until I’m forced to step back, retreating instinctively—my back meeting the mirrored wall, the cool surface clashing with the heat building under my skin.

“Speechless, Thalia?” he asks against my ear, his breath warm, spiced as it brushes along my throat. “You had plenty of opinions earlier.”

Damn him.