Part 2: After Hours Assignment

By Thursday night, we were the last ones left in the office. Most of the team had packed up hours ago—desks emptied, coats gone, goodbyes mumbled as people escaped toward dinner plans or half-committed gym intentions.

The lights had dimmed to that half-lit after-hours glow, where everything looked softer, quieter. More private.

I was still saving files to our shared drive, trying not to glance across the floor every thirty seconds. But he was hard to ignore.

Blake was at his desk, sleeves rolled up past his forearms, tie loosened just enough to suggest the day had worn on him, but not enough to make him look anything less than completely in control. He still looked maddeningly put-together. Hair perfect. Jaw sharp in the soft monitor light. His fingers moved fast over the keys like he’d memorized the keyboard years ago and hadn’t slowed down since.

I hovered at his doorway for a moment, unsure if I was interrupting—but needing to say something.

“You always stay this late?” I asked, my voice quiet, casual, but a little too breathy as it came out.

He glanced up, met my eyes with a slow, deliberate smile. “Only when I’m working with someone interesting.”

My throat went dry.

There was a pause. A charged kind of silence that filled the space between us like something heavy. Like heat.

He stood and walked toward me—not rushed, not stiff. Just confident. Like he was sure of the ground beneath him. Like he moved through rooms expecting them to shift for him.

His hand slid lightly to my lower back as he leaned in to glance at the screen behind me, and my breath hitched. Not inappropriate. Not quite. But close.

The warmth of his palm sent a slow, pulsing heat through my spine.

“You’re picking things up fast,” he said near my ear, voice low and even. “I’m impressed by what you’ve done in just a few days.”

I swallowed. “Thanks, I’ve just been trying to—”

“I’ve assigned you to assist me directly on a few upcoming projects,” he said, cutting me off gently. Like the decision was final. Like I didn’t need to speak—I just needed to show up. “Starting tomorrow.”

Before I could ask what that meant, he added with a small, half-smirk that hit way harder than it should have, “Swing by my office after hours tomorrow. I’ve got something for you to work on.”

Then—just as he turned away—he glanced back. A glance that felt anything but casual.

“I hope you’re free. Shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes. I want to assign it to you personally.”

“Okay,” I said, and it came out softer than I intended. A little too honest.

He paused, lips twitching. “Don’t be late.”

And then he turned back toward his desk, just like that—leaving me standing in his doorway, pulse roaring in my ears.

What the hell was happening?

Friday had a different kind of hush to it. The office wasn’t empty, but the air felt slower—like everyone’s minds were already halfway into their weekends. Voices were quieter. Footsteps more relaxed.

I was at my cubicle, typing up a report, pretending not to glance toward Blake’s office every two minutes.

Trying. Failing.

“Big weekend plans?” one of the guys from finance asked as he walked past, clutching a coffee like it was keeping him upright.

I gave a polite shrug. “Yeah—friend’s gender reveal thing tomorrow morning. I’ll probably swing by the office later in the day.”

Which was true. But also a lie. Because ever since Blake said swing by my office after hours, I’d been walking around like I had a secret pressed against my chest.

By 6:00 p.m., most of the lights were off. Desks deserted. The hum of the air vents was louder than any conversation.

Minutes went by and I was still pretending to answer emails, but my calendar pinged:

Meeting with Mr. Blake Maddox – 6:45 PM

My stomach flipped.

I stood up, smoothing the front of my black shirt—nothing too flashy, but paired with dark grey slacks and polished shoes, I felt ... sharp. Not corporate-sharp. Something more like I hope he notices.

The hallway was quiet as I walked toward his office. His door was cracked open, soft light spilling through like something intimate.

I stepped inside just as he turned around, giving me a warm, apologetic smile. His tie was already halfway loosened.

“Hey,” he said. “Thanks for staying back. I know it’s a Friday and you’re the intern. Not exactly the dream setup.”

“It’s alright,” I said, smiling. “Happy to help.”

“I’ve got a dinner thing tonight,” he added, walking casually around the room, checking his phone, opening drawers. “Client-related. Boring. But I wanted to get this to you first—it’s a project we’re fast-tracking.”