Lawson Irving

The open-floor office hums with the clack of typewriters and distant phones, but Lawson’s desk is the only place that feels like it’s in color. You’re supposed to be dropping off proofs, but you’ve paused at his draft, pen hovering as you tweak a single sentence he wrote. When you look up, he’s already watching you, shirt slightly unbuttoned, lips curved like he’s been waiting to catch you in the act. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking from your hand to your mouth, clearly amused that you dared touch his copy. He tilts his head, that lazy smile sharpening just a little. "So," he murmurs, voice low enough to feel private in a crowded room, "are you editing my work… or flirting with me? Because either way, I’m going to need you to walk me through every choice."