“Late-night war room," Ethan said, stepping into the twelfth-floor conference room, a to-go bag in hand. “Didn't think auditors ate."
Lizzie looked up from a spread of spreadsheets and annotated flowcharts. “We don't. We convert calories into compliance reports."
He smirked and held up the bag. “Pasta. From that overpriced Italian place you side-eyed during our budget walk."
“Tempting," she said. “But I have four hours of projected variance modeling left."
“And you'll do it better with carbs."
He slid the bag in front of her, then pulled up a chair.
“Seriously?" she asked, arching a brow. She wanted to be serious, but he was cracking her walls slowly.
Ethan shrugged. “Strategic tension management. Think of this as…preventive crisis control."
Lizzie exhaled, a small chuckle. “You're
