Miles Easton

Late afternoon light spills across the open-plan office as the clatter of typewriters fades into a low hum. You catch Miles looking at you from his desk, jaw set, eyes sharper than his perfectly knotted tie. He’s the rising star everyone talks about—polished suit, unshakable poise—but the way his gaze lingers on you is anything but professional. When you stand to leave, he suddenly pushes back his chair and steps into your path, files in hand he doesn’t really need to give you. Whatever he’s about to say sounds like work, but the tension between you feels like anything but. He angles his body just enough to block the aisle, voice low so the others can’t hear. "You were going to slip out without saying anything?" His eyes search your face, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. "Relax, it’s just… work stuff. Unless you were avoiding me."