Lars Lindstrom

Lars's cubicle is an organized mess—piles of papers, post-its stuck everywhere, a coffee mug that's probably been there since this morning (or maybe yesterday). The computer monitor glows with data and graphs that he's trying to explain to you, but your attention is split between the numbers and the fact that he's so close you can feel the warmth of his arm against yours.

Lars has had a crush on you for months. It wasn't something he planned—it just happened. It started with a casual smile in the hallway, then turned into finding excuses to talk to you, and now he's here, trying to explain data while his brain is about to collapse.

"And here's where the data starts to deviate from the standard model," Lars says, pointing at the screen with a finger. "See, if you look at this line..."

You lean in to get a better look, resting a hand on the edge of his desk. The movement brings you closer to him, and for a moment, the space between you shrinks to almost nothing. Your shoulder brushes against his, and Lars feels a shiver run down his spine.

And then Lars sees you. Really sees you. The way your back arches slightly as you lean toward the monitor, the soft curve from your neck down to your lower back. The screen light highlights the contours of your body, the way your clothes pull gently with the movement. He's imagined this too many times in his head—being close to you, having an excuse to look at you—but reality is so much more overwhelming than he expected.

Lars inhales. The scent is subtle but unmistakable—your perfume, cologne, whatever you use. Something fresh, slightly floral or woody, that floats in the air between you. It's the same scent he's noticed in the hallways, the one he's unconsciously associated with you, and now it's right here, so close, and his brain is melting.

It hits him straight in the head, straight in his groin. He feels the heat spread through his chest, through his stomach, down to the lower part of his body. The image of your arched back burns into his mind, and then, without warning, his begins to stiffen against the fabric of his pants.

For a moment, Lars goes completely still. His gaze locks onto the screen, but he's not seeing the data. He's processing the scent, the closeness, the curve of your back, the way your body leans toward him. And his body is reacting in a way he can't control.

Shit.

He feels it. He can't help it. It's completely involuntary, a physical reaction he didn't ask for and now has to hide. He clenches his thighs, shifts in his chair, tries to play it cool. He feels his erection press against the inside of his thigh, and every small movement makes him more aware of it. His mind keeps replaying the image of your arched back, and it's not helping at all.

He clears his throat.

"...As I was saying," he says, his voice slightly higher than usual. "The line here shows a deviation of... of 3% from the initial projection. Which means that..."

He pauses. His eyes flick to you for just a second before returning to the screen. His is fully hard now, stiff and throbbing, and he feels like he's going to explode if he doesn't get this under control.

"...that we need to adjust the parameters."

You're completely unaware. You're just looking at the screen, the numbers, the graphs. You mentally note what he's saying, nodding occasionally.

"You see here?" he says, pointing at a spot on the screen. His hand is trembling slightly. "This is the critical point where the model collapses if we don't apply the correction factor."

He's not seeing the critical point. He's looking at your profile, the way your lips move when you nod, the way your eyes gleam in the light of the screen. And the curve of your back. That damned curve. He's desperately trying to think about anything other than the heat pooling in his lower body, the way his erection throbs with each heartbeat. He thinks about politics. Taxes. His grandmother. Nothing works.

"So," you say, "what do we do with the correction factor?"

Lars blinks. His mind goes blank. His fingers move over the keyboard, an automatic gesture searching for something—anything—to distract him, to pull him back to reality before his body gives him away completely. But he can't.

"...The correction factor?" he repeats, like the words are foreign. "Oh. Right. The correction factor. We... we apply it. In the next phase."

He has no idea what he's saying. All he knows is he needs you not to notice what's happening under the desk. He feels his erection shift slightly when he changes position, and a barely audible whimper escapes his lips, which he covers with a forced cough.

"...Let's move on to the next phase."

A moment of silence. Lars takes a deep breath, trying to regain control. His mind is pure chaos.

"...Or maybe we should take a break," he says, and he sounds as desperate as he feels. "Do you want a break? I want a break. A break sounds good. Really good. Excellent, even."

He stands up so fast his chair rolls back and hits the wall. He's on his feet, stiff, clearly trying to hide the bulge in his pants. His smile is so forced it looks like a grimace.

"Coffee? Tea? Water? A hole in the floor I can hide in?"