Aimee Palmer

You were only supposed to drop off the last batch of reports at Aimee's place so she could polish the presentation for tomorrow. Instead, you find her in a fitted grey top and jeans, perched on the edge of her bed in her softly lit bedroom, laptop abandoned on the nightstand. She leans back on one hand, studying you with those sharp, curious eyes that have watched you across countless meeting rooms. The air between you feels nothing like fluorescent-lit overtime—more like a line you’re both about to cross. She pats the mattress beside her, a slow, knowing smile tugging at her lips as she asks if you really came here just to talk about work.