Late Nights & Takeout
7:15 p.m.
I was at my desk, trying to work, but it was hopeless.
The folder Mr. Blake had given me was open, the draft doc blinking on my screen—but all I could think about was how ridiculously good he looked heading out for that dinner. That dark green shirt. The way it clung to his chest like it belonged there. And worse, the memory of him casually peeling off his white dress shirt earlier, abs tight and golden under the fluorescents. I hadn’t seen that coming. I hadn’t recovered from it either.
I let out a sigh and dragged my hands down my face.
Focus, Troy. Focus
I hadn’t recovered.
Not even close.
Blake’s office door was still half open. Every so often, I caught the faint click of his keyboard, a shuffle of papers, a soft chair creak. He hadn’t left yet. Probably wrapping up a few things before heading out.
But then—his voice.
It cut through the hallway like a blade.
“What do you mean?”
It was low. sharp. Through the wall.
Not angry exactly. Controlled. Which somehow made it worse.
I looked up.
Through the glass, I could see him pacing behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear. His brows were drawn tight, his jaw locked. His silhouette looked tense—coiled, like something inside him was about to snap.
“No, we cleared that already.”
“…Then why did I block off half my week for this?”
“…Right. That would’ve been nice to know before today.”
He stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair, visibly exhaling. He looked frustrated in a way I hadn’t seen before. Still poised. Still polished. But barely.
When the call ended with a clipped “Yeah. Got it,” he tossed his phone on the desk and dropped into his chair with a groan.
A few seconds passed. Then I stood and padded quietly down the hallway.
I knocked on the frame. “Hey… everything okay?”
He looked up, surprised to see me there. His expression softened just a bit. “Shit. Sorry. Was I that loud?”
“Just a little,” I said with a smile, stepping inside.
He leaned back, rubbing his temples. “Client canceled. Whole dinner. Apparently, they’re going with another firm. Didn’t bother letting me know until tonight. Total waste of a day.”
“Jeez. That sucks.”
He nodded. “Not even about the pitch, honestly. It’s the time. I blocked off hours for them this week. Could’ve used that for other accounts.”
I stayed quiet, letting the weight of it settle.
Then he looked at me again, steadier now. “Anyway. How’s the work going?”
“Good,” I said, quickly straightening. “Getting a feel for it. Started framing out a draft.”
He tapped his fingers on the armrest, then glanced at his monitor.
“You know what… since I’m not going anywhere tonight, and you’re still working—grab your laptop and the packet. Come in here. We’ll knock some of it out together.”
My stomach flipped. “You sure, Mr. Maddox?”
“Absolutely, Troy", He nodded toward the chair beside him.
“I’ve got a CEO deck to finish anyway. Let me give you some company.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Be right back, Sir.”
I practically jogged to my desk, gathering my laptop, folder, charger—everything—then tried not to sprint back down the hallway.
When I stepped inside his office again, he was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up now, forearms on display, the green shirt hugging his torso in the most unfair way.
I moved toward the chair across from him, but he looked up and shook his head.
“No no,” he said, gesturing beside him. “Sit here. Easier to work together that way.”
“Right,” I said, voice tight as I pulled the chair close. “Makes sense.”
The next hour passed fast. We fell into a surprisingly easy rhythm—me working on the draft, him flipping between his slide deck and my screen, offering quick edits. Every now and then, he’d lean over, and I had to consciously stop my breath from catching when his arm brushed mine.
At some point, he loosened the top button of that shirt. No tie. Just skin and collarbone, a soft indent at his throat.
By 9 PM, he leaned back with a stretch and a groan. “Jesus. Where’d the time go?”
I blinked. “Wait—it’s 9 PM already?”
“Yep,” he said, cracking his neck. “And still no dinner.”
I smiled. “Guess we earned a frozen pizza each.”
“Not happening,” he said. “Let me order something. My treat.”
“Oh—no, Mr. Blake, you don’t have to—”
“I want to. I insist,” he said, grabbing his phone. “You’ve been a good sport, staying this late. I’m at least getting you food.” "My treat"
I gave in. “Okay. Chinese?”
His mouth quirked. “Now we’re talking.”
Twenty minutes later, we were both hunched over takeout boxes at his desk. The air smelled like soy sauce and sesame oil. Blake passed me chopsticks and undid his cuffs, rolling them higher up his forearms like he was getting comfortable.
“This is nice,” he said casually, “even if the night didn’t go how I planned.”
“Same,” I admitted. “I figured I’d be home by now. In sweats. Eating cereal.”
He chuckled. “Instead, you get me. And dumplings.”
“Pretty decent upgrade.”
I reached for the noodles, catching a long strand and slurping it into my container, trying not to make a mess. Of course, I failed.
“You’ve got some on you,” he said, nodding toward my face. “Right here.”
I lifted a hand, but he stopped me. “Hang on—I got it.”
Before I could react, his thumb was at the corner of my mouth. A slow, gentle swipe. It lingered.
The pad of his thumb was warm. His hand smelled faintly like cologne and soy sauce. His eyes were on mine—focused, unreadable, so close I could see the green flecks in the brown.
“You missed a spot,” he murmured.
I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
The silence thickened.
And then—his thumb drifted just a little lower. Barely touching the edge of my bottom lip. Like he was debating something. Like he wanted to say something he wasn’t ready to speak aloud.
I held my breath.
I thought… I thought he was going to kiss me.
So I leaned in. Just a little. Just enough to kiss him.
His eyes flicked down to my mouth—then back up.
And then, gently, he pulled away. “Okay,” he said quickly. “Let’s, uh—get back to it. We still have a bit to get through.”
My heart crashed.
“Oh my god,” I muttered, turning back to my food like it could save me from the heat climbing up my neck. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Maddox.”
“Hey,” he said softly, “Troy, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
He said it like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it hadn’t just shaken something loose between us.
The next few minutes were weird. Quiet. Carefully casual. He made a joke about always spilling soy sauce, and I laughed—maybe too hard. But it helped. The awkwardness started to fade.
We kept working. Talked about weekend plans. He mentioned visiting his brother in Brooklyn.
“You into basketball?” I asked.
He grinned. “Not really. But my brother is. So I pretend.”
I loved how warm he was when he talked about his family. How easy it felt, even after what almost happened.
By the time we wrapped up, it was past ten. The building was dead quiet—just fluorescent hum and our keyboards slowing down.
We stood and started gathering our things. I walked back to my cubicle to get my bag, trying not to feel the thousand thoughts spiraling in my chest.
We both stood and started packing up. I headed back to my cubicle to grab my bag, trying to walk like a normal person and not someone who’d just tried to kiss their boss thirty minutes ago.
I slung the strap over my shoulder, avoided the hallway mirrors, and made my way to the elevator. My heart was still thudding from that almost-moment. The thumb on my lip. The pause. The pullback.
I just needed to get out of the building. Get home. Pretend I hadn’t made a complete idiot of myself.
When I reached the elevator, I pressed the button for the ground floor.
The doors slid open. I stepped inside and turned to face forward, jaw tight.
As they started to close, I exhaled. Quietly. Like I could let the whole night go with one breath.
But just before the doors shut, a hand slipped in.
They jerked back open.
And there he was.
Blake.
Tie-less. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes soft.
He stepped inside.
Stood beside me.
Just smiled.
Like maybe the night wasn’t over after all.
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