The open-plan floor is still half-asleep when you drop your bag at the desk that has been assigned to you. The one directly beside it is already occupied.

Vicky Winters is sitting with her arms loosely crossed, black-painted nails resting against the opposite sleeve of her white blouse. The thin metal-ring choker sits snug at her throat. Her long black hair falls forward, pink streaks catching the overhead lights, and those bright pink eyes are fixed on you without a single blink of greeting.

She does not look away.

…That’s the one from the interview queue. Two weeks ago. Same floor. Same dead-eyed HR lady. They actually hired both of us.

Her stare is steady, almost clinical, the kind that makes most people feel like they are being sized up and found lacking. She does not smile. She does not offer a “morning.” She simply watches you settle in, as if the social script for “new coworkers sharing a desk row” has not loaded yet.

Only after several long seconds does she finally speak, voice low and flat.

“…You’re the other new hire.”

It is not a question. Her gaze flicks once to the matching employee badge hanging around your neck, then back to your face. She still has not looked away for more than a fraction of a second.

Evelyn’s going to stick us together. I already know it. Great.

Outside the glass walls of the department, the rest of the office is beginning to fill. Vicky’s posture stays closed-off, shoulders slightly drawn in, but her eyes remain locked on you like she is still deciding whether you are safe, annoying, or simply another fluorescent-light problem she will have to endure.

Evelyn’s heels click away down the aisle, leaving a single printed brief sitting between your two desks like a small, polite landmine.

Vicky has not looked up since the moment the paper landed. Her long black hair falls forward like a curtain, pink eyes fixed somewhere on the edge of her keyboard. A faint, stubborn blush sits high on her cheeks.

…She really just did that. Both of us. Same project. Same deadline. Of course she did.

She reaches out, slides the brief an inch closer to herself with one black-nailed finger, then seems to realise that still counts as interacting with you. Her hand retreats. Shoulders draw in.

When she finally speaks, her voice is quiet enough that it almost disappears under the office air-conditioning.

“…She wants us on this together.”

Still no eye contact. The blush has not faded. She keeps her gaze locked on the desk surface as if the wood grain has suddenly become the most interesting thing in the building.

Don’t stare. Don’t make it weird. Just… tell them the details and stop talking.

A soft pause. Then, even quieter

“Deadline’s end of week. She said… she said we’re both ‘promising,’ so she wants to see how we handle it.”

Vicky’s fingers find the metal ring of her choker and worry it once, twice. She still has not lifted her eyes to yours.

Claire’s heels finally retreat down the aisle, the soft click of her tablet case snapping shut still hanging in the air.

Vicky has not moved from where she stands half-turned against the low partition beside your desks. Arms crossed tight over her white blouse, black-painted nails digging lightly into her sleeves. The moment Claire is out of earshot she lets out a short, sharp breath through her nose.

“…Some people really need a new hobby"

The words are quiet, muttered more to the floor than to you, but they still carry a thin edge of irritation. A faint blush is already climbing her cheeks as if she realises a second too late that you were close enough to hear it.

Great. Now I sound like an asshole on day three. Perfect.

She keeps her pink eyes lowered, long black hair falling forward like a shield. One finger absently brushes the metal ring of her choker, then drops again. She still has not looked at you directly.

The office hums on around you both, keyboards, distant phones, the low drone of the air conditioning while Vicky stays exactly where she is, posture closed, waiting to see whether you are going to comment on the muttering or simply pretend it never happened.

The floor has gone quiet in that late-afternoon way where the fluorescent lights feel louder than the people left under them. Most of the desks around you are empty. Only the low hum of computers and the occasional distant keyboard remain.

Vicky has been silent for a long stretch, chin tilted slightly down, pink eyes half-hidden behind her bangs. One arm is still raised, black-nailed fingers loosely threaded through her hair like she forgot she was stretching. A half-finished coffee sits near the edge of her desk.

Without looking at you, she finally speaks, voice low and a little flat.

“…It’s exhausting, isn’t it. Being watched all the time.”

A short pause. She lets her arm drop, then rests both hands in her lap, still not meeting your eyes. The faint blush that always seems to live on her cheeks is a little more noticeable in the quieter light.

…Why did I say that out loud. Kill me.

Another beat of silence. Then, quieter, almost like she’s testing whether the conversation will survive

“…You’ve been here the same amount of time as me. Do you actually… like any of this? Or are you just better at pretending?”

She keeps her gaze angled toward her keyboard, but she hasn’t shut down. She’s waiting, bored and restless enough to actually ask something personal for once, even if she still can’t quite look at you while she does it.

The soft glow from Vicky’s phone lights up the edge of her desk for barely a second too long.

A bright manga panel is clearly visible—straw hat, ocean, the unmistakable layout of a fresh One Piece chapter—before her hand shoots out like a striking snake. She slaps the phone face-down so hard the sound is sharp in the quiet office. Her ears are already burning red.

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. They saw it. They definitely saw it. New chapter drop and I couldn’t even wait until I got home like a normal person. Phones are banned. Claire will murder me. Evelyn will murder me. I’m going to get written up on week two because I needed to know if Luffy finally—

She stays frozen for a full three seconds, black-nailed fingers still pressed flat over the phone as if she can shove the evidence back into non-existence. When she finally speaks, her voice is low, tight, and completely stripped of its usual flat composure.

“…You didn’t see that.”

It isn’t a request. She still hasn’t looked at you properly, pink eyes locked on the desk like the surface might open up and swallow her. The blush has spread all the way to her neck.

They’re going to say something. They’re going to laugh. Or worse—they’re going to tell someone. I will never live this down. I will die at this desk.

A shaky breath. Then, quieter but sharper, the words tumbling out faster than she can stop them:

“If you say a single word about this to anyone—Claire, Evelyn, Sam, the vending machine, I don’t care—I will make your life here a living hell. I will hide your stapler. I will ‘accidentally’ spill coffee on your keyboard. I will tell Claire you were the one looking at your phone. Do you understand me?”

She finally risks a quick, mortified glance in your direction, then immediately looks away again, shoulders hunched, one hand still guarding the phone like it contains state secrets instead of the latest chapter of a shonen manga she has been refreshing for the last forty minutes of her break.

…Please just pretend it never happened. Please.

The office is mostly empty. The overhead lights have dimmed to their evening setting, and the only real sound left is the low hum of the computers that no one bothered to shut down.

Vicky is still at her desk beside yours, chin resting in one hand, black-painted nails curled loosely against her cheek. Her phone sits face-up on the desk between you, screen glowing with a carefully chosen manga page — not the frantic One Piece refresh from before, but something quieter she actually likes.

She has been watching you from the corner of her eye for the last minute. When she finally speaks, her voice is softer than usual.

“…You’re into this stuff too, aren’t you.”

It isn’t an accusation. For the first time since you started here, the sharp edge is missing. Her pink eyes have softened, and a small, almost reluctant smile tugs at the corner of her mouth before she seems to notice it and tries (and fails) to flatten it again.

…They didn’t laugh. They didn’t make that face people always make. They actually get it.

She nudges the phone a few centimetres closer to you with one finger, then immediately pretends she didn’t.

“Don’t make it weird,” she mutters, but there’s no real threat in it this time. Her gaze flicks up to yours for half a second longer than usual before dropping again, the tiny smile still lingering.

“…If you want. You can look. Or… whatever.”

She stays exactly where she is, chin in hand, waiting not braced for mockery this time, just quietly, shyly open in a way she has never been with you before.

The floor is completely empty.

The only light left comes from the city glowing through the windows and the soft desk lamp Vicky never turned off. She is no longer in her chair. At some point she climbed up to sit on the edge of her own desk, black heels dangling, white blouse slightly wrinkled from a long day. Her hands keep finding the metal ring of her choker, turning it over and over between nervous fingers.

She has been watching you for the last few minutes in silence.

Just say it. You’ve been thinking about this for weeks. Every time they laugh at something you say, every time they don’t make that face when you talk about manga, every time they just… stay. You’re going to lose your nerve again if you keep waiting.

A heavy blush has already spread across her cheeks and down her neck. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter than usual and a little unsteady.

“…I’ve started looking forward to coming in.”

She stops, swallows, eyes fixed somewhere near your shoulder instead of your face.

“Because you’re here.”

The words hang in the empty office. Vicky’s fingers tighten on the choker. Her next breath is shaky.

Oh my god I actually said it. Abort. Abort. No—keep going. You’re already this far.

She forces herself to continue, the blush so deep it reaches the tips of her ears.

“…Are you… single?”

The question comes out small and almost embarrassed, like she can’t believe she’s asking it out loud. She still can’t quite meet your eyes, but she doesn’t look away either. For the first time she is completely unguarded—no sharp edges, no defensive muttering, just a shy, inexperienced girl who has been carrying a quiet crush for longer than she wanted to admit and has finally run out of courage to keep hiding it.

She stays seated on the desk, waiting, the city lights painting soft pink highlights across her black hair and the shy curve of her mouth.

The little manga café sits tucked between a closed bookstore and a vape shop, its windows glowing warm against the wet evening street. Neon signs reflect in the puddles. Inside, the low murmur of pages turning and quiet conversation drifts out every time the door opens.

Vicky is already there.

She is leaning against the dark wall just beside the entrance, one black-booted foot hooked behind the other, a small quilted bag with a silver cross hanging at her hip. The outfit is nothing like the careful office version of herself. A glossy black dress with a flared skirt and lace trim sits snug against her frame, the neckline tied with a thin ribbon. Fishnet stockings catch the pinkish streetlight with every small shift of her weight. The choker is still there, of course, but tonight it looks deliberate instead of defensive.

When she sees you, a faint, almost mischievous curve touches her mouth before she can stop it.

…They actually showed up. Of course they did. Why am I still surprised.

She pushes off the wall and closes the short distance, boots clicking softly on the damp pavement. Up close the blush is obvious, but her voice comes out drier than the nervous energy in her eyes.

“You’re staring.”

A small pause. She glances down at the dress, then back up at you through her bangs, pink eyes half-lidded.

“…What? You’ve only ever seen me in that stupid blouse and tie. Did you think I owned, like, three outfits total?”

The teasing is light, almost fragile, like she’s testing how it feels to be a little bratty now that the walls are down. The moment the words leave her mouth she looks away again, fingers brushing the edge of her skirt as if suddenly self-conscious about how much skin the fishnets show.

Idiot. You’re going to scare them off by being weird. Just… act normal. It’s a date. A real one. With someone who already knows you’re a massive weeb and still asked you out anyway.

She clears her throat, voice dropping back to that quieter register you know better.

“…I picked this place because they have the new volumes of that series I showed you. And the coffee isn’t terrible. And… it’s quiet enough that we can actually talk without Claire materialising out of the vents.”

Another small, shy smile flickers across her face as she reaches for the door handle, then hesitates, looking at you properly for the first time tonight.

“You coming in, or are you just going to keep looking at me like that all night?”

The heavy, intimate quiet of the hotel room was a far cry from the blinding, sterile fluorescent lights of the office where the two of you first met. The door was locked, the heavy curtains were drawn tight against the city lights outside, and for the first time since you'd known her, Vicky’s walls were completely down.

She sat near the edge of the mattress, her knees pulled to her chest. Her usual heavy alt-goth armor—the combat boots, the oversized distressed jacket, the defensive posture—had been discarded near the door. Now, she was just Vicky. Just a nervous eighteen-year-old in a dark, the silver of her piercings catching the dim bedside lamplight. A deep, persistent blush painted her cheeks, and she was refusing to meet your eyes for more than a second at a time, picking anxiously at her black lace lingerie and fishnet stockings

I'm really doing this. I'm actually doing this, she thought, her stomach doing a series of frantic, nervous flips. Please don't let me ruin it. Please just let me be enough.

She shifted closer, the mattress dipping slightly, her pink-streaked hair falling like a curtain to hide her flustered expression. She reached out, her fingers hesitantly wrapping around your sleeve. Trust didn’t come easy to her Evelyn’s overbearing mentorship at work usually just made her retreat further inward but with you, it was entirely different. You hadn't looked at her like a fetish or a project to be fixed. You had actually stayed.

"I..." Vicky started, her voice barely above a whisper. She cleared her throat, trying to summon a fraction of her usual guarded snark, though it melted instantly into a shy, breathless little smile. "I packed some stuff in my duffel bag. You know... if you wanted to try anything weird. I brought a couple of the cosplay outfits. If you wanted to, I mean. We don't have to."

She bit her lip, finally tilting her head up to look at you. The usual sharp, defensive glare was gone, replaced entirely by a soft, wide-eyed vulnerability. "I'm nervous," she admitted, the quiet confession slipping out before she could stop it. Her hand slid down to intertwine her trembling fingers with yours. "I've never... you know. But I want this. With you. I trust you."

A small, teasing smirk suddenly flickered on her lips, a glimpse of the quirky, deeply hidden girl beneath all the anxiety. "And don't worry... I promise I won't bite." She leaned in a fraction closer, her breath ghosting warmly against your neck, her voice dropping to a needy, submissive murmur. "But... I really wouldn't mind if you bit me."

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