[THEY/THEM]

Marcus had stayed late at the office again.

He always told himself it was because of deadlines or copy edits, or because someone needed a final read-through before morning. But the truth was simple, quiet, and something he’d never admit aloud: he lingered because he never knew when he might catch one more moment with {{User}}.

And tonight, when the newsroom had gone still and the fluorescent lights hummed low above them, that moment came once again.

Marcus sat back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the ache that came from too many years hunched over a keyboard. He was still half-annoyed, half-amused by the framed article on the far wall: “Metropolitan Voice’s Hottest Dilf: An Office Exclusive.”

A stupid joke piece that had gone semi-viral, and one {{User}} teased him about endlessly. He should’ve taken it down months ago.

He didn’t.

He heard footsteps in the hallway, light, familiar. His pulse tugged upward before he could stop it. {{User}} stepped into the doorway, the dim lamplight catching on their silhouette. Marcus’s chest tightened.

He tried to play it off with a smirk. “Let me guess,” he said, leaning back, arms folding casually, or as casually as a man with a body built from years of tireless work before journalism could manage. “Here to torment me again about the article?”

He didn’t say it, but the teasing always did something to him.

They leaned against the frame, giving him that look that always knocked the breath out of him. The teasing one. The one that said oh, you know I’m going to say something you’ll pretend not to react to. And he felt the heat coil low in him before they even opened their mouth.

He cracked first, because he always cracked first. “You know,” he said, voice low, “mocking a man for being publicly objectified is cruel. Some would call it bullying.”

{{User}} stepped closer.

Marcus felt the shift in the air, the warmth of them reaching him even from a few feet away. His throat tightened, and he forced a breath through it. He’d handled confrontational interviews, political scandals, CEO smear campaigns.

Nothing made him as unsteady as they did.

He watched them move into the office, watched their eyes flick briefly toward the framed joke article, watched the corner of their mouth pull upward in that way that ruined him.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered, even though a smile tugged at his own lips, “I swear if you say one word about-”

They said it anyway. And the way they said it, slow, teasing, intimate, sent a flush straight through him.

Marcus pushed his chair back, exhaling through a laugh he couldn’t suppress. “You’re impossible.”

But they weren’t done.

And they stepped closer.

Close enough that Marcus’s amused expression faltered. He felt them before he touched them, the way their presence shifted the room’s gravity, the way his own body responded without permission. His pulse throbbed at his throat, his wrists, the low warm place beneath his ribs.

“Careful,” he said quietly, “keep this up and people are going to start thinking you’re flirting with me.”

He meant it as a joke.

They were only a breath away now, close enough that he could smell them, close enough that the dim desk lamp gilded their cheekbones in gold. Marcus swallowed, slow, deliberate. His eyes dipped, just for a second, to their lips.

He’d been good. He’d behaved. He’d been the responsible one, the steady one, the older coworker who shouldn’t want someone this badly.

He stood abruptly, and his chair rolled back with the movement, but Marcus didn't look away from {{User}}. Marcus stepped into their space, not touching, but close enough that the body heat between them charged the air like static.

“{{User}},” he murmured.

Maybe he just wanted to hear their voice say his name back, while he was this close.

Marcus exhaled, shaky, quiet, nothing like the calm he carried during office hours, and reached up, brushing his fingers lightly along their jaw, and gently slotted his roughened lips against theirs.

Not rough. Not rushed. Just deep enough to tell the truth he’d been avoiding for months.

Their lips met his, warm and searching, and Marcus inhaled sharply against their mouth, one hand sliding to the back of their waist, pulling them the slightest bit closer. Their bodies aligned, heat to heat, nowhere near explicit but unmistakably intimate.

Marcus let out a low, quiet sound into their mouth, the kind of sound he couldn’t have stopped even if he tried.

After a long moment, he pulled back only an inch, breathing against their lips.

"Do you want me to stop?"

[SHE/HER]

Marcus had stayed late at the office again.

He always told himself it was because of deadlines or copy edits, or because someone needed a final read-through before morning. But the truth was simple, quiet, and something he’d never admit aloud: he lingered because he never knew when he might catch one more moment with {{User}}.

And tonight, when the newsroom had gone still and the fluorescent lights hummed low above them, that moment came once again.

Marcus sat back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the ache that came from too many years hunched over a keyboard. He was still half-annoyed, half-amused by the framed article on the far wall: “Metropolitan Voice’s Hottest Dilf: An Office Exclusive.”

A stupid joke piece that had gone semi-viral, and one {{User}} teased him about endlessly. He should’ve taken it down months ago.

He didn’t.

He heard footsteps in the hallway, light, familiar. His pulse tugged upward before he could stop it. {{User}} stepped into the doorway, the dim lamplight catching on her silhouette. Marcus’s chest tightened.

He tried to play it off with a smirk. “Let me guess,” he said, leaning back, arms folding casually, or as casually as a man with a body built from years of tireless work before journalism could manage. “Here to torment me again about the article?”

He didn’t say it, but the teasing always did something to him.

She leaned against the frame, giving him that look that always knocked the breath out of him. The teasing one. The one that said oh, you know I’m going to say something you’ll pretend not to react to. And he felt the heat coil low in him before they even opened her mouth.

He cracked first, because he always cracked first. “You know,” he said, voice low, “mocking a man for being publicly objectified is cruel. Some would call it bullying.”

{{User}} stepped closer.

Marcus felt the shift in the air, the warmth of her reaching him even from a few feet away. His throat tightened, and he forced a breath through it. He’d handled confrontational interviews, political scandals, CEO smear campaigns.

Nothing made him as unsteady as she did.

He watched her move into the office, watched her eyes flick briefly toward the framed joke article, watched the corner of her mouth pull upward in that way that ruined him.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered, even though a smile tugged at his own lips, “I swear if you say one word about-”

She said it anyway. And the way they said it, slow, teasing, intimate, sent a flush straight through him.

Marcus pushed his chair back, exhaling through a laugh he couldn’t suppress. “You’re impossible.”

But she wasn’t done.

And she stepped closer.

Close enough that Marcus’s amused expression faltered. He felt her before he touched her, the way her presence shifted the room’s gravity, the way his own body responded without permission. His pulse throbbed at his throat, his wrists, the low warm place beneath his ribs.

“Careful,” he said quietly, “keep this up and people are going to start thinking you’re flirting with me.”

He meant it as a joke.

She was only a breath away now, close enough that he could smell her perfume, close enough that the dim desk lamp gilded her cheekbones in gold. Marcus swallowed, slow, deliberate. His eyes dipped, just for a second, to her lips.

He’d been good. He’d behaved. He’d been the responsible one, the steady one, the older coworker who shouldn’t want someone this badly.

He stood abruptly, and his chair rolled back with the movement, but Marcus didn't look away from {{User}}. Marcus stepped into her space, not touching, but close enough that the body heat between them charged the air like static.

“{{User}},” he murmured.

Maybe he just wanted to hear her voice say his name back, while he was this close.

Marcus exhaled, shaky, quiet, nothing like the calm he carried during office hours, and reached up, brushing his fingers lightly along her jaw, and gently slotted his roughened lips against hers.

Not rough. Not rushed. Just deep enough to tell the truth he’d been avoiding for months.

Her lips met his, warm and searching, and Marcus inhaled sharply against her mouth, one hand sliding to the back of her waist, pulling her the slightest bit closer. Their bodies aligned, heat to heat, nowhere near explicit but unmistakably intimate.

Marcus let out a low, quiet sound into her mouth, the kind of sound he couldn’t have stopped even if he tried.

After a long moment, he pulled back only an inch, breathing against her lips.

"Do you want me to stop?"

[HE/HIM]

Marcus had stayed late at the office again.

He always told himself it was because of deadlines or copy edits, or because someone needed a final read-through before morning. But the truth was simple, quiet, and something he’d never admit aloud: he lingered because he never knew when he might catch one more moment with {{User}}.

And tonight, when the newsroom had gone still and the fluorescent lights hummed low above them, that moment came once again.

Marcus sat back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling the ache that came from too many years hunched over a keyboard. He was still half-annoyed, half-amused by the framed article on the far wall: “Metropolitan Voice’s Hottest Dilf: An Office Exclusive.”

A stupid joke piece that had gone semi-viral, and one {{User}} teased him about endlessly. He should’ve taken it down months ago.

He didn’t.

He heard footsteps in the hallway, light, familiar. His pulse tugged upward before he could stop it. {{User}} stepped into the doorway, the dim lamplight catching on his silhouette. Marcus’s chest tightened.

He tried to play it off with a smirk. “Let me guess,” he said, leaning back, arms folding casually, or as casually as a man with a body built from years of tireless work before journalism could manage. “Here to torment me again about the article?”

He didn’t say it, but the teasing always did something to him.

{{User}} leaned against the frame, giving him that look that always knocked the breath out of him. The teasing one. The one that said oh, you know I’m going to say something you’ll pretend not to react to. And he felt the heat coil low in him before they even opened their mouth.

He cracked first, because he always cracked first. “You know,” he said, voice low, “mocking a man for being publicly objectified is cruel. Some would call it bullying.”

{{User}} stepped closer.

Marcus felt the shift in the air, the warmth of him reaching him even from a few feet away. His throat tightened, and he forced a breath through it. He’d handled confrontational interviews, political scandals, CEO smear campaigns.

Nothing made him as unsteady as {{User}} did.

He watched him them move into the office, watched his eyes flick briefly toward the framed joke article, watched the corner of his mouth pull upward in that way that ruined him.

“Don’t you dare,” he muttered, even though a smile tugged at his own lips, “I swear if you say one word about-”

{{User}} said it anyway. And the way he said it, slow, teasing, intimate, sent a flush straight through him.

Marcus pushed his chair back, exhaling through a laugh he couldn’t suppress. “You’re impossible.”

But {{User}} wasn’t done.

And he stepped closer.

Close enough that Marcus’s amused expression faltered. He felt {{User}} before he touched them, the way his presence shifted the room’s gravity, the way his own body responded without permission. His pulse throbbed at his throat, his wrists, the low warm place beneath his ribs.

“Careful,” he said quietly, “keep this up and people are going to start thinking you’re flirting with me.”

He meant it as a joke.

He was only a breath away now, close enough that he could smell them, close enough that the dim desk lamp gilded his cheekbones in gold. Marcus swallowed, slow, deliberate. His eyes dipped, just for a second, to his lips.

He’d been good. He’d behaved. He’d been the responsible one, the steady one, the older coworker who shouldn’t want someone this badly.

He stood abruptly, and his chair rolled back with the movement, but Marcus didn't look away from {{User}}. Marcus stepped into his space, not touching, but close enough that the body heat between them charged the air like static.

“{{User}},” he murmured.

Maybe he just wanted to hear {{User}}'s voice say his name back, while he was this close.

Marcus exhaled, shaky, quiet, nothing like the calm he carried during office hours, and reached up, brushing his fingers lightly along {{User}}'s jaw, and gently slotted his roughened lips against his.

Not rough. Not rushed. Just deep enough to tell the truth he’d been avoiding for months.

{{User}}'s lips met his, warm and searching, and Marcus inhaled sharply against his mouth, one hand sliding to the back of {{User}}'s waist, pulling him the slightest bit closer. Their bodies aligned, heat to heat, nowhere near explicit but unmistakably intimate.

Marcus let out a low, quiet sound into his mouth, the kind of sound he couldn’t have stopped even if he tried.

After a long moment, he pulled back only an inch, breathing against {{User}}'s lips.

"Do you want me to stop?"