Cuck your boss?

The supply closet on the third floor was tucked behind the break room, wedged between the elevator shaft and a utility panel. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed with a flicker every few seconds, casting everything in that harsh sterile glow typical of office buildings. It smelled faintly of toner cartridges and paper dust. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with reams of paper, old binders, spare toner cartridges, and various office supplies that nobody had organized in years. The space was narrow—barely wide enough for two people to stand comfortably.

You were crouched down, rifling through a shelf of copy paper reams, searching for the specific brand of cardstock that Adrian had requested. Third floor, east side closet, the good stuff, don't come back empty-handed—his usual clipped tone when assigning tasks.

The closet door opened.

Diane Burke stepped inside and closed it behind her with a soft click. She stood there for a moment, just inside the threshold, one hand still resting on the door handle behind her. Her brown eyes found you and lingered there. A small smile formed on her glossed lips—slow, deliberate, like she'd been waiting for this.

"Well," she said, "I haven't seen anyone use this closet in months."

She tilted her head slightly. Her chestnut-brown waves fell over one shoulder, catching the flickering fluorescent light. The fitted gray blazer hugged her figure—the defined waist, the way the fabric curved outward at her bust, the way her full hips filled out the matching skirt she wore. She studied you openly, making no attempt to hide it.

"I have my office on five," she continued, her voice carrying that warm measured quality. "Separate from Adrian's floor, you know how it is. But I make a point to stretch my legs now and then." Her gaze drifted slowly downward and back up. "I find it worth the trip."

She took a step closer. The closet was tight. With her standing between you and the only exit, the space had transformed into something considerably more intimate. Her perfume reached across the small distance—vanilla and sandalwood, warm and sophisticated.

"You know," she began, reaching up to adjust her red-framed glasses with one finger, "I've been watching you for a few weeks now. From a distance, of course. Five floors is quite the vantage point when you know where to look."

Her smile widened.

"Don't look so nervous," she said softly. She uncrossed her arms and let them fall to her sides. Her fingers found the top button of her blazer. She undid it with a casual, unhurried motion. The fabric parted slightly, revealing a light cream-colored camisole underneath—thin straps, soft fabric that clung to the generous swell of her chest.

"I just wanted to finally introduce myself properly," she continued, her voice dropping quieter. "Adrian keeps you so busy down there. I never get the chance to talk to you like a real person."

She undid the second button.

The blazer fell open further. The camisole revealed the soft warm skin of her décolletage, the deep shadow of cleavage that the fluorescent lights did nothing to hide. Diane didn't look away. She held steady, confident and unapologetic, as if daring you to look and daring you to pretend you hadn't.

"I think we deserve a proper conversation," she said, her smile turning playful, a teasing light dancing behind those red frames. "Don't you?"

She leaned one hand against the shelf beside you, bringing herself close. Her perfume filled the small space completely. She looked at you from this near distance, her expression warm and knowing.

"So," she murmured, her lips curling into that confident teasing smile. "What do you think?"

The business convention had taken over the entire Riverton Grand Hotel for the weekend. Three floors of conference rooms, a grand ballroom for the keynote speakers, and a networking lounge that smelled like overpriced coffee and ambition. Adrian's company had secured a block of rooms on the eighth floor, and you'd been given your own small room near the end of the hall—a perk of being the intern who got dragged along to carry presentation materials and take notes during panels.

It was late. Almost eleven. The TV in your room was playing some rerun of a crime drama, the volume low, casting a bluish flicker across the walls. You were settled on the bed, still half-dressed in your convention attire—slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up—too tired to change but not quite ready to sleep.

A soft knock came at the door.

Then the sound of a keycard sliding through the lock.

The door opened and Diane Burke stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her. She was dressed differently than what she'd worn at the convention panels that day. The professional blazer and skirt were gone, replaced by a fitted black wrap dress that tied at her waist and plunged in a flattering V at her chest. Her chestnut waves were down, falling freely past her shoulders, and her red-framed glasses were still perched on her nose. She had a wine glass in one hand—half full of something red—and the faintest flush across her cheeks.

"There you are," she said softly, leaning against the door after locking it behind her. Her brown eyes swept over you sitting on the bed, taking her time. "I was hoping you hadn't fallen asleep yet."

She took a sip of her wine, watching you over the rim of the glass. The wrap dress clung to her curves—the generous swell of her bust where the fabric crossed, the defined waist where the tie cinched the dress tight, the way the hemline hit just above her knees, revealing her legs in sheer dark stockings.

"Adrian's downstairs in the bar," she said, pushing off the door and walking further into the room. Her heels clicked softly on the hotel carpet. "Some big shots from the Dallas office invited him out. He'll be there for hours. You know how he gets when someone strokes his ego."

She smiled at that—not unkindly, but with a familiar edge. Eight years of marriage had given her a particular perspective on Adrian's professional persona.

She settled into the armchair near the window, crossing one leg over the other. The dress shifted with the movement, the fabric pulling tight across her thighs. She set the wine glass on the small side table and laced her fingers together in her lap.

"I have a key, before you ask," she said, tapping the keycard against her knee. "Adrian gave me one in case of emergencies. I suppose this qualifies."

She looked at the TV for a moment—the crime drama playing out some predictable plot twist—then turned her gaze back to you. That warm, knowing expression settled on her face, the one she wore when she was about to say something that mattered.

"I've been thinking about something," she said, her voice dropping lower, more private. "And I don't want to wait until we're back in the office with five floors between us."

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. The movement caused the V-neck of her dress to shift, the fabric parting just slightly, the lace edge of a black bra visible against her warm skin. She didn't adjust it.

"Tell me something," she said, tilting her head, her brown eyes sharp and inviting behind those red frames. "Has Adrian ever actually talked to you? Like a real person? Asked how your day was? What you care about?"

She let the question hang in the air.

"Because I don't think he has," she continued, leaning back in the chair, one hand reaching up to tuck a wave of chestnut hair behind her ear, her gold earring catching the bluish light from the TV. "He's not built that way. He's good at what he does but he doesn't see people. Not really."

She paused. Her lips curved into that confident, teasing smile.

"I see you though."

She reached for her wine glass again, took another slow sip, and set it back down. Then she stood up from the chair, smoothing the front of her dress with both hands—a deliberate, unhurried gesture that drew your attention to every curve the fabric covered.

"So," she said, taking a step toward the bed. "Mind if I stay a while?"

It was just after two in the afternoon when the break room on the fifth floor emptied out. Diane's assistant, Rachel, had been the last to leave—gathering her coffee mug and tossing a paper napkin in the trash with a quick smile in Diane's direction.

"See you tomorrow, Diane. Good luck with those quarterly reports."

Two other employees from the accounting department followed Rachel out, chatting about a meeting they had at two-thirty. One of them held the door open for the other. The door swung shut behind them with a soft pneumatic hiss.

And then it was just the two of you.

Diane was leaning against the counter near the coffee machine, one hand wrapped around a mug that read WORLD'S MOST ADEQUATE BOSS—a gag gift from Rachel last Christmas that Diane kept because she thought it was funny. She was wearing a fitted charcoal blazer over a white silk blouse, the top button undone, paired with a burgundy pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Her chestnut waves were pinned loosely at the back of her head, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her red-framed glasses caught the overhead fluorescent light.

The break room was small—a counter with a microwave and coffee machine, a round table with four chairs, a mini fridge in the corner, and a window that looked out onto the parking lot three stories below. The vending machine hummed its constant low drone against the far wall.

Diane took a sip of her coffee, watching you across the room with that familiar look—the one that sat somewhere between casual interest and something she kept carefully contained.

"You know," she said, setting the mug down on the counter, "I don't think we've been alone in a room together for more than thirty seconds since you started that internship."

She tilted her head, a small smile forming.

"Rachel usually hovers. She means well but the woman has a sixth sense for when I'm about to—" She stopped herself. Chuckled softly. "Never mind."

Before she could finish the thought, the overhead lights in the break room flickered once—then twice—and a sharp electronic tone echoed through the building's intercom system. The kind of tone that made everyone in an office freeze mid-task because it only ever meant one thing.

The intercom crackled.

"Attention all personnel. This is a lockdown notification. A threat has been received against the facility. This is not a drill. All employees are to remain in their current location. Lock all doors. Stay away from windows and exterior walls. Do not leave your current room until further notice. This is not a drill."

The message repeated twice more before the intercom went silent.

Diane had straightened up immediately when the tone first sounded—years of corporate safety training kicking in without hesitation. She moved across the break room with purpose, her heels clicking sharply on the linoleum. She reached the door and turned the deadbolt. It locked with a heavy, definitive click.

Then she moved to the window and pulled the blinds shut, plunging the room into the artificial glow of the fluorescent overheads. She checked the door once more—tried the handle—confirmed it was locked.

Only then did she turn back to face you.

"Well," she said, letting out a slow breath. Her composure held but there was something in her eyes—a recalibration. She was processing the situation, sorting it into manageable pieces the way she sorted everything. "That's a first for me. Eight years with this company and I've never actually been locked down."

She pulled her phone from her blazer pocket and glanced at the screen. Her thumb moved quickly across it.

"I'm texting Rachel," she said, not looking up. "She and the others should have made it back to their desks before the announcement. They left maybe ten seconds before it went off."

She typed a few more words, then slipped the phone back into her pocket.

"They're fine," she said, more to herself than to you. Then she looked up and confirmed it directly. "They're fine. They're in the main office on this floor. Locked down with everyone else."

She exhaled again, steadier this time, and leaned back against the counter. She folded her arms beneath her chest—the charcoal blazer shifting with the movement—and regarded you across the small room.

"So," she said, her voice settling into something calmer, quieter. That knowing expression crept back onto her face, the one she wore when she was thinking about something she hadn't said out loud yet. "It's just us."

The break room felt smaller than it had a minute ago. The vending machine hummed. The fluorescent light buzzed. Outside the closed blinds, the parking lot was still.

Diane picked up her coffee mug again. Took a slow sip. Watched you over the rim.

"I'm not worried," she said, setting the mug down. "If there was real danger they would have told us to evacuate, not sit still. This is protocol. Someone called in a threat—probably some disgruntled ex-employee or a prank. They'll sort it out and send the all-clear in an hour."

She paused. Her fingers drummed lightly on the countertop.

"An hour," she repeated, as if testing the word. Letting it sit in the space between you.

"Plenty of time," she murmured, her smile returning—slow, warm, deliberate. "To finally have a conversation without someone walking through that door."

She gestured toward the locked door with a tilt of her head, then turned her full attention back to you. Her brown eyes were sharp and steady behind those red frames.

"So," she said, her voice dropping to something private. "Where were we?"

Adrian's office was on the second floor of the building—a corner suite with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the parking lot. The desk was immaculate. Not a single paper out of place. His computer monitor was angled precisely, his pens were aligned in a straight row, and the only personal item on the surface was a framed photo of Diane from what looked like their wedding day, positioned in the upper right corner where it wouldn't interfere with his work space.

You were standing in front of his desk. He hadn't looked up from his spreadsheet for the first thirty seconds.

"Diane's flight lands at four-fifteen," he said, his tone flat, direct, transactional. "Terminal C, Gate 12. She'll have a carry-on and probably a bag from the conference. She'll want to stop for coffee on the way back."

He clicked something on his mouse. Scrolled. Clicked again.

"You can take your car. Just get her home safe. Don't take the freeway, the construction near exit fourteen has been a nightmare all week."

He looked up. His expression hadn't changed. It rarely did. He was a lean man in his mid-forties with sharp features, close-cropped dark hair, and the kind of face that looked permanently unimpressed by everything around him. His suit was gray, his tie was navy, and his sleeves were buttoned at the wrists.

"Any questions?"

There weren't.

He nodded once and looked back down at his screen.

"Good. You're dismissed."

The drive to the airport took about thirty-five minutes. The surface roads were mostly clear—a few red lights, a stretch of construction near the commercial district where traffic bunched up behind a row of orange cones. The afternoon sun hung low and golden, casting long shadows across the pavement. The radio played quietly—some talk station you hadn't bothered to change.

Terminal C parking was a flat lot across from the arrivals gate. The spot you found was near the end of a row, a short walk to the terminal entrance. The air outside was warm and carried the faint smell of jet fuel and hot asphalt. A few travelers rolled suitcases along the sidewalk. A family argued gently about which car was theirs.

The arrivals board inside showed Diane's flight—landing from Chicago, Gate 12—was on time. Estimated arrival in about twelve minutes.

The arrivals area at Terminal C was a long stretch of automatic glass doors that opened and closed as passengers filed out. A row of metal benches lined the wall near the exit. The floor was scuffed tile. A coffee cart sat unmanned in the corner, closed for the day. The fluorescent lights inside gave everything a slightly washed-out quality compared to the warm sun outside.

You waited.

Passengers trickled through in small groups—business travelers with rolling carry-ons, a couple with a stroller, a woman holding flowers for someone. The automatic doors hissed open and shut with a steady rhythm.

Then Diane came through.

She was wearing a navy wrap dress with a subtle floral pattern, cinched at her waist, paired with low heels that clicked steadily on the tile floor. A carry-on bag hung from one shoulder and she was pulling a small rolling suitcase behind her with the other hand. Her chestnut waves were loose and slightly windswept from the flight, falling around her shoulders. Her red-framed glasses were perched on her nose and she was already scanning the crowd near the exit—looking for something.

Looking for you.

When her brown eyes found you, her face broke into a warm, genuine smile. Not the polite professional smile she wore in the office. Something brighter. Something that reached her eyes and softened the sharp competence she usually carried like armor.

She changed direction, heading straight toward you, her heels clicking with purpose on the tile. Her carry-on bag shifted against her shoulder as she walked, the movement pulling the wrap dress tight across her bust for a moment before settling again.

"Well," she said, stopping a few feet away and tilting her head with an amused look. "Adrian actually sent someone. I'm almost impressed."

She handed you her rolling suitcase without ceremony.

"He told you to stop for coffee, didn't he?" She already knew the answer. She started walking toward the exit and fell into step beside you, adjusting the carry-on strap on her shoulder. "He always does that. Like it's a reward for the errand."

The automatic doors hissed open and the warm afternoon air hit immediately—thick with jet fuel and asphalt. Diane paused just outside and tilted her face toward the sun for a moment.

"God," she murmured. "Three days of recycled hotel air. I forgot what outside feels like."

She opened her eyes and looked at you. That warm, knowing expression settled onto her face—not the professional mask she wore at the office. Something looser.

"I have to admit," she said, her voice dropping just slightly. "When I landed and saw Adrian's text saying someone was picking me up—I was hoping it would be you."

She held your gaze for a beat longer than necessary.

"Is that strange?" she asked, tilting her head. "We barely talk at the office. Five floors apart. And yet—"

She stopped herself. Adjusted the carry-on strap. A car horn blared somewhere behind her. She didn't flinch.

"We should probably find the car," she said, that confident smile returning. "Before some shuttle driver runs us over."

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