Yes Daddy

The Line We Pretend Not To See

There’s a certain art to ignoring someone who gets under your skin. I’ve mastered it or at least I thought I had.

Until Ethan Ward.

He’s everywhere. Boardrooms, hallways, even the elevator like it’s some kind of corporate ambush. And he always finds a way to say something that makes my pulse skip before my brain rolls its eyes.

This week, we’re working together on a product launch. Together. Which is code for “try not to kill each other before the campaign ends.”

“Your numbers look solid,” Ethan says, standing behind me as I review the pitch deck. His tone is professional. His nearness isn’t.

I don’t turn around. “Solid? That’s your big feedback?”

“Would you prefer a round of applause?”

I glance over my shoulder. “You’re not really the clapping type, are you?”

He smirks. “Not unless I mean it.”

There it is again that flicker of challenge that makes everything too warm.

I move to the whiteboard, grabbing a marker. “We need a stronger hook. The tagline isn’t landing.”

He follows me, close enough that I can sense him but not enough to accuse him of hovering.

“Let me guess,” he says, “you’ve already written a better one?”

“Of course,” I say, sketching a few words in quick, looping handwriting.

He steps closer to read it, shoulder nearly brushing mine. I pretend not to notice, but I can feel the quiet heat of him there calm, infuriating, steady.

His voice drops slightly. “You’re aware this room has other chairs, right? You don’t have to take up all the oxygen.”

I cap the marker and turn, crossing my arms. “And yet here you are, still breathing.”

He smiles slow, precise, almost admiring. “Barely.”

For a heartbeat, the air stills. The hum of the projector fades, and it’s just the two of us, standing too close, trying too hard not to care.

Then the door creaks open and Clara pokes her head in. “Sorry uh, didn’t mean to interrupt”

“You’re not,” I say quickly, stepping back. “We were just—”

“Working,” Ethan finishes smoothly, like nothing happened.

Clara eyes us suspiciously. “Sure. Anyway, meeting’s in five.”

When she leaves, I exhale a little harder than I should. Ethan raises an eyebrow.

“Relax, Collins,” he says, grabbing his tablet. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Only a haunting ego,” I mutter, brushing past him.

His laugh follows me out of the room. “You’re welcome.”

(Ethan)

She’s impossible. Brilliant, infuriating, and impossible.

Ava Collins could turn a staff meeting into a duel and still walk away with applause. She argues like she’s defending her throne sharp, confident, unflinching.

And every time she looks at me, it feels like a dare.

When I step into her workspace later that day, she’s leaning over her desk, scribbling notes across a marketing board.

“You missed the lunch briefing,” I say.

“Didn’t seem necessary,” she replies without looking up. “Everything important was in the file.”

I walk closer. “And yet, somehow, it’s not the same when you’re not there to interrupt me.”

Her head lifts, slow and deliberate. “If I didn’t interrupt you, you’d mistake silence for agreement.”

I grin. “And if you didn’t talk so much, I might think you actually liked me.”

Her eyes narrow that spark again. “You really think every woman who argues with you secretly likes you?”

“No,” I say, leaning one hand on her desk. “Just you.”

She freezes for half a second, then smirks. “That confidence must be heavy to carry around all day.”

“It builds muscle,” I say lightly.

She laughs short, genuine, and it’s ridiculous how much I like the sound.

When I straighten, she’s watching me again, assessing. Like she’s waiting for me to trip, and secretly hoping I won’t.

We work side by side for another hour, tossing ideas back and forth, arguing over phrasing and tone. It’s exhausting, exhilarating the kind of tension that hums beneath every word.

At one point, our hands brush reaching for the same folder. Just a second. Nothing. But it lands like a spark anyway.

Neither of us acknowledges it. We don’t have to. The air says enough.

(Ava)

By the end of the day, I’m tired of pretending he doesn’t get to me. Not emotionally that would be giving him too much credit but there’s something about the way he commands a room that sets my instincts on edge.

He’s confident, too calm, too certain. And it drives me insane that he’s good at what he does.

I see him talking to a few executives as I grab my bag. He’s smiling that quiet, assured smile the kind that says I always get my way.

As I walk past, he glances at me. Just a look. But it lingers a second too long.

I don’t stop. I just toss over my shoulder, “Try not to let the power trip ruin your weekend, Ward.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Collins.”

And somehow, even from across the room, I can still feel his smirk.