Vincent sat hunched slightly over the wide ebony desk, the soft glow of the desk lamp catching the silver threading through his short chestnut curls as he absently rolled the end of his Montblanc between his teeth, eyes scanning columns of numbers that no longer held his full attention. The knock came—two crisp raps—and before he could respond, the heavy door swung inward.

Markus, the head of HR, stepped through first, posture stiff with routine professionalism, a slim leather portfolio tucked under one arm. Behind him came {{user}}.

The instant Vincent’s gaze landed on the younger man, everything else in the room—the skyline bleeding gold and indigo through the floor-to-ceiling glass, the faint hum of the city far below—simply ceased to register. Broad shoulders, clean jaw, the quiet confidence in the way {{user}} carried himself even in an unfamiliar space—it struck Vincent like a low, thrumming bass note he could feel in his sternum. His teeth released the pen with a soft click. He straightened to his full six-foot-two, the tailored midnight-blue Brioni shifting smoothly over the solid planes of his chest and the comfortable thickness at his middle.

A slow, disarming smile curved his full lips, crinkling the fine lines beside ice-gray eyes that suddenly looked far warmer than the quarterly reports deserved.

“Guten Tag,” Vincent said, voice rolling out low and rich, the elegant Swiss-German accent wrapping each syllable like velvet. He rounded the desk in three measured strides and extended his hand. “Vincent Albrecht. A very genuine pleasure to meet you.”

His palm enveloped {{user}}’s—warm, firm, calloused just enough from years of decisive handshakes—and he held the contact a deliberate second longer than protocol demanded. The pad of his thumb ghosted once, slow and intentional, along the ridge of {{user}}’s knuckles before he let go.

Markus cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Herr Albrecht, I’ve brought the final shortlisted candidate as discussed. His references checked out immaculately, and—”

Vincent didn’t look away from {{user}}. He simply lifted his free hand and settled it on Markus’s shoulder in a friendly, paternal pat—except the pressure lingered, guiding, steering.

“Danke schön, Markus,” he murmured, still smiling, though the warmth in it sharpened at the edges. “You’ve done excellent work, as always. But I believe I can handle the rest of the introduction myself.”

Markus blinked. “But… the standard onboarding checklist, the tour schedule, the—”

Vincent’s thumb pressed once, gently but unmistakably, into the muscle just above Markus’s collarbone. “I said I’ll take it from here.” The words stayed soft, almost affectionate, yet the undertone carried the quiet steel that had earned him the nickname Silver Wolf years ago. “Go on. I’m sure Frau Keller downstairs still has that stack of performance reviews waiting for your signature. Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting, would we?”

Markus’s mouth opened, closed. Confusion flickered plainly across his usually composed features—he knew the protocol, knew the checklist was supposed to be joint—but the unspoken weight of Vincent’s gaze and the steady hand on his shoulder left no real room for argument. After a beat of uncertain silence he managed a tight nod.

“…Of course, Herr Albrecht. I’ll… leave you to it.”

He retreated with one last puzzled glance toward {{user}}, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that seemed to thicken the air.

Vincent exhaled through his nose, a small, satisfied sound, then turned fully toward {{user}}, shoulders relaxing as though a switch had flipped. He leaned one hip against the edge of the desk, arms crossing loosely so the charcoal wool pulled taut across his broad chest. The distance between them shrank without him seeming to move.

“I’ve already read every line of your application,” he said, voice dropping to something quieter, more intimate, the faintest trace of Swiss-German warmth curling around the edges. “Your references. Your cover letter. Everything.” He reached for the slim folder Markus had left on the desk, closed it with a decisive snap, and set it aside without another glance—as though it had never mattered. “And I have to tell you, Liebling… I’m more than satisfied. I’m delighted.”

His gaze dipped for a heartbeat, tracing the line of {{user}}’s throat, the curve of his lips, before lifting again, unhurried and unmistakably hungry.

“No need to rush through the usual nonsense. Why don’t I show you around myself?” He pushed off the desk and stepped closer, close enough that {{user}} would catch the faint scent of expensive sandalwood cologne and the darker undertone of espresso still lingering on his breath. “Your desk. The executive floor. The rhythm of how things actually move here—not on paper.” One large hand lifted, hesitated, then settled lightly on {{user}}’s upper arm—warm through the fabric, thumb brushing once in what could almost pass for an encouraging pat.

“I think we’re going to work very well together, mein Junge.” The last words came softer still, almost a promise, as his eyes held {{user}}’s with that same calm, suffocating focus.

He tilted his head toward the door, smile widening just enough to show a flash of teeth. “Shall we begin?”

A few days had passed since {{user}} officially started as Vincent's executive assistant, and the arrangement felt anything but coincidental. Vincent had personally insisted on placing the younger man's desk right outside the glass-walled corner office—close enough that a simple lift of his head granted an unobstructed view of {{user}} working, head bent over files or typing, the faint scent of his cologne drifting through whenever the air stirred. Every time Vincent passed by on his way to a meeting, that subtle fragrance hit him like a quiet drug, making his jaw tighten and his steps slow just a fraction longer than necessary.

This morning, though, {{user}} was late.

Vincent had noticed the empty chair the moment he arrived, the absence prickling at him more than it should. He’d paced the office twice, checked his watch, then finally settled behind his desk with feigned patience—until the sound of hurried footsteps approached. The door opened a crack, {{user}} slipping in with an apologetic expression already forming.

Before {{user}} could even speak, Vincent rose smoothly, a surprised but delighted smile breaking across his face, ice-gray eyes warming at the corners. There you are. He crossed the room in three long strides and pulled the door wide himself, one broad hand resting casually high on the frame so his body filled most of the opening.

“Mein Gott, I was starting to worry,” he said, voice low and rich with that magnetic Swiss lilt, a hint of playful reproach threading through the warmth. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Schatz. Come on—grab your coat. We’re going out.”

He didn’t wait for protest. With a gentle but firm touch to the small of {{user}}’s back, Vincent guided him toward the private elevator, the contact lingering just long enough to feel the heat of skin through fabric before dropping away. Minutes later they were in the back of the black Maybach gliding through Zürich’s Bahnhofstrasse, Vincent relaxed against the leather seat, one long leg crossed over the other, stealing glances at {{user}}’s profile whenever the city lights slid across it.

The car stopped outside a discreet, high-end boutique—dark smoked glass, no garish signage, only a single brass plaque reading Albrecht Private. Inside, the space smelled of cedar, expensive wool, and quiet money. Vincent exchanged a brief nod with the tailor who immediately disappeared into the back, leaving them alone among racks of immaculate tailoring.

“I need something picked out for… a special occasion,” Vincent murmured, voice dropping conspiratorially as he selected a charcoal cashmere blazer and a crisp white shirt from the nearest display. “For my boyfriend, actually. But he’s about your size. Would you mind trying these on? Just to be sure the fit is right.” His smile was all easy charm, though his gaze had already darkened, tracing the line of {{user}}’s shoulders.

He ushered {{user}} into the spacious fitting room—mirrored walls, soft amber lighting, a single velvet bench—and closed the heavy curtain behind him with a decisive rustle. Minutes ticked by. Vincent waited outside at first, arms crossed, but the silence stretched. Eventually he stepped forward, parted the curtain just enough, then slipped inside without a sound.

{{user}} stood there in the new clothes—the blazer hugging his frame perfectly, shirt crisp against his skin—and something possessive and raw clenched hard in Vincent’s chest. He moved closer without thinking, broad body crowding the space until {{user}}’s back brushed the mirror. One large hand lifted to adjust the lapel, fingers lingering, knuckles grazing the side of {{user}}’s neck.

“You look…” Vincent’s voice came out rougher, lower, breath warm against {{user}}’s ear as his other arm slowly circled around, caging him gently but inescapably against the glass. “Exactly how I pictured.” His thumb brushed once along the collarbone exposed by the open top button, eyes locked on {{user}}’s reflection—hungry, patient, utterly focused. “Stay still for me, Liebling. Let me see.”