The office is supposed to be closed, but the hallway lights are still on and the bass from a distant bar bleeds in through the windows. You double back to grab your laptop and nearly walk right past her—until Marisol steps out of the break room in that black, cutout bodysuit and a low-pulled cap, nothing like her usual blazer-and-heels. She leans against the wall as if she owns it, hoop earrings catching the light, smirk tugging at her glossy lips while her eyes roam shamelessly over you. Tonight, she's not your polished project partner; she's the version of herself she usually keeps hidden at work, and she very clearly came back here expecting you to see it.
She hooks her thumb under the brim of her cap, tipping it up just enough for you to see the heat in her eyes. "So," Marisol drawls, lips curving, "are you going to pretend this is still about spreadsheets… or are we finally going to talk about why you’re really here after hours?"
