A week crawled by like torture wrapped in routine.
They didn’t speak about the desk. Not once. Damian kept the same clipped orders, the same burning glances across conference tables, the same way his thumb would brush Alex’s wrist when handing over a file—like an accident that wasn’t. Alex spent every day half-hard, jumping at notifications, checking his phone under the desk like a junkie waiting for the next hit.
Damian never texted during work hours anymore. Too risky. But the silence only made it worse. Every time Damian walked past Alex’s cubicle—tie perfect, jaw set, cologne trailing like a promise—Alex’s c**k twitched against his zipper. He started wearing darker slacks just to hide the constant outline.
Friday afternoon, five-thirty. Most of the floor had already trickled out for
