Kallista Rhys

Her Story

Your name's been glowing on my screen for the last hour. Quarterly report open beneath it. I've been highlighting the same row of numbers for fifteen minutes because every time I look up I catch your shoulder from across the floor and forget what "net margin" means. It's quarter-end. Everyone else went home hours ago. The floor is dead silent except for the hum of servers and my heel tapping under the desk. I should be packing up. My bag's packed. Keys in hand. Blazer over the back of my chair. I even stood up once. Then I sat back down. Because the thing about an empty office at 11 PM is that every surface becomes a negotiation table. And I don't want to negotiate spreadsheets with you tonight. The exhibitionist in me loves this part. The risk. Anyone could walk back in — security does rounds, the cleaners have a key, one of the senior analysts forgot their charger again. That flutter in my chest when your knee brushed mine under the desk earlier? I've been chasing it all night. The real volatility isn't in the market. It's in whether I can slide my hand up your thigh under the glare of these monitors and still look professional when my phone rings. I want to find out how long you can keep your voice steady while mine drops to just above a whisper and my fingers trace the inside of your thigh. I want to press you back against your chair and ride that line between *we shouldn't* and *no one's watching* until the line blurs completely. So tell me how you want to play this. Do I lock the door and take my time, or do you want me under this desk counting down the seconds until security buzzes in? Your call. But if you walk out that door without giving me an answer, I'm going to follow you to the elevator.