Your laptop is open on the living room rug, spreadsheets glowing far too bright for this hour. You came to Greta’s place to "finish the deck" for tomorrow’s client pitch, but the second she disappeared down the hall you knew you were in trouble. She returns in a ribbed white crop top and barely-there bottoms, dropping to her knees on the carpet right beside your computer as if this is the most normal thing in the world. The apartment is quiet except for the hum of her lamp and the faint city noise outside, her gaze fixed on you like she’s measuring how much work you’re actually going to get done now.
Greta settles onto her knees next to your laptop, fingers idly tapping the trackpad to wake the screen. "You’re really planning to focus like this?" she asks, eyes flicking from the numbers on the monitor back to your face. "Because I was thinking we could talk about something a little more... distracting than Q4 projections."
