The conference room smelled of stale coffee and whiteboard markers, the kind of scent that clings to your clothes long after you’ve left. It was the last session of the day—strategy planning for Q4—and everyone else had trickled out for drinks or early trains home. I stayed behind to “organize notes,” though really I was waiting for the room to empty completely.

He was the last to leave, lingering by the projector screen as if debating whether to unplug it himself. Our eyes met in the reflection of the darkened window: mine curious, his unreadable. He didn’t say anything at first. He simply reached for his jacket from the back of the chair, shrugging it on slowly, the motion pulling his shirt taut across his shoulders.

One button at the collar remained undone. It had been that way all afternoon—subtle enough that no one else noticed, but impossible for me to ignore. Every time he leaned forward to make a point, the fabric parted just a fraction, revealing the hollow of his throat and the faint shadow beneath. I’d spent the meeting tracing that line with my gaze, wondering what it would feel like under fingertips.

“You missed the after-party,” I said, stacking folders that didn’t need stacking.

He smiled, faint and knowing. “Not really my scene.”

The door clicked shut behind the final straggler down the hall. Now it was just us, the hum of the air vent, and the city lights beginning to prick through the glass like distant stars. He didn’t move toward the exit. Instead, he leaned against the table, arms crossed loosely, watching me with that same unhurried regard.

I set the folders down. The table between us was wide, polished mahogany that reflected our silhouettes back at us—two figures caught mid-motion, neither committed yet. I walked around it slowly, stopping an arm’s length away. Close enough to catch the warmth radiating from him, the faint cedar of his aftershave mixed with something earthier.

“Your shirt,” I said, nodding toward his collar. My voice came out quieter than intended.

He glanced down, then back up, one eyebrow lifting just enough to invite. “Problem?”

I stepped closer. The carpet muffled my heels. Now the space between us was measured in breaths. I reached out—not grabbing, simply letting my fingers hover near the undone button. He didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed on mine, steady, as if daring me to decide what happened next.

The button was pearl, smooth under my thumb as I slipped it through the hole. Or tried to. My fingers fumbled once, the fabric catching, and he exhaled softly—a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh, more like anticipation uncoiling. I steadied, fastening it properly this time, though my knuckles brushed the skin beneath more times than strictly necessary.

“There,” I murmured, not stepping back.

“Better?” he asked, voice low, the word vibrating through the inch of air still separating us.

I shook my head, just once. His hand came up then, covering mine where it rested against his chest. The pressure was light, but it pinned me there, warm palm over my knuckles, thumb tracing the back of my hand in slow, deliberate arcs. I could feel his heartbeat through the layers—steady, unhurried, pulling mine into rhythm.

We stood like that until the room cooled around us, the vent whispering secrets neither of us voiced. His free hand rose to my jaw, tilting my face up with the barest touch, callused fingertips against soft skin. He didn’t kiss me. He simply let his thumb graze my lower lip, back and forth, learning its shape as if committing it to memory.

The unfinished button was done now, but something else had come undone entirely. I leaned in first, closing the distance until my forehead rested against his collarbone, breathing him in. His arms circled me loosely—not trapping, just encompassing—fingers splaying across my shoulder blades.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours; time blurred in the half-dark. When we finally parted, it was mutual, reluctant. He straightened his shirt—now properly buttoned—while I smoothed my own blouse, both of us avoiding eyes for the pretense of normalcy.

“See you Monday,” he said at the door, casual as if we’d discussed the weather.

I nodded, watching him go. The button stayed fastened through every meeting that week, but every time he shifted in his chair, I remembered the weight of his hand over mine, the unfinished business humming just beneath the surface. Some things don’t need to be completed to linger.