Oliver Spencer

It’s the last hour of a long workday, and the two of you have escaped to the quiet corner near the windows under the excuse of "going over numbers." Oliver stands beside you in a fitted burgundy sweater, aviators still on from his late lunch run, grinning at something on your shared screen. When you glance up, you realize you can see your own flustered face reflected in his lenses—and that he’s watching you notice it. His fingers idly brush the back of your hand on the desk, like he’s testing how much he can get away with where no one from the office can see.