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.
I was still pretending to answer emails, but my calendar pinged:
Meeting with 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.”
He paused mid-step, eyes flicking toward the hallway.
“You’ve been doing solid work, Troy. And I trust you’ll handle it well.”
Then, casually, like it was nothing, he walked over and closed the door.
“Last time someone barged in here while I was changing,” he said with a quiet laugh. “Don’t want that again, especially not with half the marketing girls still lingering around.”
I laughed too—too fast. “N-not at all,” I said.
He turned his back to me and pulled at his tie, sliding the silk free with a smooth flick of his fingers. He draped it over the back of a chair.
“I really appreciate you taking this on,” he said, unbuttoning the top of his shirt, exposing just the slightest hint of chest. “Most people mentally check out by Friday noon.”
“Yeah, I figured I’d stick around,” I managed, keeping my tone even. “Honestly, anything to get more hands-on work. Plus, the office is kind of peaceful when it’s quiet like this.”
Another button undone. Then another.
The shirt parted slowly down the middle, revealing warm, tanned skin and the kind of chest that came from a lot of mornings in the gym and a serious relationship with his protein intake. His torso looked carved—broad, smooth, the kind of body that didn't quite belong in a suit but looked annoyingly good in one.
He kept talking like it was normal. “You’ll be working on the initial draft for a pitch we’re giving next week. It’s not final—more of a foundation for the creative team. You’ll find the brief inside, plus some examples we’ve used before.”
He was undoing his cuffs now, rolling them back before slipping the shirt fully off.
I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard.
He moved toward the cabinet, grabbing a clean shirt from a hanger—and that’s when the waistband of his pants dipped, just enough to flash the black elastic of his underwear.
Calvin Klein.
Of course.
The band sat low across his hips, hugging him perfectly. It was one second. Maybe less.
But it lodged itself into my brain like a hot brand.
He pulled on a dark green, collarless shirt—tailored to perfection, soft enough to cling to every right place. His biceps flexed subtly as he adjusted the sleeves, smoothing the fabric across his chest.
I blinked too late.
He caught me looking.
“Everything alright?” he asked, voice gentle, lips quirking.
“Y-yeah. All good,” I said, clearing my throat. “So, uh… just get a first draft in shape by tomorrow?”
“Preferably by tomorrow afternoon,” he said, stepping forward to hand me the folder. “You’re the only person I can count on to get it started properly. Half the team’s going to be in and out with personal stuff tomorrow.”
I nodded, taking the folder like it was a precious relic.
“Actually—Mr. Maddox—” I started, then caught myself. “Sorry. Blake. I meant to mention—I’ve got a friend’s thing in the morning. I’ll be back by the afternoon, just a bit later than usual.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Friend’s thing?”
“A gender reveal,” I said. “Confetti cannons and everything. It’s… a lot.”
He chuckled. “Sounds chaotic. But this makes it tricky.”
I hesitated, shifting the folder in my hands. “I was thinking—I could maybe work on it tonight? I mean, I don’t have plans. No exciting dinner. Just me and probably a frozen pizza.”
That made him smile. Not the polite one. The real one. “You sure?”
“Totally. Might be better, actually. No distractions.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just looked at me. A long, thoughtful pause.
“Alright,” he said. “If you’re sure.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Happy to help.”
“Thanks again, Troy. Really.”
He adjusted the cuffs of his new shirt, the fabric stretching slightly over his forearms. Then he grabbed his coat from the hook, smoothing a hand through his hair. Everything about him looked too clean, too sharp. Like he’d walked out of an ad and just happened to be standing here, letting me orbit around him.
I stepped out of his office and closed the door behind me.
Then I walked back to my desk, folder clutched tight to my chest, heart racing.
I sat, placed it gently down, and stared at my reflection in the dark office window. I hadn’t opened the folder yet.
All I could think about was the curve of his waist. The way his voice lowered when he said Don't be late. The way he caught me looking—and didn’t look away.
Yeah.
I was definitely working late tonight.
Note to Readers:
If you have been liking the story so far, consider supporting me. Follow my Patreon for early access to future parts, bonus scenes, extended version and much more.
