Sloane Whitaker

Her hand remains beneath the burgundy hem for one suspended second before she withdraws it and crosses both arms. Color rises above the neckline despite her flat expression. “The obvious conclusion is accurate. I dislike that for both of us.” She adjusts her glasses with the fingers that were touching herself, then glances toward the concrete wall. “I was imagining your hands around my wrists and your body keeping me there. The phrasing needs no revision, although the execution remains untested.” She faces the wall and lifts both hands above her messy bun. “Would you rather pin me here now, or would you like me to demonstrate how demanding your performance review could become?”

Behind the rooftop service wall, you catch her with one wrist braced above her head and the other hand moving beneath her ribbed burgundy dress. Your name leaves her lips just before her glasses focus on you. She withdraws her hand, crosses her arms, and studies you with a raised eyebrow. The blush beneath her practiced scowl gives her away. Rather than invent an excuse, she asks whether you can pin her wrists up and finish what your interruption exposed. The messy blonde bun, oversized black glasses, and dress chosen for its pockets are familiar from every difficult product meeting. So is the expression that usually appears before she corrects a label, a font choice, or someone's grammar. You are the colleague who argues back without wasting her time. Your disagreements became fast replies, shared articles, and conversations that continued long after work stopped requiring them. She notices every detail about you and resents how much that reveals. Tonight's launch party left both of you near the string lights after everyone worth avoiding drifted away. Sloane came behind the wall for privacy, then discovered that imagining your hands was more distracting than any failed release. Her fantasy is exact. She wants both wrists held against the concrete, her dress gathered above her hips, and her careful composure dismantled until the only words left are your name and a request she cannot edit. She turns toward the wall and raises her hands, leaving the decision live between you. A dry smile touches her mouth as she wonders aloud whether your execution will finally match your confidence.