The pen clicked again, the sound too loud in the quiet office. Saint’s thumb pressed it once, twice, a sharp little rhythm that matched the quick stutter of his pulse. He spun the sleek black pen between his fingers, as if the motion could burn away the strange pressure crawling under his skin.

The paper sat in front of him. Application: Number One-Fifty-Two.

The edges were soft, slightly frayed from how often he’d handled it in the past hour since he had watched that beautiful suit recede from his vision until he had to blink so that the figure of that suit came into focus once more. The ink was smudged in one corner from where he had grabbed impatiently the paper from the printer before it could dry and locked himself away so Kit couldn’t even get a whiff of this candidate. He shouldn’t have taken it. He didn’t even know why he had.

No. He knew.

He just didn’t want to admit it.

A little enigma, aren’t you?

The thought brushed against him, hot and uninvited. He tapped the pen once more against the paper, but it didn’t still the hum in his chest. His throat felt dry, his body restless. He leaned back, staring at the photo clipped to the corner of the page, those eyes, honey brown and too wide for someone who was innocent to the effect he had induced in him.

Saint exhaled slowly, but the air felt heavy, trapped somewhere between his throat and chest. The memory not just trying to come back but biting into him, crawling beneath his skin, and settling there like it belonged.

That voice. Heart’s voice, that look, those honey brown pools vibrated through him. A low, trembling hum that licked at the edges of his ribs and buried itself into the soft place behind his heart. He could still feel it, that quiver of sound moving across his skin, sliding down his neck, spilling into his veins until it was pulsing through him stronger than his own damn heartbeat.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back, letting the memory crawl deeper. The sound of that voice echoed in him again, curling low in his stomach, winding up through his chest like smoke. It burned and soothed all at once. His breath shuddered out, uneven, and when he drew another in, it did nothing to steady him. The more he tried to breathe the ache away, the worse it became, settling in his blood like fire waiting for air.

It had been a long time since he had felt something like this.

Something like…

He groaned, and pulled his tie loosening it a little.

This shouldn’t affect me I am a wall…. Love, like, lust, want… I can’t. This is absurd. Irrational. A single moment shouldn’t have my whole body charged like this.

Yet it had.

Those trembling words spoken into the stillness of that bathroom, had etched themselves into his mind. Every pause, every breath, every quiet note of fear and courage wrapped around him until he could feel the sounds of them dancing behind his eyes.

He pressed his palm against his chest, half-expecting to feel the echo there. His pulse hammered beneath his touch, too quick, too shallow. His throat felt dry, tight, as though the name sitting there refused to leave.

His chest burned. His hand tightened around the pen until his knuckles went white.

He’d read hundreds of applications. Thousands. He’d never given a damn about a single one of them. Yet here he was, heart hammering, hands shaking like he’d just stepped out of a fight.

It wasn’t attraction—it couldn’t be. Not after all this time. Not after what love had already taken from him.

But it felt too much like it.

When he opened his eyes again, the soft light of his office seemed too bright.

Saint’s stomach twisted. That face. That ridiculous, disarming face. The curve of his mouth, the tremor caught mid-smile, the softness of his expression. It all hit him like a second pulse. Every sensible thought drained out of him, leaving only that need, hot and gnawing, threading through his veins like it belonged there.

Saint dragged a hand through his hair, the motion sharp and restless. His heart refused to calm. His mind refused to obey.

“Heart,” he murmured under his breath, the name rough and reverent all at once.

His pulse jumped.

This wasn’t normal. None of it was. But he couldn’t make himself care. All he knew was that the kid had to work here. No matter the cost, no matter the reason. He had to keep him close.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.

He swiped his thumb across the faint embossing of the company logo at the top of the page, tracing its bumps carefully.

His lips twitched into a small, reluctant smile. The expression deepened as he leaned back, closing his eyes to conjure the memory with more clarity.

Delicious.

A soft chuckle escaped, low and overly indulgent. “What are you doing to me, one-fifty-two?” he murmured under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it louder would make it real.

Why?

He wasn’t the type to tolerate delays or distractions.

He knew he should look away. Heart Kritsana Chitphentom was a distraction.

He didn’t.

A Soft, melodic, rich with nervous energy and determination distraction. One that fill the quiet room like a balm to his tortured heart.

Eyes that bore straight into him, and undid every fibre of resistance he had.

And that suit.

Saint’s lips curled upward. He hadn’t been able to help himself. His trained eye had taken in every detail, and every detail had screamed wrong.

In fact, it was not meant for the male body, but that of a female, a thin, curvy female.

And he wore it well.

No, he wore it beautifully.

The wrong suit clinging to the right body, sharp lines where there should have been curves, softness in the angles of his jacket pulled too tight at the shoulders, the trousers snug against the backs of his thighs, the fabric stretched thin over lean muscle. Everything about it should have been a disaster. But it wasn’t. It was perfection born out of defiance.

And God, how he wanted to ruin it.

His fingers twitched, still wanting to tear the suit open, to see what it was hiding, to make it wrinkle and fall away. watching that gorgeous suit and its princess seams expose that body to see exactly what it was shaping and outlining in its truest, most bare form.

A form that he knew would be putty under his fingers.

A putty he wanted so desperately to mold against his body until it was weeping and begging for more.

Saint coughed, sitting back up and opening his eyes. He reached down and adjusted himself.

Now was not the time or place.

Saint’s breath hitched as the memory of him zipping the fly flittered across his focus.

Why the frick did I do that? I know it was to rattle him, but was it because I was rattled? because he was so close, because he wasn’t pushing me away? Or because that look on his face that begged for me to do the opposite? He grunted in frustration. I’m losing my goddamn mind. He rubbed at his temple. He’d meant it as a simple act of kindness out of irritation, a way to cover up the boy’s obliviousness, he could have said something but he was itching to touch him. To hold him, and his body had moved of it’s own accord. The moment his fingers had brushed against the fabric, an electric pull settled deep in his chest and refused to leave, he knew it deeply then it was a mistake.

Those eyes. God. He wasn’t blind.

And he would have to be blind to miss that quiet, desperate yearning. The way Heart’s wide, doe-like eyes had screamed louder than words ever could.

Touch me. Don’t stop. Keep going.

Ah, and I fucked with him just for his reactions in the interview too.

The feeling didn’t fade. It coiled, hot and persistent, a phantom thread tugging deep in his gut. His pulse hammered in his throat. His thoughts, usually so ordered, shattered into a single, primal command: Find him. Keep him.