Chapter Text
Mondays are the worst day of the week for Brigadier General Roy Mustang.
He would almost be able to stand it if Mondays were back-to-back meetings, but instead, Mondays are dedicated to mountains of paperwork that must be completed in time for Tuesday morning deadlines. Even worse, sometimes he has to burn the midnight oil to make sure it all gets done on time.
This particular Monday isn't any different.
As always, he arrives and Captain Riza Hawkeye is already there. She’s sitting at her desk in the office she shares with the rest of the Mustang unit, reading through the notebook he knows houses his calendar. Her closely cropped golden hair glistens in the sunshine, and it’s a sight to behold, even though he sees her almost every day.
Roy has noticed she has a habit that only pops up when she thinks she’s alone, where she twirls her pen around her fingers. She holds it in between her thumb and middle finger, and somehow manages to flip it around her thumb. The physics really make no sense to anyone. She’s doing it right now as her eyes dart to and fro across the pages of his schedule.
He walks through the door and greets her good morning.
Setting her pen down, she stands at perfect attention with a precise salute. “Good morning, General,” she answers. “Shall we go over your day?”
She trails behind him as he leads her into his private office. There’s an ungodly amount of paperwork already on his desk, but thankfully he notes that she’s managed to separate it into dozens of neat stacks sorted by urgency, level of detail required, and all sorts of categories that he doesn’t even understand. She’s always been good at knowing all the right ways to support him.
Roy is overwhelmed as usual by the mountains of things she tells him he must review. A requisition for ignition cloth, because his gloves are beginning to wear out. An information request for alchemy instructors and coffee shops in the city of Montague for Breda, who is investigating a string of poisonings originating from a specific coffee shop. The quarterly Mustang Unit report, to be delivered directly to Fuhrer Grumman.
He has a hard time focusing on what she’s saying, though, because as she sits down in front of him to wait for his response, he notices that she’s wearing a skirt.
This isn't the first time he’s seen her in this style of clothing. They don't see each other much in casual settings anymore, but he knows she prefers the comfort of long, modest skirts, even going so far back as their shared childhoods in her father’s house. And at events like funerals and promotions and visits from generals, the most formal attire for female officers is indeed the standard-issue skirt that hits just above the knee, so it's never a surprise to see her donning this garment in that context.
But those are formal events, events where they both clearly have loftier goals to accomplish. He has never looked at her lasciviously in those moments; the mere idea makes him feel unclean and uncomfortable.
Something about this feels entirely different, and it's maddening to him. It’s impossible for him to tell if it's confusion or attraction or confusion about this attraction. Maybe all three.
He's a good, decent man. Riza’s boundless trust in him indicates so. Nothing untoward has ever happened between them; it’s always respect and understanding, a level that no one else can or will ever reach.
No, Roy’s fascination with the skirt isn't how it hangs on her body. The fascination is that it's something so completely out of character for her to wear on an average Monday.
“Is something the matter, General?” she asks, and he can't tell if she's being coy or if she really needs to figure out what's going on in his mind. It's one of the only times he can think of where he can't simply read her.
He blinks and gives her a faint smile. “No, not at all. Thanks, Hawkeye.”
“I also want to forewarn you, among the stacks I’ve sorted for you, that I’ve filed a request to take some time off next month,” she adds. “Rebecca and I are meeting up in Aerugo for a few days. You’ll find on the paperwork that I’ll be off Tuesday to Friday, and will be back in the office that following Monday just in time to help you in time for next week’s deadline.”
He laughs to himself—even when taking a vacation she’s still thinking of and planning around him, even going so far as to explain herself for his benefit. It’s sweet, and deep down he knows that this is intrinsically tied to the guilt she will carry for the rest of her life, but he also wonders if there’s ever a chance for her to do something purely for herself.
“We’ll miss you,” he says. His response is a little too quick and much too eager, so he makes sure to add, “All of us.”
She nods and exits his office, and he gets a glimpse of her footwear: the standard-issue black pumps that accompany the skirt. Again, it’s nothing extraordinary by way of appearance, nor is it any cause for reprimand. But it’s still different from what Roy has known her to wear, so it throws him for a loop.
The rest of the day is routine. No one else in their unit makes any mention of Riza’s attire, likely because they realize it’s none of their business. Roy knows that it certainly isn’t any of his, either.
That evening, the two of them fall into their typical Monday night routine. The length of their overtime depends on both how busy the unit has been and how much Roy has slacked off the week before, but it’s always a guarantee that they’ll need to stay through dinnertime.
While the rest of the unit leaves for the evening, she runs to the deli two blocks away to pick up their meals. A reuben for Roy, pastrami for Riza. Potato salad and a side of pickles for him, potato chips for her. He likes lemonade, she prefers sparkling water.
They eat in silence as they work. She’s always been the more patient of the two, so she paces herself, while he scarfs down the entire meal as if he’s never eaten in his life. Usually he’s a more refined and respectable dining companion, but the two of them have known each other for so long and seen so much together that he feels comfortable letting his guard down.
In theory he knows that she doesn’t really need to be there; she could easily spot check his work the next day, and in fact she usually reads a book to fully keep her busy in between tasks. But this is something they’ve done together for years, a routine sorely missed while she was poached by Bradley and therefore a routine easily resumed after the rubble of the Promised Day settled. Through all the different hairstyles that Riza has had, and all the different informant dates that Roy has been on, it’s always been a source of comfort to be alone together, even if it simply is just work.
It’s also a perfect opportunity to mention her attire without the prying eyes or curious ears of the rest of their unit, but he decides not to say anything, instead brushing this off as a one-off instance.
—
The rest of the week, Riza shows up in her standard pants and heavy-duty boots.
—
This cycle continues for another three weeks: an impeccably pressed skirt and precisely shined black pumps on Monday, juxtaposed with crisp dress pants and practical boots on all the other days of the week.
It bewilders Roy to no end.
For years he’s relied on this manufactured image of himself as a skirt-chasing ladder climber, but he never imagined that one day he really would be chasing the thrill of seeing Riza Hawkeye in a skirt in the office.
And it doesn't even really matter if the skirt is all he’ll see. Something about it is indescribably perfect in a way he's unsure can ever be topped.
After a month of this, he can’t stand it anymore. He needs to know.
In reality, there really isn’t much to discuss—so long as it is state-issued military attire, it is her personal choice to wear what she wants.
Still, he’s always been able to read his adjutant like a book; he can understand her motivations, fears, hopes, dreams. It’s silly that of all things he can’t figure out about her, it’s her reasoning for wearing a skirt, so he decides he’ll ask her.
—
This entire Monday is agonizing. She is in and out of his office constantly, gathering folders and stacks. Everything happens much quicker today, as if she’s in a rush to get out of the office, and he can’t figure out why. (He’s completely forgotten that he has approved time off for her, much less that it begins tomorrow.)
At 2000 hours, it feels like there’s no end in sight, but in reality he has three stacks left.
He’s sitting at his desk, and Riza is across from him, reading detective fiction. This has always been her favorite genre of literature, even in the years of childhood he knew her—ironic for someone whose entire life has been dedicated to seeking meaning and truth out of an unnecessarily cruel world.
“The first is a report on the coffee poisonings in Montague,” she explains, peering at him out of the corner of her eye as she flips the page of her novel. “After some investigation, Lieutenant Breda has determined the identity of this mystery alchemist and is seeking approval for military police to arrest and detain him. Please initial every page, and sign your approval on the last page.”
It astounds him how she seems to have each separate document’s details down to a t—not photographic like Falman’s, but impressive nonetheless.
Unfortunately, Roy remembers little about this case and must read through the 10-page stack carefully to ensure he doesn’t mess it up. (When he does something incorrectly, not only does she get frustrated, but there’s always a mad dash the next morning to have someone draw up a copy of the document in time for the deadline.)
Riza continues reading, and he notices her cross her legs out of the corner of his eye. It’s not particularly proper to do so with a superior officer, but it’s also a behavior of hers that only comes out when they’re alone. Stil, the fabric of her skirt moves as she shifts her leg, revealing more of her thigh and making it difficult for Roy to concentrate.
He sighs heavily as he completes his review and approval of this document, setting it on top of the “completed” bin.
The second is approval for more office supplies, with specific items detailed on different pages depending on whether it’s for an individual or for the unit. This form is easy and none of the requests are out of the ordinary, so she doesn’t need to explain. He signs at the bottom of the last page and moves on to the final piece to review.
It’s a copy of the vacation request that he has previously signed off on.
“No need for you to do anything, sir,” she reassures him, noting the fatigue in his eyes. “It’s simply a reminder. Please keep it here at your desk while I’m away so you don’t wonder where I am.”
He laughs at his forgetfulness as he sets the copy aside, realizing that this is why she was so intent on getting everything done even more quickly than usual.
She rises to gather the bin of completed paperwork and places it on Havoc’s desk for him to handle in her absence, then stands in the doorway. Her hand is resting on the door jamb and the realization that Roy won’t see her at all for almost a week finally hits him.
“Anything else before I leave for the week, General?”
He rises from his desk unceremoniously and walks up to close the door behind her before asking, “Can we talk for a minute?” He’s standing so close to her that he swears he can hear her breathing.
“Sir, I think you’ve already decided that yourself.” Her tone is flat and straightforward but he can see a slight flush rising to her cheeks. “But, what would you like to talk about?”
“What’s the meaning of this?” he growls. Try as he may, his voice is thick with desire and he really doesn’t know how else he can hide it.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
Sighing, he presses his palm to his temple—a nervous habit of his that so few people see.
Not her though. He can’t hide anything from her.
“Your… attire,” he explains. It takes all his effort to look her in the eye when all he wants to do is look her up and down, to touch her everywhere.
She smiles. It's kind only in the sense that she is clearly holding her tongue. “Oh.”
Her response is hardly a response, and it frustrates him to no end. In fact, everything about this moment is frustrating.
This isn’t the first time they’ve been close to each other—they lived in the same house, he held her in his arms as she lay dying—but it’s the first time he’s taken note of her in this way. The way she smells so slightly of lavender and honey, an intoxicating combination of floral and sweet. The way her fingertips and the palms of her hands both have small calluses from handling pistols.
She opens her mouth to say something but he can’t bring himself to even pay attention, let alone finish her sentence. Usually he cares far too much to interrupt her, but this is different.
He closes the already small gap between them, using one hand to lock the door, and the other to feel the skin of her thigh immediately under the hem of her skirt as he leans in to kiss her.
For years he’s imagined what it might feel like to kiss Riza Hawkeye, and in this moment he fears that all the waiting will have been anticlimactic, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. He wants to be gentle and chaste, but it’s difficult to do so when she so willingly opens her mouth for him. The way she feels and tastes on his tongue is electrifying. As he brings his hand to brush the fringe from her eyes, there’s no mistaking that both of them are already lost to temptation.
Riza tugs on the collar of his shirt, pressing his body onto hers, and he feels himself stiffen at the sensation. But this moment isn’t about him, or at least, he doesn’t want it to be.
He breaks away to kiss her neck—on the left side of course, to avoid the scar that is mostly healed but will likely remain permanently. The feeling of her pulse coupled with the warmth of her skin is utterly captivating, but he knows there’s plenty more to explore. Moving on, he kisses her collarbone and she gasps, her body shifting in response. It’s hard to tell if it’s a response from ticklishness or pleasure, but then she leans firmly against the door and it encourages him to keep going.
“Spread your legs for me, Captain,” he orders huskily. It’s difficult for him to contain himself, but he adds, “if you’d like.”
“Yes sir,” she responds almost breathlessly, moving her knees apart in this standing position.
Trailing up from the inside of her knee, he’s careful not to move too hastily. He wants to build her up, to make her beg for more—Riza Hawkeye is not one to beg for anything, but he’ll at least die trying. The pressure is gentle enough to be teasing, but firm enough to still be passionate. Her entire body writhes against his and he knows she wants him to keep going as she tries to take hold of his hand; he stops her and pins her more firmly against the wall, reminding her of who is in command, before continuing to move up her thigh again.
Roy’s fingers brush against her thigh holster and the mere thought of it, lost under her skirt, drives him mad. He’s unable to see it but it feels flimsy and lacy, a far cry from the practical holsters he’s seen her don in the past. She senses his surprise and smiles amusedly, and it’s overwhelming how he somehow knows the answer to how she feels but still has so many more unanswered questions.
Returning to the task at hand, he reaches the apex of her thighs to feel an equally flimsy piece of fabric guarding her. His hand ghosts to cup her ass and he is shocked to find that he is touching her bare skin, so he hooks his finger under the waistband of her thong and pulls it back, as if it’s a rubber band. It recoils and instead of indicating any type of painful pleasure she fucking laughs at him, as if his questions don’t matter to her.
He refuses to humor her, and promptly pulls her panties down so they’re bunched around her ankles. She motions to step out of them but he stops her aggressively; the idea of touching Riza Hawkeye under her skirt where he cannot see, with her most intimate garment on display for him pooled at her feet, feels delightfully forbidden and sinful in a way he never thought he’d want.
His fingers move lightly around her mound, guarded by a neatly trimmed tuft of hair, and her skin is hot against his. Brushing the back of his hand against her, Roy feels that she’s already slightly wet and ready for him, but he still wants to tease her so he traces his fingertip gently, with an almost featherweight pressure, against one of her folds. A deep, greedy moan escapes her throat, and her hips cant against him as he dips a finger, then another, into her.
Riza’s always a precisely tied, neatly wound knot, but he feels her unravel and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to not imagine the way her eyes roll to the back of her head in response to his touch. Earlier he took note of her crossing her legs and how that behavior was inappropriate; now he has her against the door of his office, her back arched as he’s pleasing her underneath her clothing, and he really doesn’t care about inappropriate anymore. At least not right now.
“Hurry, sir,” she pleads, barely able to choke out her request. “My train leaves tomorrow at 0900 hours.”
He smirks and withdraws his fingers from her in retaliation; she sighs petulantly in response and it nearly breaks him, hearing her make such an undignified sound. He’s not sure how or why he feels so emboldened, but it doesn’t matter as he brings his fingers to his lips to taste her, and she gasps in shock.
“I’d like you to come for me,” Roy grunts hoarsely, plunging his fingers back into her. He can’t tell if it’s really a request or a thinly veiled order, but it doesn’t matter because she responds with a boldness he didn’t know she had in this context—a far cry from her breathless begging just moments earlier.
“In due time, sir,” she answers. “I think that’s in your more-than-capable hand now.”
“I thought you wanted me to hurry,” he replies tauntingly.
Seeing her open her mouth to respond, he cuts her off by planting a kiss on her lips and removes his fingers from her core as he rhythmically begins to rub at her clit instead. She whimpers softly as he continues to kiss and touch her, and he feels her hot breath in his mouth, encouraging him to keep up his ministrations. Part of him wants to know if she’s ever felt this type of pleasure with someone else before, but as he beholds the sight of her pinned against the wall of his office, sighing at his touch, he realizes it doesn’t matter.
He pulls away from their kiss and sees that she’s caught in her own ecstasy, eyes shut, and he’s filled with a sense of pride that he’s able to elicit such a primal reaction from his ever-poised right-hand officer. Still, he selfishly needs more from her, even when he is the one giving.
“Look at me,” he commands brusquely, “and don’t take your eyes off me.” It feels uncharacteristic for him to be this verbally rough with Riza of all people, but then again, all of this is new between the two of them. He feared that he’d never even be able to see her smile again, but now he gets to see and feel her in ways he has only fantasized about.
She meets his gaze with her piercing eyes and he feels a strain in his pants, his own arousal burgeoning. There are plenty of other things he wants to do to her, or ask her to do to him, but his only priority at this moment is her pleasure.
Her moans grow more desperate and frequent, no doubt building up to a climax that Roy desperately wants to lead her to. He can tell just from looking at her that she wants to give in to her pleasure, but she keeps her eyes locked on him, just as he ordered, and he’s brimming with pride that his resourceful, strong, beautiful, perfect captain is so pliant at his touch.
Increasing the speed of his touch ever so slightly—fast enough to surprise her but not too aggressively—he continues to watch as she wriggles under him. Her sighs are less soft and more guttural, and her eyes remain fixated on Roy, as if to say, Watch me ; her back arches and body stills completely as she finds release.
Roy bites his lip as he looks at the aftermath of her climax: she’s breathing heavily, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, and his hand feels the damp mixture of her arousal and sweat along her skin. This image of Riza in the throes of ecstasy while in her uniform will be forever imprinted in his mind, and even better is the knowledge that he is the one who made her moan and throb. To make matters worse, she steps out of the panties still pooled at her ankles and kicks them aside haphazardly across the room, uncharacteristically irresponsible and endlessly enticing.
Withdrawing his fingers from her skin, he brings them back to his lips to taste again, and this time she forcefully moves his hand aside to drag him in for a kiss, pulling him against her body. His arousal feels extremely tight in his slacks, and the way she’s bringing him in sends the message that she wants to feel him against her skin in a different way.
Flipping their bodies so that his back is now against the wall, he leans into her and his mouth joins hers fervently as he pushes her towards the conference table a few feet from them. He pushes her back onto the table so roughly that he fears for a moment that he’s hurt her, but she willingly gives in with the outline of a smile across her lips as she kicks her shoes off.
“I’d like to keep this skirt on you, but I know you’ll be upset if I ruin it,” he sighs. The fantasy of having Riza Hawkeye under him is suddenly brought back to earth by the reality of their lives and their choices. It stings.
She laughs, and he wants to be frustrated with her for breaking the mood when he’s already disappointed, but the sight of her sprawled across his conference table with unkempt bangs and spread legs makes it slightly forgivable.
“General, you’re so forgetful,” she admonishes playfully. “I always keep a change of clothing in the supply closet. Everyone’s size is in there, including mine.”
So much of their trauma has been wrapped up in the military whose outfits they don, whose office they work in every day; in some ways it feels almost blasphemous and unacceptable that they would do this. But giving in to their base passions is a line they’ve already crossed.
Somehow, though, his insecurity nags at him as he wonders what is next for them. He attempts to disguise his curiosity and potential jealousy as a question about her health. “I hate to ask, but are you—uh—or have you ever—”
It’s embarrassing, really, how Roy isn’t as coy or flirtatious as he wants to be. Having just borne witness to her unfurling, he’s rendered an incoherent mess and he can’t even think of how to ask her if she has a clean bill of health or if she’s ever done this at all before.
Unsurprisingly, she reads him like a book. “There’s been no one else,” she responds with a sort of unbridled kindness that would seem out of place in such a passionate moment among two other people but feels just right for them. “Ever.”
He smiles at the revelation that this is a fond memory they can share together, to supplant or at least soothe the pain they’ve experienced before. “Same here. But if it’s alright—”
Riza cuts him off again. “Doing this in your office is the riskiest behavior I plan to engage in tonight.”
It’s remarkable how her understanding of his motivations, fears, and hopes translates into every part of their shared life. This isn’t a direct verbal answer to his already unspoken question, but he can read between the lines, so he unceremoniously leaves her on the conference table as he runs to his desk in pursuit of a prophylactic. She laughs teasingly as she tells him to look in the hidden compartment of the third drawer, and he can’t help but laugh back at her, knowing that she knows every single part of his desk.
“I’m surprised you’ve never mentioned finding this before,” he remarks sheepishly as he makes his way back to her.
“No need,” she answers. “I noticed them there years ago, but I also noticed the quantity never diminished. Wishful thinking, sir?”
Setting the prophylactic on the table, he hastily unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants, allowing them to fall to his feet. He doesn’t bother taking off his shoes or otherwise removing his pants; he’s impatient and seeing her with a slightly teasing smirk on her face sets him alight.
Taking in the sight of his beautiful captain ready to accept him inside her, and knowing that she has invited him to do what he will with her clothing, Roy tears the skirt open and tosses it to the ground unashamedly to reveal her body almost fully nude from the waist down— save for her thigh holster and gun, which he knows she'd never remove in his presence, because she always wants to be ready in case the worst happens. For a moment she brings her knees together shyly and it’s so silly to him that after touching her under her clothing she’s still capable of any form of modesty.
Still, it’s important to him that she feels comfortable, so with the watchful Hawk’s Eyes on him, he wraps the thin prophylactic around his cock and smiles down at her.
In return, she bites her lip and takes a full look at him for the first time, and at first he can’t tell if it’s nerves or intrigue, but she nods slowly and it sets him alight. She spreads her legs wide and he rubs the head of his cock against her clit gently, causing her to gasp and arch her back against the table. At first he eases his way into her, fearing her discomfort, but unsurprisingly, she’s still remarkably wet and hot from his touch against the wall just moments ago, so he plunges into her. The sensation appears to be overwhelmingly pleasurable as she bites her lip again, this time in an apparent need to hold back vocal proof of her ecstasy. His hands are at her hips and her skin feels like silk against him, almost as if it were an extension of his own skin.
If this were anyone else, he’d fear breaking her, but he knows that it takes a lot more than this to break the strongest person he’s ever known, and he knows that she wouldn’t allow anyone to do it of her own will, least of all him.
Riza’s arms hook under his arms and claw at his shoulders. He swears that if he weren’t wearing anything she would be digging right into his skin, but it’s not painful, and in fact it encourages him to keep filling her to the hilt. She seems emboldened by the pace they’ve created together so her hips move rhythmically against his and her grip tightens on his shoulders. Even though he’s on top of her, he can’t help but smile at the fact that she insists on being an active participant.
She takes it to the next level when Roy feels her hands come off of him and her body shift under him; he’s shocked to see that her hand is wandering between her own legs. She begins to rub at her clit slowly, in tandem with his thrusts, moaning softly in a completely different way than earlier. At first he swore the most beautiful sight he’d seen was her falling apart at the seams at his touch, but seeing her in this way—unraveling at her own touch as his cock disappears into her—is a whole different level of perfect.
“I’m close,” she whispers, “so it’s your turn to come for me.” He can’t believe his ears that she is saying something so utterly needy and sensual, least of all to him.
He’s almost there, teetering towards the edge, and his instinct is to shut his eyes and relish in how this feels. But he lost his sight once already; he intends to use it for all it’s worth and never take it for granted. Besides, he made Riza look him square in the eye as she came, and he intends to keep things equal. After all, she’s given a part of herself to him. The least he can do is return that sentiment.
Underneath him, he can tell that Riza is close not just by her own admission but by the way her fingertips boldly, frantically pick up the pace along her own skin. The way her chest and hips jerk in response to his touch but with no discernible pattern. The way her free hand is gripping along the edge of the table tighter and tighter at each of his thrusts.
Another climax hits her quickly and unexpectedly; he knows because he feels her walls tighten around him, and her body responds by shifting up to meet his. Her hands abandon any pretense of trying to hold onto the desk and instead move up to the back of his head, pulling him in to lock their lips.
“Roy, please—” she begs as she pulls away from their kiss, her gaze locked on him. By some cruel twist of fate, if he loses his eyesight again, at least he’ll know what she looks like pleading for him to continue sliding in and out of her.
Everything about this is perfect. The way her lips taste. The way her eyes stay on him with every moment. They way she smells of honey and lavender, her sweat and his. The way she sounds, crying out his name when before their boundaries were so neatly drawn and names tucked away as too personal. The way her core is squeezing around him so intensely.
But the most perfect part of it all is that it’s not just anyone, it’s Riza.
He drives into her at an erratic, frenzied pace. Soon he reaches the height of his own pleasure and spills his seed into the wrappings around his cock, slowing his thrusts until he’s finished.
—
Riza is in the supply closet of Roy’s office, fetching a new skirt. The door is open and he can see her, standing on a ladder, and the contrast of her impeccable jacket atop her panties—and nothing else—is simply irresistible. It’s a sight he never knew he needed and refuses to ever forget.
As she rustles through the entire wardrobe, she calls out to him, “I’ll be adding another set of uniforms to my next supply request.”
He laughs. “We didn’t ruin your entire uniform,” he points out.
“Ordering just a skirt, after spending my last evening before vacation completing paperwork alone with you, is a little too out of the ordinary,” she responds sternly.
Oh . As always, there’s no arguing with her sound logic.
She climbs down from the ladder and puts on the spare skirt, smoothing it carefully and ensuring it doesn’t look rustled in any way, before motioning to retrieve her shoes.
He shakes his head when he sees her reach for her tattered skirt. “I’ll burn it,” he tells her. “Besides, you should get going if you want to make your early morning train.”
“Yes,” she answers, and he swears he can hear disappointment in her voice. “Sir.”
It’s not lost on him that she has renewed their formality, and it feels useless to him that she would continue to recognize his rank when they’re completely alone, but he can understand her hesitation. That’s a different boundary to cross at a different time. Maybe not tonight.
“Be safe in Aerugo, Captain,” he says to her, returning her use of rank.
She nods and retrieves her book. “I’ll miss you,” she states, with the same level of straightforwardness she would use to remind him to sign one more page of a report. She exits the office quietly, as if it were any other Monday evening.
He realizes he never actually found out why she started wearing a skirt to work, but it’s too late; she’s already left, and he still has no answer.