Chapter Text
You’re late.
And you hate being late.
You’re already in motion before your feet hit the floor – skipping breakfast, gulping down your coffee. The hem of your blouse bunches at your hip stubbornly and you smooth it. Twice.
Today’s supposed to mark your big transition, a promotion to the upper floors of the company, signifying and representing all that you’ve worked hard for. The city’s been loud since 6 a.m., traffic is already stacked across the bridge, and your hair won’t sit right no matter how fucking hard you try. No matter how tightly you twist it into a clip, layers of hair keep falling to the front of your face.
You settle for a black wide-leg trouser and a blue-and-white striped button up, sharp and clean, classic. You’d had this outfit planned since last week, being all eager and all. But now your preparation feels stiff, too calculated and intentional. You sling your black blazer on your arm anyway, rolling up your button up quarter of the way up your sleeve.
You grab your bag and hang it on your shoulder and your phone buzzes on the counter, another calendar reminder. 8:00 a.m. a meeting with External and Internal Affairs in Floor 63. Room 2A.
You check the time again. 7:32.
Shit.
You feel it in your throat first, the compression, the heat. It’s not panic, it’s a rush in your brain signaling one. Then, the shaking occurs, more specifically in your hands, you don’t know why. It’s always been like that.
You’ve never liked giving people a reason to doubt your timing, your preparedness, your place. They admired that about you, everyone you knew, you’re courteous and always one step ahead. But not this time.
7:53. You hit the building lobby with seconds to spare – by now you know that everyone is getting inside the meeting room. You practically jog across the polished marble, your breath shallow and pounding as your bag bounces against your shoulders and hips.
Three elevators are closing fast.
You raise a hand without thinking, sliding past a group of interns and embarrassingly wedge yourself into the narrowing elevator of the fourth elevator. The doors bounce back open with a mechanical sigh.
You step inside, adjusting your bag strap with one hand and smoothing your blouse with the other. The elevator is– empty. Almost.
There’s already someone inside. A man.
You recognize him immediately, no wonder every elevator was packed except for this one.
Suguru Geto, the company’s senior executive.
He’s tall, leaning back against the elevator railing. Dark coat. Shoulders relaxed. His hair is disheveled, half-pulled back, the rest falling loose around his jaw. It isn’t unsightly. He looks good.
You pretend to not notice his gaze doing a once over on your body. It’s hot, maybe because you’re sweating from running all the way over here but you can feel the heat of the way he’s examining you.
You stare ahead, toward the glowing panel.
You’re painfully aware of the silence. Of how fast your heart is beating you’re guaranteed he can almost hear it.
You check your watch as you continue to go up the elevator. 7:57. The elevator goes up at a painstakingly constant and slow speed. 34, 38, 42,...
He doesn’t speak first. And neither do you.
You adjust your blouse again, pulling it down neatly and straightening your posture.
Then his voice, low and smooth.
“You almost didn’t make it.” No hint of teasing, just amused.
You exhale through your nose, “Almost.”
“Sixty-three?” He asks to which you nod, watching you press the button.
“New to that floor,” he says. Not a question.
Your eyes dart toward him. Just briefly. “Is that a guess or a policy violation?”
He smirks, a subtle one. “Observation.”
You cross your arms and look ahead again, steady. The elevator hums to a stop.
Floor 63.
You step forward, spine straight, not giving him the satisfaction of a second glance. Your heels click against the polished tile as the doors slide open, the hallway stretching out ahead.
Behind you, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t follow. And the door closes behind you.
-
You barely greet the receptionist when you pass, there’s no time for it, and you don’t want to risk hearing your name said with that note of tight-lipped sympathy you’ve recently grown accustomed to hating.
You were supposed to be in the conference room five minutes ago. Zero, by the time you finally find it.
The room is full, you step inside as discreetly as possible, which is to say: not even discreetly at all. The door doesn’t glide shut behind you, it groans on its hinges like it wants everyone to know you’re late.
Everyone tilts their faces in your direction, with new hires doing a double take. You don’t flinch. You don’t smile. You just sit down.
Your supervisor doesn’t look up, but his voice flattens for a fraction of a second before he picks up and starts to pace again.
For the next two and a half hours, you work to shrink. Not visibly, not weakly, but efficiently. Silently. You take notes and participate in the discussion just as much as the others do.
The agenda drones on: numbers, projections, presentations, client onboarding timelines, HR trouble. You recognize all of it.
You stare straight ahead while someone else stumbles through their financial slide, and your leg bounces from underneath the table.
Eventually, the two and a half hour meeting wraps, everyone is celebrating newer titles and promotions, as well as the administrative agendas that occurred during the meeting. Some people were scattering around and joking. You collect your files, greet everyone a good rest of their day and exit before they can ask where you’re headed.
Your new office is at the end of the south wing. Not the corner, that’s a few titles above your new pay grade, but it’s close enough to see the skyline if you stand and look to your left. The walls are floor-to-ceiling glass on one side and a pale marble on the other. Everything is sleek and modern.
You close the door behind you, this time gently, and toss your stuff on the desk. You take off your heels and put on your flats the second you sit, flexing your ankles and leaning back against your chair with a sigh.
You’ve only been in this office for a week, and so far, it’s nice. You’re so used to hearing chatter in the cubicles, banters, phone ringing, people at the end of the speakerphone not knowing how to function it properly.
You rub your temples, it’s only half past 10. Only eight hours to go. At least.
Hours pass like the slow drip of a faucet. One email leads to another, and another, and another, followed by files and documents, until you’ve been staring into the screen too much your ear starts ringing and your eyes start to hurt.
By the time you lean back in your chair, neck stiff and spine sore, the sky outside is painted in deep orange and gold, the kind of early evening that feels too beautiful to waste from inside a glass box.
The floor is nearly empty. You hadn’t even noticed people leaving one by one, the usual sounds and chatter faded into a steady silence. Now, the only footsteps you hear echo from far down the hallway.
You save your last draft and close your computer, you exhale. Finally.
You don’t look at the time. You already know it’s later that it should be. You put on your blazer and haul your bag on your shoulders and head towards the elevator. Heels clicking in the stillness.
The elevator dings immediately and you step forward without thinking. You pause. Geto is already inside.
He stands in the corner, two hands tucked into his pockets. No tie and no jacket now, just the collar of his white shirt loosened from the exhaustion of today. His sleeves are rolled halfway up his forearms. He has shed the morning version of himself, like everyone else, like you.
His eyes flick upward to you as you step in. You meet them. The doors slide shut.
You don’t reach for your phone, you don’t pretend to be occupied.
“Didn’t think I’d see you again today.” He breaks the silence again like what he did in the morning.
You glance over, just enough to see the curve of his mouth.
“I work here,” you say dryly.
“I’ve noticed.” His voice is all cool. That earns him your full attention.
You don’t reply, but the silence feels lighter now. His gaze drops to do a once over again.
“You settled into the new office yet?” he asks.
“Still figuring it out,” you reply. “It’s quieter up there.”
He only hums in response. The silence creeps back up again.
Geto steps forward, locking you into the corner of the elevator. “If you’re worried about being late to that meeting,” he murmurs as he whispers it against your ear, “I should probably tell you.. this elevator doesn’t just stop for anyone.”
Your breath catches in your throat before you can stop it. He doesn’t pull away.
“I’m beginning to think you like getting stuck here with me.”
You scoff, barely. “You’re imagining things.”
Since when could people claim elevators?
“Am I?” His mouth finds the side of your neck, warm and deliberately teasing. “Because you haven’t told me to stop.”
You should. You could. But your hands stay right where they are, one clutching your bag and the other twitching at your side like it wants to reach for him. And once he places the lightest open mouthed kiss just beneath your ear, slow, and unhurried, your spine straightens against the elevator wall in response.
His hand shifts, brushing his fingers against the curvature of your waist, holding you in place as his mouth trails down on your throat lazily. Not enough to mark you, just enough to make you feel the heat rising under your skin. He stops right at the collarbone just as when the elevator dings.
He pulls back, both of your eyes half-lidded.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he asks, tucking his hand under your chin and pinching it gently before he steps out and leaves you alone.
You’re dumbfounded, partially frustrated, and horny. A sigh of exasperation leaves your lips.
Maybe you don’t mind being late from now on. You think to yourself.