darksuitfantasies

[darksuitfantasies]

Conference Room #2 After Hours (Chp 4)

Michael Bluth x Reader

Tags:

Sexual tension, hot room together, sweaty Michael.

Summary:

 After a week of tension and unspoken feelings, you and Michael Bluth find yourselves working late again—this time in a sweltering, AC-less conference room. As the oppressive heat strips away the usual formalities, the emotional and physical tension between you both becomes impossible to ignore. Michael, ever the composed professional with a streak of reluctant charm, tries (and mostly fails) to keep things platonic. As flirtation crackles beneath dry banter and unbuttoned collars, a power outage plunges the office into darkness—interrupting a moment that feels like it could’ve changed everything. You both leave the building pretending nothing happened, but his final words—“for now”—suggest this story is far from over.

It’s been a week.

Seven full days of late nights, half-finished sentences, and something tight and unspoken stretching between us like an overdrawn bank account.

We haven’t talked about the elevator moment. Or Ava. Or whatever that almost-smile was when I fake-jogged away like some over-caffeinated intern trying too hard to seem chill. But we haven’t not talked either. Just a shared truce—emails, performance reviews, and the occasional dry quip tossed across the conference table like a grenade with a bow.

But tonight? Something’s… off.

The second I step onto the fifteenth floor, the air hits me. Thick. Dense. Wrong. Like the building itself is uncomfortable and just trying to hold it in.

I don’t need a memo to figure out why.

Conference Room 2 is a sauna. A sad, corporate sauna. The AC is dead.

Of course it is.

I glance around, expecting Michael to already be on the phone with maintenance—or delivering a sarcastic monologue to no one about how “a Fortune 500 company should at least be able to refrigerate their employees.” But the room’s empty. Just me, sweat forming at the backs of my knees and a folder doubling as a fan.

I toss my bag down and immediately regret wearing a blazer. But professionalism, right?

Then the elevator dings.

I don’t know why I freeze. It’s always him. Always. But still—I grab the nearest spreadsheet and pretend I’ve been studying it for hours instead of just dripping in quiet panic.

Michael walks in like humidity is beneath him. Naturally.

His tie’s loose, hair damp at the temples, but somehow he still looks like the guy who manages everything while also judging everyone. And I hate that he looks good while doing it. It’s deeply unfair.

“You look… flushed,” he says dryly, glancing at me over the top of his glasses like it’s a medical diagnosis.

“Gee. Thanks, Doctor. Love being compared to a baked ham.”

He sighs, tossing his briefcase down like it personally insulted him. “Maintenance says the AC should be working by morning. Which is extremely useful news for us, since it’s currently”—he checks his watch—“eleven-forty-seven. At night. On a Thursday.”

“Great,” I mutter. “So we get to slow-roast like Thanksgiving sides.”

He shrugs off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves with all the indifference of a man who’s seen worse. And I try not to look. I really try.

I fail.

Veins, forearms, a casual competence he pretends to hate but secretly lives for—it’s all there, sabotaging my focus one rolled cuff at a time.

We sit in silence, pretending to work. The air gets heavier. The spreadsheet becomes abstract art. He’s calm, composed, just lightly sweating like a well-paid hostage.

Then I break first.

“If you start dramatically sweating through your shirt, I might feel obligated to fan you out of sheer pity.”

He doesn’t even look up. “That’s very kind. But if you pass out, I’m not dragging you to urgent care. I’ve had enough codependents for one lifetime.”

“Oh wow. Such a giver.”

Another beat of silence. But this one hums with something else.

“You’re not great at the ‘keep it professional’ thing,” he says finally, eyes drifting from my rolled-up sleeves to the glint of sweat on my collarbone like he’s just now noticing I exist.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” he replies quickly, staring at the spreadsheet like it just asked for a raise. Liar.

We both fall back into the rhythm of pretending we’re here for anything besides each other. The air presses in. My water bottle is tepid. He unbuttons one—then two—buttons. It’s practical. Allegedly. But my eyes linger anyway.

He notices. Of course he does.

But instead of calling me out, he leans back, draping one arm lazily across the chair like he invented office furniture. His shirt clings in places I shouldn’t be looking.

“Hot in here, isn’t it?” he says, deadpan.

“Thanks, Weather Channel. Riveting update.”

He laughs—just a breathy chuckle, but it sends something sharp through me. It’s rare. It’s real.

“You know,” he says, tilting his head, “if you wanted to ditch the blazer, you could’ve done it an hour ago. I wouldn’t have filed an HR report.”

“Already did. Try to keep up.”

He gives a small, secret smile that almost feels like a shared confession. It’s dangerous.

I clear my throat. “By the way, Ava’s out for the rest of the week.”

He glances at me. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Stomach bug. She emailed earlier.”

He just nods. But there’s a shift. Subtle. The way his fingers tap the table. Like he didn’t expect that name to come up tonight.

I don’t ask. Just log it away. A data point. A maybe.

Then he stands up suddenly.

My heart jumps. Is he leaving?

No. He walks to the corner and unearths a dusty box fan like a man discovering fire.

He plugs it in.

It sputters to life—half dead, wheezing like it’s begging for retirement—but hey, effort.

He angles it toward me and leans back against the wall, shirt half-open now, collar loose, whole vibe deeply unhelpful to my mental state.

“Better?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re really going all in on this gentleman thing tonight, huh?”

He shrugs. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a very delicate reputation for withholding basic kindness.”

“You’ve got a very delicate something,” I mutter.

His lips twitch. But there’s something quieter underneath the smile now. Something more deliberate.

“You really don’t know what I’m capable of,” he says, voice low, like he’s teasing but not.

The room tilts. My laugh is light, fake, fragile. “Great. Exactly what I needed. Mystery-man flirtation in a ninety-degree boardroom.”

He steps forward. Not far. Just inside that invisible boundary we’ve both pretended not to notice.

“Wasn’t flirting.”

He is. He so is.

And suddenly I’m standing too close, heart hammering, brain fried by heat and the idea of what might happen next.

We don’t move. Not right away.

His eyes flick to my mouth.

Mine to his collarbone.

I take a step. I don’t know why. Maybe just to prove I can.

He doesn’t back away. Doesn’t crack a joke. Just stares at me like he’s doing math in his head and all the numbers equal me.

Then—

Boom.

The lights die. Fan stops. Silence descends like a dropped curtain.

“What the—” I breathe.

Michael sighs in the dark, voice perfectly dry. “Well. That would be the power grid giving up.”

I fumble for my phone and turn on the flashlight. It catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, which looks unfairly even more attractive in emergency lighting.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

He checks his phone. “No alerts. Might be just this section. They’ve been doing work on ten…”

We both know what this means.

I glance at the door. “We should leave before we get locked in here.”

He nods.

But we don’t move.

We’re still standing too close. Still caught in the echo of a moment that almost happened. Still unsure if we wanted it to.

Eventually, I step back. He adjusts his shirt like he’s smoothing down the tension. I grab my bag like it might save me.

He opens the door, guiding us with his phone. We stop at the elevator.

Out of order.

Of course.

He looks at me. “Stairs?”

“Stairs,” I sigh.

We descend in silence, footsteps echoing in rhythm with every thought I’m trying not to have.

At the bottom, I finally say something—anything.

“So… I guess we’re done for the night.”

Michael pauses. Looks at me, expression unreadable. “Yeah,” he says. “For now.”

And it’s the for now that sticks in my chest.

We push the door open, stepping into the warm night like it’s somehow less suffocating than the room we just left.

But the heat isn’t behind us. Not really.

It never is.

[darksuitfantasies]

[darksuitfantasies]

https://pin.it/2iE11aIPH

[darksuitfantasies]

me as a writer

[darksuitfantasies]

[darksuitfantasies]

Conference Room 2 After Hours(chp3)

Michael Bluth x fem reader

Summary: When a bubbly new intern named Ava starts turning on the charm around Michael Bluth, the reader can't help but stew in quiet frustration. As Ava leans a little too close and laughs a little too loud, Michael’s unshakable politeness only fuels the tension simmering beneath the surface. But it's not really about Ava—it’s about the unspoken energy between Michael and the reader that neither of them wants to confront. One late night in the office, petty jealousy, sharp banter, and unsaid feelings finally reach a slow, simmering boil. And maybe—just maybe—Michael’s sarcasm hides a little more than annoyance.

The thing about Ava is that she talks. A lot.

And not in the “I’m excited to be here, I love this job!” kind of way. No, it’s weaponized. Every “Oops!” and “Oh no, I’m so bad at Excel!” is less a cry for help and more like a mating call for the nearest guy in khakis.

Which, of course, lands her right next to Michael Bluth.

Now, to his credit, Michael tries. He keeps his tone professional. His posture stiff. His patience... well, barely intact. But his politeness only encourages her, and he doesn’t push back. Not enough. Not in the way you wish he would.

You're sitting across the table, pretending to focus on your spreadsheet while the click of your pen gets angrier by the second.

Ava laughs again—one of those overkill laughs that fill the whole office. Like Michael just made the most brilliant joke in existence when really, he probably just said, “Try formatting the column.”

"Wow, Michael! You’re like… really fast at this stuff. I feel like I’m learning so much just watching you."

Michael barely glances her way. "Great. That’s the idea," he replies, voice flat.

But there’s the smallest smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, and that’s enough to make your blood simmer.

You slam your folder shut. Loudly. It’s subtle, but not really.

Michael’s eyes flick toward you, then right back to his screen. Like he didn’t notice. But he noticed.

The next ten minutes are unbearable. Ava keeps asking questions she already knows the answers to, and Michael, ever the responsible adult, keeps answering them. Calm. Helpful. Infuriatingly patient.

Finally, you’ve had enough.

"Actually," you cut in, sweet as poison, "if you’re struggling with formulas, I made a cheat sheet. From last week’s meeting. It’s… very basic."

You slide it across the table without even looking at her.

"Oh, that’s so sweet of you!" Ava chirps, oblivious.

Michael doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you now.

He knows exactly what you’re doing.

Good.

A few minutes later, Ava gets a phone call and practically skips out of the room, still trailing that cloying perfume like a cartoon cloud.

The moment she’s gone, you say, "So… she’s great."

Michael doesn’t even lift his head. "Don’t start."

"What? I’m just appreciating her sparkle."

He finally looks up, expression unreadable. "You don’t like her."

"Didn’t say that."

"You didn’t have to."

You shrug. "I just think if someone’s gonna stay late, they should be… useful. You know. Contribute something other than gloss and giggles."

"She’s new."

"And?"

Michael exhales through his nose. That familiar look settles on his face—equal parts tired, frustrated, and trying very hard not to say something that will get him in trouble.

There’s a beat of silence. You both return to your screens, but the tension doesn’t leave. If anything, it lingers thicker.

Because it isn’t about Ava. Not really.

It’s about the fact that Michael’s been off tonight. Quieter. Unreadable. And you don’t like not knowing why.

Eventually, Ava yawns and finally gathers her things.

"I think I’m gonna head out unless you need anything else?"

Michael doesn’t even glance at her. "You’re fine. Go get some sleep."

She flashes a smile that definitely isn’t intern-appropriate, then turns to you.

"Night!"

You grunt something in return.

The second the door shuts behind her, you murmur, "She’ll be fun."

Michael exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. "She’s temporary."

"You sure?"

"She won’t last a week."

"Because she’s inexperienced? Or because I’ll end her?"

That earns you a rare smile. "Try not to make HR your next enemy."

You lean back in your chair, letting yourself relax just slightly. "No promises."

There’s a silence after that. Not awkward. Just heavy. Like something unspoken is hanging in the air.

Because it’s not about Ava.

It’s about you. And Michael. And whatever’s not being said.

You both head toward the elevator in silence. It’s after midnight. The office hums with the ghost of fluorescent lights and overworked dreams.

"So… Ava," you say, trying to sound casual. "Where do they even find these people? She seems more ring light and iced coffee than spreadsheets and deadlines."

Michael stares ahead at the elevator numbers, not saying a word.

You press on. "She’s gonna start vlogging next week, I swear. ‘A Day in the Life of a Girlboss Intern.’"

Still nothing.

The silence stretches just long enough for your nerves to fray.

But then, finally, Michael speaks. Low. Dry. Unbothered in the most bothersome way.

"Well… if she shuts you up like that, maybe having Ava around isn’t such a bad idea."

You huff—not a laugh. Not quite. But your mouth betrays you with the smallest smile, and you turn away so he doesn’t see it.

The elevator dings.

You step out fast, eager to put some space between you and the weird tangle of feelings trying to build in your chest.

"She’ll never shut me up!" you call over your shoulder.

And somewhere behind you, Michael smirks.

Because he already knows that.

[darksuitfantasies]

I know i have a problem ... but only he can fix it

[darksuitfantasies]

[darksuitfantasies]

[darksuitfantasies]

Conference Room 2 After Hours(chp2)

Michael Bluth x fem reader

Summary:

In this chapter, the reader arrives for another late night of overtime, dreading an encounter with Michael Bluth. Despite his usual dry sarcasm and early-bird punctuality, Michael’s tense and distracted demeanor hints at deeper frustrations. The two engage in their familiar banter—pen taps, snark, and subtle jabs—revealing underlying tensions and vulnerabilities. When a new intern unexpectedly joins them late at night, the dynamic shifts, leaving the reader unsettled by the changing atmosphere. This chapter explores the complex, unspoken connection between the reader and Michael amid the monotony and pressures of their work environment.

The doors slide open, and the office is exactly the same sterile, uncomfortable quiet as the night before. That weird, in-between silence that makes you question why you’re here at all.

Conference Room 2 looms ahead.

I steel myself, expecting Michael’s usual routine—early, already judging, probably organizing something obsessively. But the room is dark.

No Michael.

Weird. The guy who’s always fifteen minutes early is nowhere to be seen. The guy who alphabetizes his receipts for fun.

I flip on the light. The fluorescent bulbs hum to life, revealing the exact chaos we left last night. Papers scattered, pens askew. I almost laugh picturing Michael hovering here, probably muttering about margins or something equally mundane.

I’m this close to messing it all up, just a little rebellion, when the elevator dings behind me.

Michael’s here.

I can feel the air shift before I hear him—the subtle “oh great” vibe like the universe just sighed. He’s on the phone, voice low but tense. Not talking to me, obviously, but there’s that familiar bite in his tone—like when I push him too far, except now it’s directed somewhere else.

And yeah, I hate that I notice.

Even worse—I hate that I care.

Sliding into my chair, I pretend to bury myself in spreadsheets before the door opens.

When it closes behind him, I time it right.

“Late and on a personal call? Really setting the bar tonight, Michael.”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “If I’m competing with you, you’re still winning.”

Classic Michael. Dry, clipped, with that undercurrent of exhaustion. But something’s off. The phone call hangs behind his eyes like a shadow.

He doesn’t sit immediately. Circles the table like he’s strategizing a hostage negotiation. Then he finally settles.

Silence.

Not the comfortable kind. The kind that scratches.

I focus on the spreadsheets, but the numbers start swimming. I glance up—tap. Tap-tap. Tap. His pen against the table.

He’s doing it on purpose. His own brand of torture.

I clench my jaw and sigh. “Okay, fine. I deserved that.”

He smirks without looking up. “Was I annoying?”

“Incredibly,” I mutter. “But probably worth it.”

“More than you know.”

I glance at him, trying to hold back a smirk. “Aww, Michael Bluth has feelings.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “Barely.”

“Same,” I say, flipping a page I have zero intention of reading. “But keep the pen-tapping under five minutes, or I’ll file a complaint.”

“Deal. Unless you start humming.”

“That was one time.”

“Crime.”

We fall into silence again, but it feels different now. Still tense, but that ridiculous tension that feels oddly familiar.

I tap my pen once, deliberately.

He looks up.

I raise an eyebrow.

No smirk this time.

He grins.

He looks away first, back to the spreadsheets. His jaw tightens slightly. That grin is gone.

I shouldn’t be disappointed, but I am.

Leaning back, I stretch and hold the silence longer than needed. He glances my way.

“You always this unbearable when bored?” he asks.

“Only when forced into unpaid emotional labor.”

“Funny. You seemed invested in the chaos last night.”

“Yeah, well, you were wound tighter than the office Wi-Fi cables. Easy target.”

Michael snorts but it’s brief. His eyes flick to the projector. “You always play like this when something’s bothering you?”

That hits heavier than I expect.

“I’m not—” I start.

But stop. Because yeah, I’m bothered. Not by him, exactly. Maybe by how he makes me feel. Or how he sees through me like I’m an open book.

He watches, no smirk, no sarcasm. Just that quiet, perceptive look he wears like armor.

“I don’t know,” I say. “We all have coping mechanisms. You’ve got control. I’ve got sarcasm.”

“Great team-building exercise,” he mutters, turning back.

The air thickens.

He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.

Then—

“You were right.”

“About what?”

“About me being wound tight.”

I pause. “Wow. You must be sleep-deprived if you admit that.”

He exhales, almost laughing. “Don’t get used to it.”

A beat.

Then, unexpectedly: “Why are you here?”

I frown. “You mean tonight?”

“No. This job. This place. You clearly hate it.”

I open my mouth with the usual answers—money, stability, survival—but they don’t come. Not when he asks it like he’s really curious, like I’m a puzzle.

“I’m still figuring it out,” I say.

Michael nods. Doesn’t push. But the way he looks at me, quiet and deliberate, makes something shift inside.

The lights flicker.

“Storm coming,” he says, glancing out.

Thunder rumbles low.

The bulbs buzz, dim.

“If power goes, we’re stuck in this capitalist tomb together.”

He doesn’t look up. “There are worse people.”

Quiet stretches.

I pretend to laugh. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said. Want me to engrave it?”

He ignores me and turns back.

It bugs me he doesn’t answer.

Or maybe I already know why.

We work side by side, flipping through data like it means something.

Outside, the storm grows louder, rain tapping impatiently.

Then—the elevator dings.

Michael looks at his watch. “That’s odd.”

Footsteps. Fast, light, heels clicking.

Someone who doesn’t belong but wants to.

We exchange looks.

The footsteps reach the door.

A knock.

A girl—early twenties, bright eyes, bag slung over one shoulder, umbrella dripping.

She pushes the door open.

“Hi! I’m Ava, the new intern. I was told to help with the overflow project?”

Michael blinks. “They sent you at this hour?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I know. Crazy. But I’m shadowing analytics, so figured I’d jump in.”

He starts to respond but I cut in. “We don’t usually get drop-ins at witching hour.”

She laughs like I’m joking.

Michael stands and gestures to the chair beside him.

Of course, it’s beside him.

Ava plops down, pulling out her laptop, smiling at Michael.

He gives her his tight-lipped smile.

I watch, feeling the air shift again.

Only this time, I don’t like it.

[darksuitfantasies]

michael bluth icons

sitcom: arrested development

[darksuitfantasies]

JASON BATEMAN as Wally Mars in THE SWITCH (2010) dir. Will Speck & Josh Gordon

[darksuitfantasies]

Depressed Micheal give me that.

[darksuitfantasies]

Conference Room 2 After Hours(chp1)

Michael Bluth x fem reader

Summary:

Trapped in the cold glow of a corporate office after hours, (Y/N) and Michael Bluth are forced to confront more than just the mounting financial disaster on their desks. Tension simmers beneath the surface — a clash of wills, unspoken grudges, and reluctant attraction all wrapped up in fluorescent lights and stale air. As the night stretches on, so does their complicated dynamic, revealing cracks behind professional facades and the unexpected warmth of shared vulnerability.

Content: This story contains mature themes, including workplace tension, adult language, and eventual smut. It’s a slow-burn romance, so the steamy scenes come later. Reader discretion is advised.

Note: This is a multi-chapter fanfiction exploring complex characters, slow-burning tension, and emotional growth. More chapters coming soon!

The only sounds in the office were the soft beeping of the computer and the distant hum of traffic outside. The place was empty, except for me and Michael—stuck together in Conference Room 2.

Conference Room 1 was off-limits. Renovation. Conference Room 3? No one dared. It had a smell no one could identify and everyone tried to forget.

My fingers tapped idly against the desk, counting time. Michael hadn’t said a word in thirty minutes. Partner in crime? Hardly. We were more like two prisoners under flickering fluorescent lights.

Michael Bluth. My coworker. Average-looking—if you ignored the sharp blue eyes and the way his brow seemed permanently drawn into a quiet scowl. He was the kind of guy who probably corrected people’s grammar for fun. Cold, meticulous, always a little smug. I couldn’t stand him.

Not just because he was insufferable, but because he was the reason we were both here tonight. Late shift. Damage control. He’d forwarded a quarterly report to upper management without double-checking the numbers. My numbers. Of course, it blew up in both our faces.

Now we were combing through the mess, hour by hour, side by side. The kind of proximity that makes you question your career choices.

“Turn to page seven,” Michael finally said, breaking the silence without looking up.

I flicked my eyes toward him. He was already staring, that faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“You know, you don’t have to sound like you’re running a boot camp,” I said, flipping the page with a little more drama than necessary.

Michael didn’t miss a beat. “And you don’t have to act like I’m here to babysit you.”

“Excuse me, Mr. ‘Let-me-send-a-broken-report-to-the-board,’” I said, refusing to meet his eyes.

He let out a small breath, more of a scoff. “Not my job to double-check your work.”

“Never said it was,” I replied, tapping my pen against the edge of the table.

The tapping clearly grated on him.

“Can you not?” he said, his voice climbing just enough to sound personal.

I didn’t stop. “This bothering you?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Great.”

He turned back to the documents, his jaw tight. “Can’t believe I’m stuck here because of your mistake.”

That got my attention. “Sorry, what?”

He gave me a sidelong glance. “You heard me.”

“How can I hear anything over your passive aggression?” I muttered.

We locked eyes. The silence between us thickened like humidity before a storm. I stood first.

“I need a break,” I said, grabbing my bag.

Michael didn’t move. “Don’t go far. We need to get through fifteen percent tonight.”

I paused at the door. “Or what? You gonna come drag me back?”

He didn’t even flinch. “If I have to.”

The absurdity of it made my stomach twist. I stepped into the hall without another word and took the stairs up to the roof.

The night air hit like a slap—cold and sharp—but it was the good kind of pain. I lit up a joint, leaning against the edge of the building, watching the city stretch out like a mess of stars and fog.

Up here, everything was still. I took a long drag, let it settle, then coughed harder than I meant to. Typical.

It helped though. The tension in my spine uncurled a little. My thoughts, once darting everywhere, slowed just enough to become tolerable.

Then the door creaked open behind me.

I didn’t turn. I already knew.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate.

“I didn’t take you for the office stoner,” Michael said, voice neutral but laced with something close to disapproval.

I exhaled smoke through my nose. “And I didn’t take you for someone who followed people onto rooftops. Guess we’re both learning.”

He came up beside me, arms folded, eyes on the skyline.

“Fifteen minutes up, or did you just miss me?” I said, not bothering to hide my smirk.

“I miss you like I miss jury duty,” he said. “But I said I’d drag you back. So here I am.”

“You’re not as intimidating as you think.”

“You’re not as subtle.”

We stood there a while, the city below us buzzing faintly.

“You always come up here?” he asked eventually.

“Only when I want to avoid someone who thinks managing means breathing down my neck.”

He almost laughed. “Says the woman who labeled our shared file ‘Dumpster Fire Q1.’”

“Accurate labeling improves workflow.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Especially from you.”

Silence again, but softer this time.

“I didn’t mean to send the report early,” he said. “Thought you’d finalized the numbers.”

“You should’ve asked.”

“I know. I should’ve checked.”

I blinked. “Wait. Was that an actual apology?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t. I’ll carve it into stone.”

He gave the faintest smile. “I’ve just been… off lately.”

I wanted to ask more, but I didn’t. Some things weren’t meant to be pried open right away.

“I get it,” I said. “I’ve been off too.”

“You?” he looked at me. “Miss ‘Everything’s Fine’?”

“I contain multitudes,” I muttered. “Mostly caffeine and unresolved issues.”

He let out a short laugh. “And sarcasm.”

“Don’t forget unparalleled brilliance.”

“I’ll note it for your performance review.”

A gust of wind blew past us. I shivered, tried to hide it, but he noticed.

Without a word, Michael shrugged off his coat and draped it over my shoulders.

I blinked. “What are you—”

“You looked cold. And I don’t want to submit another report if you freeze to death.”

His scent lingered faintly on the collar—coffee, cedar, something clean.

He brushed a stray piece of hair out from under the jacket. Brief. Gentle. Intimate in a way that didn’t match our usual back-and-forth.

“You’re weird,” I said quietly.

“Says the rooftop philosopher with a joint.”

“I prefer ‘visionary.’”

Michael looked at me again. Really looked. Something behind his eyes shifted—curiosity, maybe. Or hesitation.

I cleared my throat and shrugged off the coat. “Don’t need you catching a cold. Then you’ll really be unbearable.”

“Too late,” he said, putting it back on.

We headed for the door together.

“You coming down, or do I have to carry you?”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

“I absolutely could.”

We exchanged smirks. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time.

Just electric.

The good kind.