Late Nights With My Boss (1 of 3)

The elevator pinged, and I stepped out onto the 15th floor, clutching my coffee and trying not to spill it all over my freshly ironed shirt.

First day. New internship. Big firm.

I was doing my best to act like I belonged here, even though my heart was racing and my palms were already kind of sweaty.

The office was sleek. All glass and light. Warm tones, minimalist lines, people walking fast and typing faster. A soft hum of power thrumming through the space like it had somewhere important to be.

And right in the center of it all, in a navy blazer that fit like it had been sewn onto him, stood Blake Maddox.

I'd seen his name on the offer letter.

Team Lead: Blake Maddox.

I'd even Googled him, everyone did, but no photo had prepared me for the way he looked in person.

Mid-to-late thirties, maybe.

Tall.

Fit in that "trains before 7 a. m." kind of way.

His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing tanned forearms that flexed slightly every time he gestured or adjusted his watch. His jawline was sharp, clean-shaven. His brown hair was styled in a way that looked effortless. Like he just woke up like that. Expensive and off-duty.

Even the way he stood, leaned slightly against the edge of the glass conference room, arms folded, talking with someone, made me pause.

And stare. For maybe too long.

"Troy?"

His voice snapped me out of it..... smooth, low, and so confident it made me straighten on instinct.

He gave a small nod and stepped toward me. The other person he'd been speaking to slipped away without a word.

"Yes. Hi. I'm Troy."

I held out my hand like a normal person (I hoped), trying not to look like I was vibrating.

He shook it.... warm, firm, steady.

"Blake Maddox," he said. "Glad you made it. Wasn't sure if you'd get lost in the lobby."

A slight smile curved his lips. Casual. Charming. Lethal.

I laughed too quickly. "I--I almost did, actually. The receptionist pointed me to the wrong elevator bank."

His eyes flicked over me.... briefly, professionally, but I swore there was something in that glance. Amusement. A flicker of interest?

No. Probably just me being... me.

"Well, we're glad to have you."

He motioned for me to walk with him, already in motion. "Come on. I'll give you the tour."

We walked through the open layout, and I did my best to focus on what he was saying.

This department handles digital strategy.

These folks do branding.

That's the tech team.

I nodded along like I was absorbing every word. But honestly?

I was mostly focused on him.

The way his trousers fit just right. The sharp cut of his shirt across his back. The scent he carried something subtle, clean, masculine. Faint enough to lean in without meaning to.

"You're staring."

"What?" I blinked, heart lurching.

"I said, you're quiet," Blake repeated with a knowing smirk, like he absolutely knew I hadn't heard a word of what he just said.

"Oh."

My face flushed instantly. "Sorry, I'm just trying to take it all in."

He turned his head slightly as we walked, his smile soft but amused.

"It's a lot, I know. First days are always a little overwhelming."

"I guess I was just admiring..."

I trailed off as the sentence died in my throat.

"The office. The design. It's really nice."

Blake chuckled, low in his throat. "Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment."

My stomach flipped.

"It is," I said quickly, too eagerly.

God, does he think I meant him?

He stopped in front of a frosted glass door and turned to face me, expression leveling.

"I've gone through your résumé."

My breath caught.

Just a little.

He gave a slow nod of approval. "Impressive profile."

I smiled, glancing at the floor for a half-second like a complete idiot.

"Thank you."

"We'll be working closely," he added. "A lot of one-on-one."

Oh.

Okay.

His tone was smooth and professional, but there was something in the way he said it--like he knew what that might do to someone.

"Oh. Great," I said. "I mean, I'm looking forward to learning."

He smirked, resting a hand on the door handle. "Good. Just stay focused. We've had interns get a little... distracted before."

My eyes went wide. Was that a joke? A warning? Both?

He pushed open the door. "This is where you'll be stationed."

Small desk. Right outside what I quickly realized was his office.

Of course.

"Settle in. I'll call you in for a chat after your onboarding packet."

"Sure thing."

He turned to leave, then paused--glancing back over his shoulder, voice suddenly lower. Playful.

"By the way," he said, "you might want to keep your eyes on your screen, not my sleeves."

My mouth dropped open a fraction.

"I mean," he added, completely deadpan, "there's a lot of information to process. Wouldn't want you to miss something important."

Then he winked.

Winked.

And walked away like he hadn't just melted me from the inside out.

I stood there, pulse thumping in my ears, face flushed, trying not to melt into a puddle on the carpet.

Day one.

And this man already had me flustered beyond repair.

I finally sat down, opened my laptop, and told myself to focus.

But all I could think about was the way his shirt hugged those biceps.

The heat in his voice.

The promise behind that wink.

-----------------------

I arrived earlier than usual the next morning. Partly because I wanted to get ahead of the inbox avalanche. Mostly because...

I wanted to see him.

My olive green shirt was crisp, fitted enough to hug my chest and arms without looking like I tried. Black jeans. Clean sneakers. I told myself I dressed for the job--but I knew exactly who I was dressing for.

Blake wasn't in yet. His office was dark, his chair empty. I made a detour to the break room, grabbed my coffee, and settled in like I wasn't pretending to check emails while waiting for him to walk in.

And then--there he was.

His reflection appeared first in the glass panel. Then his full frame. Walking through the hallway, tall and precise, blazer draped over one arm. He tossed it across the back of his chair like he'd done it a hundred times before.

And looked like he belonged on the cover of CEO Monthly.

Or GQ Corporate Edition.

Or whatever publication rich men get featured in when they don't even have Instagram.

"Morning, Mr. Maddox," I said casually, turning from my screen.

What I wanted to say was morning, daddy, but thank God that didn't slip out.

He let out a soft laugh, warm and teasing.

"No, no. Just Blake. Please."

God. Even that was hot.

He stopped beside my desk, sipping from his sleek black tumbler, forearms flexing just slightly as he adjusted his cuff.

"Looks like arm day's paying off," he said with a smirk, catching me mid-glance at the veiny curve of his forearm.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then blurted:

"It's definitely working."

And immediately wanted to drop dead.

He grinned. "Glad to hear it."

Then gave my shoulder a light tap, easy, casual, and headed into his office like nothing had happened.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of emails and stolen glances.

His office walls were glass, which didn't help. I could see him from my seat--writing something, scrolling through his screen, occasionally running his fingers through his hair. I tried not to stare.

Failed.

He looked up once.

Caught me.

And smiled.

That's when it started.

Small things. Subtle.

Mid-afternoon, he came over to review a slide deck, stood beside me, and adjusted my tie while talking. His fingers brushed the fabric lightly, smoothing it. His touch lingered a second too long.

"This should lie flatter," he murmured.

Then stepped back. "Perfect."

Later, I ran into one of the IT guys--Jordan--by the water cooler. He struck up a friendly chat, eyes lingering just a bit too long on my mouth when I smiled.

We were mid-laugh when Blake walked by.

He didn't say anything.

But his eyes flicked between us. Noted. Filed.

The next day?

Jordan wouldn't make eye contact.

And my calendar?

Let's just say it looked... different.

I'd been reassigned. "Urgent cross-departmental projects." Shadowing Blake directly. Sitting beside him all week.

No complaints.

But the message was clear.

He noticed everything.

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.

Minutes went by and I was still pretending to answer emails, but my calendar pinged:

Meeting with Mr. 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 turning towards me, 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.

7:15 p. m.

I was at my desk, trying to work, but it was hopeless.

The folder Mr. Blake had given me was open, the draft doc blinking on my screen--but all I could think about was how ridiculously good he looked heading out for that dinner. That dark green shirt. The way it clung to his chest like it belonged there. And worse, the memory of him casually peeling off his white dress shirt earlier, abs tight and golden under the fluorescents. I hadn't seen that coming. I hadn't recovered from it either.

I let out a sigh and dragged my hands down my face.

Focus, Troy. Focus

I hadn't recovered.

Not even close.

Blake's office door was still half open. Every so often, I caught the faint click of his keyboard, a shuffle of papers, a soft chair creak. He hadn't left yet. Probably wrapping up a few things before heading out.

But then--his voice.

It cut through the hallway like a blade.

"What do you mean?"

It was low. sharp. Through the wall.

Not angry exactly. Controlled. Which somehow made it worse.

I looked up.

Through the glass, I could see him pacing behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear. His brows were drawn tight, his jaw locked. His silhouette looked tense--coiled, like something inside him was about to snap.

"No, we cleared that already."

"... Then why did I block off half my week for this?"

"... Right. That would've been nice to know before today."

He stopped pacing and ran a hand through his hair, visibly exhaling. He looked frustrated in a way I hadn't seen before. Still poised. Still polished. But barely.

When the call ended with a clipped "Yeah. Got it," he tossed his phone on the desk and dropped into his chair with a groan.

A few seconds passed. Then I stood and padded quietly down the hallway.

I knocked on the frame. "Hey... everything okay?"

He looked up, surprised to see me there. His expression softened just a bit. "Shit. Sorry. Was I that loud?"

"Just a little," I said with a smile, stepping inside.

He leaned back, rubbing his temples. "Client canceled. Whole dinner. Apparently, they're going with another firm. Didn't bother letting me know until tonight. Total waste of a day."

"Jeez. That sucks."

He nodded. "Not even about the pitch, honestly. It's the time. I blocked off hours for them this week. Could've used that for other accounts."

I stayed quiet, letting the weight of it settle.

Then he looked at me again, steadier now. "Anyway. How's the work going?"

"Good," I said, quickly straightening. "Getting a feel for it. Started framing out a draft."

He tapped his fingers on the armrest, then glanced at his monitor.

"You know what... since I'm not going anywhere tonight, and you're still working--grab your laptop and the packet. Come in here. We'll knock some of it out together."

My stomach flipped. "You sure, Mr. Maddox?"

"Absolutely, Troy", He nodded toward the chair beside him.

"I've got a CEO deck to finish anyway. Let me give you some company."

I bit the inside of my cheek. "Be right back, Sir."

I practically jogged to my desk, gathering my laptop, folder, charger--everything--then tried not to sprint back down the hallway.

When I stepped inside his office again, he was seated behind his desk, sleeves rolled up now, forearms on display, the green shirt hugging his torso in the most unfair way.

I moved toward the chair across from him, but he looked up and shook his head.

"No no," he said, gesturing beside him. "Sit here. Easier to work together that way."

"Right," I said, voice tight as I pulled the chair close. "Makes sense."

The next hour passed fast. We fell into a surprisingly easy rhythm--me working on the draft, him flipping between his slide deck and my screen, offering quick edits. Every now and then, he'd lean over, and I had to consciously stop my breath from catching when his arm brushed mine.

At some point, he loosened the top button of that shirt. No tie. Just skin and collarbone, a soft indent at his throat.

By 9 PM, he leaned back with a stretch and a groan. "Jesus. Where'd the time go?"

I blinked. "Wait--it's 9 PM already?"

"Yep," he said, cracking his neck. "And still no dinner."

I smiled. "Guess we earned a frozen pizza each."

"Not happening," he said. "Let me order something. My treat."

"Oh--no, Mr. Blake, you don't have to--"

"I want to. I insist," he said, grabbing his phone. "You've been a good sport, staying this late. I'm at least getting you food." "My treat"

I gave in. "Okay. Chinese?"

His mouth quirked. "Now we're talking."

Twenty minutes later, we were both hunched over takeout boxes at his desk. The air smelled like soy sauce and sesame oil. Blake passed me chopsticks and undid his cuffs, rolling them higher up his forearms like he was getting comfortable.

"This is nice," he said casually, "even if the night didn't go how I planned."

"Same," I admitted. "I figured I'd be home by now. In sweats. Eating cereal."

He chuckled. "Instead, you get me. And dumplings."

"Pretty decent upgrade."

I reached for the noodles, catching a long strand and slurping it into my container, trying not to make a mess. Of course, I failed.

"You've got some on you," he said, nodding toward my face. "Right here."

I lifted a hand, but he stopped me. "Hang on--I got it."

Before I could react, his thumb was at the corner of my mouth. A slow, gentle swipe. It lingered.

The pad of his thumb was warm. His hand smelled faintly like cologne and soy sauce. His eyes were on mine--focused, unreadable, so close I could see the green flecks in the brown.

"You missed a spot," he murmured.

I didn't move.

Neither did he.

The silence thickened.

And then--his thumb drifted just a little lower. Barely touching the edge of my bottom lip. Like he was debating something. Like he wanted to say something he wasn't ready to speak aloud.

I held my breath.

I thought... I thought he was going to kiss me.

So I leaned in. Just a little. Just enough to kiss him.

His eyes flicked down to my mouth--then back up.

And then, gently, he pulled away. "Okay," he said quickly. "Let's, uh--get back to it. We still have a bit to get through."

My heart crashed.

"Oh my god," I muttered, turning back to my food like it could save me from the heat climbing up my neck. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Maddox."

"Hey," he said softly, "Troy, it's okay. Don't worry about it."

He said it like it wasn't a big deal. Like it hadn't just shaken something loose between us.

The next few minutes were weird. Quiet. Carefully casual. He made a joke about always spilling soy sauce, and I laughed--maybe too hard. But it helped. The awkwardness started to fade.

We kept working. Talked about weekend plans. He mentioned visiting his brother in Brooklyn.

"You into basketball?" I asked.

He grinned. "Not really. But my brother is. So I pretend."

I loved how warm he was when he talked about his family. How easy it felt, even after what almost happened.

By the time we wrapped up, it was past ten. The building was dead quiet--just fluorescent hum and our keyboards slowing down.

We stood and started gathering our things. I walked back to my cubicle to get my bag, trying not to feel the thousand thoughts spiraling in my chest.

We both stood and started packing up. I headed back to my cubicle to grab my bag, trying to walk like a normal person and not someone who'd just tried to kiss their boss thirty minutes ago.

I slung the strap over my shoulder, avoided the hallway mirrors, and made my way to the elevator. My heart was still thudding from that almost-moment. The thumb on my lip. The pause. The pullback.

I just needed to get out of the building. Get home. Pretend I hadn't made a complete idiot of myself.

When I reached the elevator, I pressed the button for the ground floor.

The doors slid open. I stepped inside and turned to face forward, jaw tight.

As they started to close, I exhaled. Quietly. Like I could let the whole night go with one breath.

But just before the doors shut, a hand slipped in.

They jerked back open.

And there he was.

Blake.

Tie-less. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes soft.

He stepped inside.

Stood beside me.

Just smiled.

Like maybe the night wasn't over after all.

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