An office buzzing with quiet energy — computers humming, keyboards clicking. But there's another sound: the silent electricity pulsing between Ari and Lina. A smoldering undercurrent that's been building for weeks. Then she's cornered in the break room sweatbox, back to the counter, eyes blazing, daring him to close the gap.

He rips his shirt off, chest glistening, and roars. She laughs — a brittle sound — but her legs wrap around his hips, drawing him closer. The towel tangles between them, a sweaty mess holding her open. Her walls clench around him, wet and tight, a low groan tearing from his chest. Footsteps grow steadily louder and Ari feels no inclination to hide — he follows Lina into the echoing space beyond. Ms. Carter sits with the upright posture of someone accustomed to bad breaks, negotiating terms where legality bleeds into survival and visibility is a weapon. Being seen is the whole thrill. The break room is the breaking point.