After
Hours

The after-hours office becomes a confessional of skin and desperation. She comes to him the way smoke finds a crack in the door — inevitable, silent, asking for nothing but the weight of his body against hers. He fucks her over the desk with the patience of a man who has memorized the map of her, pausing only for the distant elevator chime, buried deep and breathing hot at her neck, counting the seconds until she shatters. When he leaves his claim inside her and presses his forehead to her spine, it's not just desire — it's a promise made in the dark glass of a high-rise window, where she watches herself become the woman who walks away and still feels him long after the skirt is straight and the door clicks shut.