Your desk faces hers now. That's what they told you when they moved the furniture — a simple reorganization, nothing personal. But every time she leans forward to grab a pen or squint at her screen, the neckline of that blouse falls open just enough.

She hasn't noticed you noticing. Or maybe she has. The way she lingers over the printer beside your chair, reaching across, letting that view linger a half-second longer than necessary — it reads like intention.

Three hours left in the workday. You've already forgotten every meeting on your calendar. Your eyes keep drifting back, helpless, hungry, completely unprofessional.