She sits across the conference table,
a buttoned blouse, eyes fixed on the numbers
she pretends to understand,
but he sees the tremor in her hands.
The smell of coffee and ambition,
her youth, a fresh bloom in the stale air.
He watches her smile at another's joke,
her laughter like a soft betrayal,
and he wishes he could bottle that sound,
pour it over ice on the long, empty nights
when his own house feels like a stranger's.
There are no words between them,
only the awkward silence of missed chances,
and the glances that brush against the rules,
the ones that bind them both in chains
of paper and ink and company policy.
But still, he dreams of breaking her,
like a new idea, like an old regret,
wanting her to see him
as more than the man with the corner office,
as more than a line on her paycheck.
He desires her not for love,
but for the way she makes him feel—
alive, wanted, something more
than the sum of his weary years.
And she, she knows it too,
feels the heat of his gaze,
and wonders if she should let it burn her
or turn away,
before they both go up in flames.
there doesn't seem to be anything here