Chapter Text
The clock ticks in a mocking way, and damn you hate it. It’s a gnawing sound, like a door jamming into its stopper as the door to your boss’s office opens wide. Instantly you straighten up. Your desk is a mess and you like it that way, he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand a lot of things about you, you can always tell by the way he looks at you. His eyes are black coal and hardened to a point of no return. Never once have you seen him smile.
“Morning,” he mumbles. He’s never been much of a talker either. He’s dressed sleek, like everything you pretend to be wrapped all up in a black blazer. Today, however, there’s a coffee stain on his white dress shirt. Just a small dot but you can tell by how smudged it is he tried everything he could to wipe it clean. Some stains are harder than others.
“Good morning, Mr. Shadis.” You try to fold your hands the way you know you should—over your folded knees where the end of your pencil skirt stops and your tights begin. Though you’ve never been someone who can sit still. Your fingers twitch and move the same as your shifting shoulders.
“Yeah, mind if I pull you in for a chat?” It isn’t an actual question, it’s a demand disguised as choice. He gestures a hand into the open door of his office and your eyes follow, your lips part, and you force a grin.
“Of course,” you nearly mutter. Good things never come from chats.
His office smells like cinnamon. There’s a fall seasoned candle going on a shelf by the door and it’s as obnoxious as the bright red leather chair opposite his executive desk. It smells like hospital hide as you sit, gingerly flinching with the sudden lock of the door.
Keith is a hard man with a large family. He runs the IT department of the Eldia Firm with a tight fist and no room for fun, so naturally, when you poke he’s disinterested. “I have one of those Tide pens if you need it. I got a wine stain out the other day with it.” As lighthearted as you are, he doesn’t take your offer. He sits in his dark wheeling chair with a sigh and a shake of the head, deadening the nervous smile you wear.
“So, you’ve been here three months now.”
“Four, actually,” you correct. He just gives you an eye before clicking on his computer.
He clacks away at the keyboard. “Well, you know, I’ve appreciated your help around here. You’re an excellent secretary. On time.” He hesitates. “Organized. I don’t want you to take this as a nod at your performance.”
Your heart clenches tight. You can feel the weight of unemployment creeping up behind you already. What the fuck did I do wrong now?
“We’re just moving people around. Seeing who works best where. It’s that type of thing.” A long pause comes as he types. Not even a wrinkle on his face moves before you ask.
“Are you letting me go?” Your knees are pressed together with a conscious effort. Your fingers nearly rip a hole in your tights in anticipation.
“Oh, no. Not that.” You breathe right again. “I’m sending you over to one of our representative attorneys. They’ve been needing a secretary and I think you’d be more suited there. More people to deal with, they’re a very popular attorney. You’re a people person, aren’t you?”
You stare blankly as you recall every single time someone’s pissed you off. Every time you’ve had to excuse yourself to the restroom just to blow off steam, to sneak off to the back of the building for a stress-relief cigarette and a shot of something strong after prolonged phone calls. People piss you off, they make you analyze yourself far too much, but you know when it’s okay to lie. Your brows lift and you pull on a smile. “Yes, absolutely.”
“Good. Have you met Mr. Zoe before?” He looks your way now, with his dark, hard eyes.
You shake. “No, I haven’t.”
“No worries. I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you, as I have been.” Yet he speaks with such little enthusiasm it’s almost more insulting than if he were to be outwardly rid of you altogether. That makes the two of us, you think as leather scratches when you stand and leave his cinnamon office—the air is much drier out here.
¸.*♡*.¸
“Just give them a minute, hun, they’re on the phone right now,” a receptionist tells you with an artificial degree of sweetness. She’s white and blond and her lips are as red as the traffic lights blinking on the streets. Hitch Dreyse, her name plate reads. It’s gold plated and perfect with a tiny pink bow stuck onto a corner like a personal brand staple. She’s the kind of woman to pin curl her hair every night, and a part of you feels weird for even thinking in such a way.
Tightly, you smile and take a seat in the lobby. This part of the building is much more official than the rest. The walls are gray steel, vertical planks of deep brown wood break it up in patterns, like paintings themselves but the only true art work is the water fountain behind the front desk which drips down the wall with minimal sound. Cubes of gray cement make it trickle, all pooling into an unseen chamber just to be sent right back up the spout. White lights highlight the water, the rest of the lobby as well though the room is more dim compared to it. Every black leather chair is polished, clean and sanitized, like a hospital but this place smells more like brandy and sterilization. Even the floor, the tile, is grouted spotless. The crown molding is perfect. The ceiling has a hanging chandelier, a modern looking extravagance completely out of your reach. There’s no dress code, but even the receptionist looks clean. Her blazer is dark gray and it swallows her whole in a mess of blond curls like a perfect barbie doll. It makes you recoil into your lap.
There’s a small tear in your tights, right on the inside of your left knee. You bet she has no tears in hers. You bet she curls her hair with a dirty martini in hand and you imagine a woman kissing her neck as she does. That’s a life of perfection. Hitch Dreyse, head receptionist for Mr. Zoe’s department. She has to be perfect because by everything you read from a quick google search, Mr. Zoe is perfect and nothing but.
A divorce attorney, dabbling in criminal law from time to time dependent on their interest. Hange Zoe is a revered lawyer for nothing but their brute demeanor and record breaking track. They’ve never lost a single case in their seven years of work. You understand why the floor is so pristine. Why even breathing a sigh seems disrespectful. They’re the bread winner of the firm and deserve nothing but the best—nothing but perfect.
A door opens and your eyes shoot from your torn tights to the new figure in the frame. A face you only have the name to, a face which skips you completely and offers a smile to Hitch instead. They’re tall, it makes your fingers clamp around the tight edge of your skirt. Their slacks are ironed and their button up tucks right in. This office belongs to someone who’d wear a suit-vest. Theirs is patterned in blacks and grays that are only noticeable in shifting light. Their cheek creases, like a perfect fold of paper. Half their dark hair is pulled into one sleek pony tail while the rest hangs down their nape. It’s shiny and clean, not a single strand is out of place and you envy them for it immediately. They keep one hand in their front pocket, making their blazer furl back as their thin lips part. “Give Dhalis a call for me, let him know I spoke with the Kirsteins and it’s all taken care of.”
Hitch’s lips are plump and glossed. She smiles back at them with an arch of her spine. “I very well can, but you do have the new secretary Keith sent in.”
Those clamping fingers worsen as they scan your way, and like a bullet going off you quickly stand right. The chair squeaks behind you, like it’s softly mocking the way you palm your skirt flat over your thigh. You cling to perfection, this need for it, because upon first glance you can tell—Hange’s eyes are particular and purposeful. Darkly, they crawl from the suede shoes on your feet to the ruffles on the front of your blouse, from your cloying hands to the tugging way you keep your face straight and unreadable. You’re sure they even manage to find the tear at your knee, somehow, someway, which doesn’t matter because the smug smile they offered to Hitch drops nonetheless.
They seem to bite their cheek before meeting your eyes directly, holding you there without a single hesitation. “Keith sent her?”
You’ve always been quiet. Not at all a people person, you’ve learned to observe, not confront. That a smile and a nod is enough to get by just under the radar. You’re not like Hitch, someone who can boast themself so loudly and proudly, although you wish you were. You wish you could walk up to them and shake their hand without needing to be beckoned, but in the time it takes for you to mull this over, Hitch affirms their question and there’s no need for you to do anything, to be here at all because Hange opens the door wide enough to slip back inside their office. “Follow me, then.”
Granted, Keith Shadis was the first attorney you’ve ever worked for. And, granted, this job is the first time you’ve touched the title of secretary. Though you’re sure, even a woman with years of experience in these offices under her belt would be floored by what you see too. The room has a sense of gloom to it, boarded in by dark stained oakwood everywhere. Every shelf, every end table, and yes, there are end tables because this office is more like a studio apartment in and of itself. Walking in, you’re met with a small parlor, somewhere to sit and rake over cases until the sun breaks in the morning. Couches of neat black leather make an L shape and flow open towards the executive desk in front of curtained windows. There’s hardly any room on the walls which aren’t shrouded by bookshelves. Any space left is filled with framed diplomas, framed photographs, and one single plant—a potted orchid, ripe in bright purple surrounded by waxy green leafs, lit by a warm basking lamp from above. The entire room is lit by similar bulbs, making the entire office feel dark and warm, almost inviting like the ornate rug covering the hardwood floor. It smells like brandy and sterilization in here too.
“Sorry for making you wait.” Hange’s voice is soft. Once in privacy, they don’t make an effort for anything. You stop before the couch and they pass you up, aiming instead for a vintage tray table by their desk—it’s glass and bronze with a plated mirror as a surface for an assortment of varied crystal liquor glasses. Their fingers are long and bony, twisting off the glass cap to a bottle of dark whiskey. Shock paints you, invisible to the human eye. It’s 10 am and they’re already drinking. “Shadis didn’t tell me he was sending anyone over so soon.”
“No need to apologize,” you’re quick, yet you’re quiet. So quiet that they look back at you before pouring themself over.
“Your name?” They inquire, and again, you’re quick with an answer. Mouse squeaks, that’s what they hear when you speak. A sound so soft they have to hide a grin by just how meek it is. “How long were you with Keith?”
You study the way their throat bobs as they drink. From across the room, they keep their eyes on you as they do. “Four months.”
“He must’ve liked you,” they state, nonchalant as ever as they take a few steps in. “That man filters through secretaries like you wouldn't believe.”
Thinking back on it, Keith never held a single conversation with you that wasn’t required. He kept to himself and so did you, you liked it that way. Dropping their gaze, you instead look for your hands. They’re knotting up at the base of your stomach. “Well, I hope he did.”
The office feels sterile and untouchable, until Hange takes a seat on one of the leather couches. Legs spread, they gesture a hand to the other side of the L which you reluctantly take. The leather squeaks under you the same as it did for them. “Well, to debrief you,” they begin, that thick glass rests on their knee. “I’m currently in the middle of a case. Lots of back and forth, so prepare for that.” Eagerly, you nod with eyes on them and only them. “I don’t like to use my secretaries for personal matters. I need you here at the office at the drop of a hat. I don’t like needing you and you not being here, do you understand?”
Your head continues its nodding tirelessly. “Yes, that makes perfect sense.”
“Good. You’re welcome to use my office as you please.” They turn their head towards the tray table, boasting a strong slice of their jaw. “Drink my liquor. Dirty my wares.” Hange looks back at you using just their eyes. “Just clean up after yourself, always.”
“Oh, thank you, but I don’t drink.” It’s a lie. How pathetic. You don’t want to seem drunken to your new boss, even though they partake, you want to seem perfect.
“No? Why not?” Though Hange does as Keith never had—they ask questions.
Smiling politely and slightly reluctant, you shrug. “Never got the taste for it.”
They do the same, their cheeks wrinkle just like they had for Hitch. “I don’t think I believe you.”
You blink, staring blankly with the smallest twitch of your lips. “Why not?”
Mr. Zoe lands an ankle over one knee, even leaning an arm on a rest as they settle into the conversation—as they settle their studying eyes on you comfortably. “How old are you?” The question lingers in the air like thick smoke as you sit in silence, a silence of perplexity. Your hands return to the edge of your skirt, between your knees where it plains and you hold on tight. “You’re young, you can’t be older than, what? Twenty-one?” They pry, you shake. “Twenty-three?”
“No,” you answer softly, almost embarrassed but certainly flattered with a timidly idiotic grin. “Twenty-five,” you answer.
They don’t seem shocked by this, not at all. “Twenty-five and you don’t drink. Must be for a reason. Self identity? Protest?” Meanwhile, you continuously shake your head. “Does alcoholism run in the family?” With that, you stop.
Your dad would never admit he’s an alcoholic, and neither would you willingly admit that you must be too. Since you were six, he’s always had a beer in hand and you followed closely in his footsteps. Wine stains and Tide pens, that’s what you know best. Maybe they can sense your discomfort. If they can, then you know exactly the kind of person they are because they don’t acknowledge it at all. “Bullseye,” they state proudly, softly, and it makes you recoil into your lap yet again.
“I don’t think we should be discussing such personal matters.” You can’t stand to look them in the eye as you speak. You can hardly stand being in this room anymore yet, you can’t stand up and walk away. You need their golden stamp of approval.
“Good girl.” There it is. The leather squeaks as they get up and your eyes follow them eagerly. Back turned to you, they go for their desk. “I’m happy to see you’re paying attention. Maybe you’ll be more competent than the last.” You don’t follow them for long, no. Your attention becomes caught elsewhere, in the empty glass they leave isolated on the couch. It sparkles like a thousand diamonds under the warm lighting. “Be a dear and rinse that out for me.” Mr. Zoe doesn’t look at you when they order. Their brow furrows not because of your compliance, but because of the papers on their desk as they take a seat. It’s still morning, but the sun hardly pokes through their thick, red curtains. They become engrossed by their work immediately as you swipe the glass up and head for the door. “And I like my coffee with sugar only.” Again, they don’t look at you, though you look at them. The sleeves of their button up are tight on their bulging wrists as they click a pen and write. They seem entranced in printed letters and documents. You nod even though they can’t see and even though they can’t hear, you whisper a weak yes, sir.
¸.*♡*.¸
“Here you are, sir.” The mug is ceramic and hand crafted, hand glazed with a unique army green color. You set it on their desk, near the edge where there are no papers amiss on the surface. Mr. Zoe is in the middle of a phone call as you do.
They perk up only a little, brows still furrowed as they respond in a rush. “Yes, but—thank you—I talked with them already, they are more than willing to have their son on the stand.” You wait. You wade in the waters before their desk for something, anything. Even for them to take a sip but they don’t. Your fingers cross each other at your stomach the way they always seem to do. It’s not until you surrender and turn that they call for you. “Take these.” When you look back, they’re holding out a file your way. Finally, they eye you. The phone’s balanced by their chin and shoulder, pressed to their ear as they take the mug and a sip. “I need six copies, typed, not computed.”
You give them a mediocre nod as you accept the files. “Yes sir,” that same, weak voice spills out. It’s ice compared to fire when they speak up.
“And please give Hitch her severance letter. The lobby could use a cleaning too, if you have the time.” You smile tightly, watching as they take another sip. Just before turning away, they make a grimace. “Less sugar next time.”
Your chest clenches. “Got it.” You don’t expect conversation, but maybe a subtle acknowledgment. A look in the eyes and a taut grin. Hange gives you nothing as they effortlessly return to their phone call.
“Dammit, I said to wait for me, I can’t make it into the courthouse until—” The rest runs dry as you exit their office.
The lobby is still and silent this morning. The only sounds are the water fountain and Hitch’s perfect nails typing away at her computer. Within the manilla folder they handed you is an envelope signed for Hitch, with thanks, Hange Zoe. The writing is cursive and beautiful, almost unreadable by how exquisite it is. You’ve barely spoken a word to the woman and now you walk up to the front desk and awkwardly slip the envelope before her. She hardly notices.
“What’s this?” she asks. Her nails are long and red, matching her lips and everything else about her. She probably gets them done every other week without a skip in beat. You pick at your own, dulled and jagged, as you meet her blue eyes.
“Mr. Zoe asked me to give it to you.”
Hitch rolls her eyes. “God, they can’t even give it to me themself, what a coward.”
“You knew?” you can’t help but ask.
She looks you over, from top to what she can see of your bottom. With a sigh, she collapses with a lean onto the desk. “The last girl who worked for them randomly came out crying with all her shit in a box one day. I’ve been their temp for months now, seeing you come in was a weight off my shoulders.” She breathes another sigh, though this one is much lighter and it comes with an off beat laugh.
Now you’re the one to furrow. “Why was she crying?”
Hitch eagerly begins gathering her things, not that she has much to begin with. Mainly pens, pink and glittery, and the golden name plate. She gives you one arch of her penciled in brow. “I thought you met them?” The corner of her mouth curves. “Anyways, it’s all yours.” She stands up and swings her purse onto her shoulder. “Passcodes are all written in the drawer, keys to the printing room are in the pen holder. Enjoy!” She’s quick to make her escape, but not quick enough to dodge your last question.
“Where’s the typewriter?” Her blond curls sway as she looks back at you, confusion doused all over her perfect face.
“Hell if I know, they never had me use one.”
She leaves you with only confusion to suck on while embracing the files to your chest.
¸.*♡*.¸
The typewriter is a good model, not cheap or vintage. It was hidden in the lowest desk drawer with a single note taped to the keys: with love, in that same exquisite handwriting. The keys click in a gluttonously satisfying way, and every swipe of the reset knob is glorious. It feels like you’re writing something much more important than meeting letters. So much so, you become engulfed in the work. If rushed, it could take you maybe an hour to type the six copies they asked for, however you add another forty minutes to that due to just how much you enjoy the process.
The phone rings just as you reset for the last line of the last letter. It’s a rotary phone, not even a landline—dark green and gently used. You pause for a second of shock, no one ever called Keith’s department. Mainly it was faxing, coffee runs, and the occasional note taking requests during a few select meetings.
Your fingers gingerly wrap around the phone, hesitant before you bring it to your ear and even then you buffer. “Thank you for calling Hange Zoe’s office,” you stop awkwardly. “This is…their secretary speaking. How can I assist you?”
“Yes, hi, this is Keith Shadis.”
“Oh! Hi, Mr. Shadis.”
“Just wanted to give you a call, make sure you’re settled in over there.”
“That’s very kind of you. Yes, I’m all settled in. Currently helping Mr. Zoe with some copies.”
“Good, good. Listen, I just want to tell you, you really are a great secretary. It was a pleasure to have you, and I hope nothing but the best for you.”
You pause, awestruck by his sincerity. “Thank you, I-I really appreciate that. It was a pleasure to be your secretary.”
“Well, I won’t hold you back. See you around, y/n.”
You smile deeply, reverently. “See you around.” When you hang up, a soft clap echoes from behind you. Turning, you’re met with Hange themself, leaning against the door frame of their office as their slow clap fades away. Their eyes are on you and nothing but, a small curve twists one side of their mouth.
“First phone call. Bravo.” They seem intrigued, not proud. Maybe it’s the way their hands stop. Or the way they scratch the side of their neck before approaching your desk. Either way, you can tell from first glance because you’re used to being around people exactly like them—people who think one way and act another, leaving it up to you to figure it out. You’ve never been good at thinking positively.
“Thank you,” you’re polite. You’re poised. Hange eats it up as they waver by the side of the desk. They lighten when they notice your copies.
“All done, dear?”
Quickly, you turn back to the type writer and press the last few keys; Sincerely, Hange Zoe. “All done.” You smile because you’re proud. The paper in this office is designated just for them, with a hardly there color green border and From the Office of Hange Zoe printed at the header of every sheet. It’s so official, so perfect. You collect the sheets and hand them over, which Mr. Zoe takes without a skip in beat. They skim them, using a counting thumb to make sure there’s six. When they grin firm, you breathe in relief.
“Thank you, Mrs…?” they ask blankly.
“Just Miss. L/n.”
They don’t look at you as they smile, instead their eyes scan the papers with urgency. “Miss,” they muse. They walk without another word.
¸.*♡*.¸
The office smells like pine the next morning, less sterile like a window’s been left open overnight. With Mr. Shadis, there wasn’t much room to get familiar with your desk, and besides you didn’t really care to. His office was stuffed in the back on the third floor where no one ever dropped by. However, Mr. Zoe’s office is the second from the top floor, accompanied by its own restrooms. It’s that level of importance. Therefore, upon getting settled into your desk you unravel a handful of pens and a single, tiny, artificial plant. You don’t have a name plate, you haven’t passed that test yet, so you slide the small plastic succulent where it would go.
Mr. Zoe’s door doesn’t creak like Keith's does. It’s smooth and slips along the floor without a single scrape. It’s been left ajar and today there’s actually light coming through their curtains. Though, when you enter to bring them their morning coffee, they aren’t where your eyes flock to. Instead of their desk, Mr. Zoe stands by the wall, where the orchids are but they don’t simply view the flowers, they embrace them. With a delicate hand, they cup a single cluster of purple petals with such focus they don’t notice you at all. You think to announce yourself, but there’s a crease in their brow. There’s a few strands loose at their forehead. And, between their lips is a flash of silver. Straw-like, it glints at you before your attention is caught by the steel syringe in their other hand. Focused, they point the tip into the center of the orchid and gently push their thumb down. Nothing about them is uncalculated, not even the way their button up wrinkles around their tense muscles—they move as if what they’re doing is equivalent to open heart surgery, and it very well may be. You feel drawn to it almost, until they sense a presence and look your way.
Immediately, you look down. “Good morning, Mr. Zoe. Sorry,” you blurt.
They straighten out and the creases on their face ease at once. “Don’t be.” They’re slightly jumbled until they take that silver utensil—a dental pick—from their mouth. “Morning.” Quickly, they step away from the orchids, towards their desk and before you can respond, they rush. “You know, those copies from yesterday. Well…” They eye you once. “To be frank, dear, I think I may have tossed them by accident.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” you’re eager. You take a few steps inside, rushing to place their mug on their desk. “I can just retype—”
“I’d hate for you to go through all the trouble of that.” Not even their voice seems uncalculated. When you look at them, they’re already staring back at you. The windows light them up from behind, making the plaid print of their tie darker than it already is. Even their eyes do the same.
You swallow, vomiting words up without second thought. “I’ll run and get them.”
Mr. Zoe doesn’t protest, neither do they even respond. Their eyes remain locked on you, studying your willingness as if it were something they could hold between their calculated fingers. Within their stare, you find a flicker of something dark. Yet, they dismiss you like it’s nothing. With a nod, they don’t leave it open for discussion anyways. They take a seat at their desk and as you try to grapple with the grave you’ve impulsively dug, they reach for their mug and take a sip. “Mmm,” they furrow. “More sugar next time.”
¸.*♡*.¸
Your tights snagged on the dumpster. It ripped a tear straight down the side of your calf on the way out, because yes, of course the copies were buried in another floor’s garbage. On the way up the elevator, you pick scraps off the copies. Luckily none of them stained but they stink mildly of mildew, the same as you. You know because the estranged colleague you share the elevator with takes a few too many glances your way with a slightly wrinkled nose.
You’d be embarrassed, typically. Though the way Mr. Zoe looks at you when you bring in the missing copies doesn’t leave room for embarrassment. They’re in the middle of a phone call and flash you a smile of politeness. “No, no, there’s no need for that,” they say firmly into the receiver before covering it with their palm. “Miss l/n.” They call before you make your leave. Now, their eyes are elsewhere—and to admit where would be a sin. They stare at the tear in your tights. “What happened there?” Their brows furrow with what you assume is concern following their question, in a way which seems genuine.
Your gaze falls to your precious kitten heels. “Well, I went to get the copies and—”
“No.” They smile, but it isn’t a joyous one. It comes with a shake of their head. They bid a quick goodbye to the other person on the line and not a second passes between them hanging up and standing. “Sweetheart, I don’t know what kind of office Keith runs, I’ve only stopped by a few times and, my God, I mean—” they stop themself from a peeved ramble as their evaluating eyes look you over. “You’re a representation of this office now. Not just that, you’re a representation of me and my business. I can’t have you in torn clothes, you even smell, what is that?” They lean on a hand over their side of the desk, the smile has disappeared from their mouth and their temple creases from what you can only see as disappointment.
Your face feels hot. Your hands feel numbingly cold. It’s these two opposites which make you drop their damning stare and trade it in for the patterned rug at your feet. “I went to get the copies,” you repeat but your words are hardly there.
“What?” Unlike theirs, your lips stammer and your fingertips pinch a delicate button on your blouse.
“I-I went to—”
In a flash, Mr. Zoe rounds the desk, not before feverishly sliding their rotary phone to face you on the other side. They move sturdy, tall and with purpose. Their dress shirt is a light blue color and it takes on a darker, sea hue as they face you too. They look at you with nothing but attentiveness, that same darkness burrows its way into your mind. “The phone is ringing." They say blatantly, watching you as if what they say is obvious.
Arms dangling at your sides, your face softly twists with confusion and disbelief. You look at the phone, silent and motionless, then back at them. “It’s not.”
“Don’t you hear it?” They tilt their head slightly. “It’s ringing.” A long moment of hesitation passes. “Answer it.”
Mr. Zoe doesn’t exactly scare you, they make you nervous. They make your palms tense up and clam, the same way your lip twitches while expecting some kind of joke. Maybe this is all an initiation. Maybe they’re waiting for you to prove yourself, to be perfect—but you’re not. Your head is still buzzing from your lonesome celebration of midnight wine last night, following the late hours after work where you spent the better half of your evening repeating the same phrase over and over again; thank you for calling the office of Hange Zoe, how may I help you today? You’re hungover at best and the way they stare at you doesn’t frighten you but it does make your fingertips tremble as you approach their desk. Hange waits at your side and they watch every single step you take. They don’t trade you in for the way you grip the phone. They watch every second pass by as you bring the silent speaker to your ear.
“Thank you for calling the office of Hange Zoe,” you swallow, meek in tone and they press a spread hand onto the desk as you do.
“Louder,” they demand.
Your eyes flit to them. A nervous wreck is what they see. “Thank you for calling the office—”
“Enunciate yourself!” The room fills with their voice, commanding every book crease and speck of dust. They speak with their hands even, their wrist buttoned and neat. “Be proud of yourself. Good afternoon! Thank you for calling the office of . . .?”
Your lips part while looking at them. A grin that doesn’t know if it should be a grin flashes across your face. “Good afternoon,” you try for something louder, just as they asked and they smile when you do. “Thank you, for calling the office of Hange Zoe. How may I help you today?”
“There you go!” they exclaim, proud almost as they step in, a step possibly too close but the smile you wear is too boisterous to care. They look at you, down at you, but their eyes skim from yours to anything else. They raise a hand as if to touch you, your cheek or the side of your ear, but of course they stop. Of course they withdraw. “See, Miss l/n,” they start. “You’re a big girl. You can get a much larger voice out of that tiny throat of yours.”
Instantly you swallow. Instantly you tense but not due to discomfort. It’s a much worse tension. The kind that can tear you apart from the inside out. Though, Mr. Zoe doesn’t allow you to linger on it. They turn away and head towards their drink cart to pour themself over.
“I need you neater. And louder.” Their back is turned to you and all you can do is stare at how their shirt conforms to their skin underneath, to their shoulder blades moving and growing tauter by the second. They pour a glass of bourbon this time—you know the difference—into a diamond cup, facing you before bringing it to their lips. “Do you think you can manage that for me?” They slip one hand into the front pocket of their black slacks as they drink and watch every small way you react.
You nod before you can even think about it. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
Hange makes no effort for hints. They give you nothing as they stare, as their eyes glaze over and turn black all together. The air seems thick in your lungs and suddenly, this office is too hot. “Yes, sir.”
They make no expression, they simply tilt their glass at you before taking another sip. “Good,” they swallow, retreating to their desk. They don’t dismiss you, they simply expect you to piece them together all by yourself—you do well enough, scooping up their used glass for a clean before closing the door to their office on your way out. You take a second too long, watching them through the last sliver of openness. Too long that they find you, they hold you, and then they let go.
¸.*♡*.¸
“How are you liking the new job?” Yelena’s kind. Of course she’d ask—not in that obligatory way, her care is evident by how she looks at you from across the booth. Your sister’s mentioned plenty of times, of Yelena’s fondness for you. In high school, she’d try to strike up a conversation with you time and time again, but you were always too busy with other affairs. Rehab never offered much free time, especially when you’re still juggling history tests and graduation finals.
She’s the kind of woman who’s meant to come home to. She’d be the type of woman who'd want to adopt kids and buy a two story house on Maple St. where all the married couples go to die. Looking back at her and her light eyes, you see a future with her laid out before you. Clean cut, normal, and boring.
Sucking in a breath, you stir your milkshake, watching the strawberry pink swirl. “It’s good. Boring, a little,” you breathe a laugh, which she smiles at. “But I like boring,” you lie. “I organized all the files in the office the other day. Just by color. Then alphabetically.”
“Wow.” Her smile worsens. She takes a potato wedge and dips it into a glob of ketchup on her plate. “Exciting stuff then, huh?”
Your throat bobs at the thought. It is exciting, but for reasons she more than likely doesn’t mean. The pink swirls around your straw and all you can think of is how it felt to be scolded by them, how it felt to have them look at you with pride. Mr. Zoe and their brown eyes so full of mystery. It makes your lip twitch into a grin. “Yeah.”
People come and go in the diner, it’s a popular spot in town mainly for its online order options. In fact, you told Yelena to just pick up the food and take it back to her apartment with you—but Yelena’s traditional.
“Hey, uh, you can totally say no to this,” she starts, catching your attention and this time she’s the one to look away. Her pale cheeks grow hotter by the second. “But I told my parents about you. That we’ve been . . . like hanging out and . . . stuff. They want to meet you.”
And stuff. You’ve taken Yelena to bed three times. Each time you have to lead. You have to have her lay there while you ride a loose strap which has the tendency to slip out every few seconds. It’s decent, at best. Excruciating at worst. “You told them we’re hooking up?” You mean it as a joke, but Yelena’s smile flickers out like a dying flame.
“Well, not just hooking up, I mean,” she chuckles lightly. “We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now so, I thought—”
“Oh.” It’s reactionary, and not fully planned. “I mean . . .” Though Yelena is the kind of woman who doesn’t take hints. She needs to be told or else her hopes will prevail. You, however, are the type of woman to avoid such things. It’s easier to crush yourself than others. “Yeah.”
“Yeah . . . what?” Her finger twitches against her own milkshake—she chose chocolate.
“What did you tell your parents exactly?”
She shrugs softly. “That, uh . . . that we’re dating.”
You feel your chest tighten, not in a good way. Nevertheless . . . “We are.”
Yelena doesn’t meet your gaze immediately, she’s shyer than most, even for you. Maybe that’s what let you start these date night escapades. When she does eye you, you give her a small, reassuring smile. She doesn’t take it for granted, not a single ounce of it. In fact, she leans over the table and plants a kiss on it. A soft one, a slow one, one that lasts a few seconds in chocolate dipped cherry bliss before she can’t help but laugh out of joy on your lips.
In the aftermath, you’re too preoccupied to notice—the attorney who walks in to pick up a quick lunch. Of course they find you, they’re sure in a sea full of people they’d be able to pick you out of the crowd with ease because they see something in you. Something they don’t know what to do with, but they know only one thing. The something they see makes them wish they weren’t your employer, instead they wish they were something much more to you—not a partner, no, they wouldn’t go that far. They wish they were the brain inside your head telling you what to do and when, every second of every day. If that were the case, Mr. Zoe would make you walk straight out of this diner instead of brushing laughs off with the asshole who’s stolen your kiss.
¸.*♡*.¸
A hand slams down on your desk, hard and loud like angry thunder. “What is this?” Mr. Zoe’s voice takes on a tone you’ve never heard from them before. Even when they’re harsh, they’re still light. Though now they’re hoarse and furious. They slam a page down on your desk, a letter you typed up yesterday.
In shock, you try to pull back your headphones, your mouth gaping for words but they cut you off. “There’s three typos, one of them is a spelling error, I believe.” Each mistake is circled in thick red sharpie. When you look up at them, they’re already peering down at you. Anger stains their face, mixed with a seriousness you haven’t seen in them before. It makes your heart sink.
“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Zoe—”
“Do you know how this makes me look to my clients?” They pause, even arching a brow for a response but you don’t have one. You only have anxiety spit firing in your chest. “Keith sent over your typing scores, they’re amazing for someone your age, but this.” They take the letter back in hand harshly, not caring for how it wrinkles up in their furious grip. “And this isn’t the first time. I’ve given you grace for the first couple of weeks but I cannot have this continue, do you understand me?”
You nod weakly, gulping as you keep respectful eye contact. “Yes, sir.” Your voice wavers like a dying flame.
Mr. Zoe drops their hand, sighing deeply as if they’re actively breathing out their frustration. They set the letter back on your desk, this time not slamming, but firmly planting it. “Retype it,” they grumble before immediately walking into their office, slamming the door behind them. All that’s left is the sound of the water fountain dripping as you process what just happened.
You made a mistake. You’re not perfect.
Your lungs clench in your chest, rapidly picking up speed before you’re left choking on thin air. Like father, like daughter. The first thing you think of is liquor. Like father, like daughter, you carry a mini in your purse for times like these. It’s irresponsible. It’s a law broken after your recent five month stint in rehabilitation. Your false sober tokens slip through your fingers as you aggressively pull out your purse and unzip it, searching in a rush as your eyes sting. Mr. Zoe’s voice clings to your ears, making them go almost completely numb as you grab that mini—a pint sized bottle of clear vodka. Restlessly, impulsively, you nearly rip the cap off before taking a moment, trying for a breath deep enough but nothing seems to work. You sniffle and sniffle again, stifling a weak cry as your hands begin to shake with that bottle in hand. It’s nothing more than a pacifier as you look up at the ceiling before drawing your attention back to earth. Before drawing your attention back at the door to ensure the coast is clear. Your heart dies and sinks straight out of your body as you notice the coast is full of dark clouds and brown eyes.
The door doesn’t make noise like Keith’s. In the past couple of weeks proceeding your move, you still haven’t gotten used to that. Hange stands silently in the door, watching you with their full, undivided attention. Their lips are thinly parted in nothing but shock mixed with a grave level of morbid intrigue.
You pause like a stop motion film. The clock stops ticking and your own lips mimic theirs. It’s a tense second of dryness and embarrassment before you, slowly at first, cap the mini shut. You wipe a hand over your painted cheek before turning away from them. Quickly now, like a track runner, you shove that bottle into your purse and shove the bag under the desk before returning to your keyboard.
Hange lingers for a few seconds longer before retreating into their office in silence.
¸.*♡*.¸
There’s hesitancy in every step you take. You even linger outside their door for two whole minutes just to build up the courage to knock. There’s only silence from inside Mr. Zoe’s office and your fingers softly tremble with the paper in hand—freshly retyped, triple checked for mistakes. When your knuckles finally meet wood Hange answers instantly. “Come in.” Their voice is drowned out and it takes another few seconds to turn the metal handle.
Inside, the curtains are closed. It’s nearing the end of the work day and the only light is that of warm lamps and wall sconces. Hange doesn’t look at you immediately, not even when you approach before they order. “Shut the door behind you.” As always, you do just as they ask.
“I have the letter for you,” you tell them meekly. Paused before their desk, you go to place it down but stop—unsure if you have permission to do so. All until they hold a hand out. They’re in the middle of note taking, meeting notes as usual, so gingerly you place the page in their large palm and wait for the guillotine to drop. They don’t thank you. They don’t do anything but read. Your heart sinks when they place the letter down and pull that damned red sharpie from a desk drawer. You bite the inside of your cheek as they underline a single word—not even that, it’s a punctuation error at the very end.
You brace yourself for the cold. For the anger. You even think about what job you’ll try to find next as they stand up—though the ball never drops. You don’t have to turn to watch, you know by the clinks and clatters that they’re pouring themself over behind your back as you stare directly at that red mark. In the silence, your heart beats one pace too fast. “I-I’m sorry, sir, I’ll type it again, quickly, I—”
“Put your hands on the desk.”
It feels like the air’s been stripped from the room—sucked out and pulled directly from your lungs as your breathing falters. It stops. That beat of your heart becomes as still as a deadened lake and your eyes don’t even blink. Your muscles don’t even move, neither do they tense. Neither do you flee as—reluctant as you are—you lean forward.
The desk is cold yet smooth. It welcomes the tips of your fingers as you listen to the soft thuds of Hange’s footsteps behind you. “Palms flat,” they tell you, and you do just that. You don’t even flinch when they approach, when you feel the warmth steaming off them hitting you directly on your spine. You swear you even feel a button grate against your shoulder blade as they reach a hand around you. Slowly, they slide that letter until it sits perfectly between your straining hands. “Lower.” Their voice is soft. It’s careful yet deliberate, mimicking the way they carry themself through life.
Following their lead, you lean. Lower, and lower, until you think it’s enough—but it’s not. You’re never enough. “Lower. I want you to read it back to me.” Your lips part as your elbows meet the wood too.
They’re further away now. You don’t feel them at all as your back relaxes into the softest of an arch over their desk. The curve is hardly there as you swallow whatever’s building up in your throat. “Dear, Mr. Kirstein,” you start, as gentle as ever. “I want to thank you for your patience in regards to the rescheduling of our meeting.” You swallow again, hard as your voice gingerly shakes. “Perhaps we can take you to dinner sometime—”
A crack of thunder—this is how sudden and just how loud the sound is. It isn’t until a couple moments later that you’re able to register what’s just occurred. It’s a sharp sting followed by a subtle ache rippling across one side of your ass, melting into a tender burn underneath your skirt. A sharp gasp grumbles up your throat out of nothing but impulse, you couldn’t hold it back even if you tried with all your might.
With a whip of your neck, you find them over your shoulder, only to see nothing spreading across their face. No smile. No furrow. Not even a twitch of their lip as your mouth stays parted and your pupils flit between their stare and the hand which struck you.
Their eyes bore into you before they speak. “Keep reading.”
Slowly, you turn back to the letter. Your lips are dry so you lick them wet, buffering for a few seconds more before doing as they say. “As for our case,” your voice cracks. “Our prosecution is in our favor. It’s to our best belief—” Another crack. Another slap, this time their hand slams onto your opposite cheek and with your last word you grate another sudden gasp. Your fingers dig into the wood as the pain resonates, as the heat and prickling sting takes over. Instead of looking back, you continue without needing to be told.
“ —we’ll see an end soon. Please feel free to—” Again. This time though, the pain is dull, numbed by the rawness of your flesh turning hot as embers. Instead of a gasp, a groan expels from your throat not out of shock, but out of pleasure. “ —give our office a call back at the earliest—” Again. Another slap, another groan. “ —convenience.” This time, something darker takes them over. Hange strikes you with such force that your thighs push against the edge of the desk. So hard, it’s no longer a groan—the sound which erupts from your open mouth is a cry of nothing but enjoyment. You gulp just as hard before your now trembling hands readjust. “Sincerely, the office of Hange—” Another. “ —Zoe.”
A moment of still comes—this thick, tense stillness which aches right down to your core. You think, a normal person wouldn’t take this. A normal person would slap them across the face and resign the moment their hand touched them this way—but you aren’t normal.
“Read it again,” they demand. So, you do just that.
Word after word, sentence after sentence and slap after slap, your eyes well from a mix of shock, hurt, and guilty, disgusting, satisfaction. Your back arches into the desk nearing the end, and soon those cries turn into pure, unadulterated moans. So deep, your cheek presses against the desk as short, staggering breaths exhale from your once again dry lips. By the end, even Hange is huffing, just a little. By the end, your underwear is dampened.
Timidly, you flinch when their once thundering hand lands gently on your spine. With one single knuckle, they graze the small of your back in such a soothing way you fear your welling eyes may just spill.
“You said you didn’t drink.” Instead of nothing, their voice is full up with care. It’s soft as the low afternoon turns to twilight. When they pull away, you rise, fixing the disheveled state of your skirt. Your eyes are fixed on the ground as they round the corner of their desk.
“I lied,” you admit, ashamed as ever but they don’t scold you for it.
“Why do you drink?” Hange doesn’t sit. They wait by the opposite side of the wood, studying you carefully.
“Why do you?” You question with a subtle shrug.
They grin ever so softly, even letting a low effort laugh breathe out of their mouth. “Miss l/n.” This brings your gaze right to them. “You’re done with that now, do you understand me? From this day forward, you won’t ever drink again.”
Years of rehab, years of addiction come collapsing before you. All the late nights spent kneeled over toilets as memories fade into black. It all comes crumbling until it’s nothing at all. A nod eases without permission, and just as unconsciously, you agree. “Yes.”
Hange dismisses you, and once you shut the door you nearly run straight to the bathroom. You lock the door and stand before the mirror, just as eagerly unzipping the side of your skirt to reveal the aftermath of what’s just happened. Underneath your underwear are rising welts, hot and burning to the touch. A normal person would cry, maybe they’d weep. However, you lock yourself in a stall and pull that skirt straight down to your ankles before slipping a hand between your thighs.
¸.*♡*.¸
Yelena tries. She genuinely enjoys the way she fucks you—missonary as she heaves sweet nothings into your ear. Her eyes are closed tight yet yours are wide open, staring up at the ceiling with a mouth agape. However, when her strap slips out for the fourth time, you decide you’ve had enough.
When she kneels to readjust, you prop up on your elbows. “Let’s try something,” you suggest, garnering a hesitant smile from her. With her compliance, you slither beneath her, turning over onto your stomach. At first, her hands smooth over your hips.
“Oh—okay, sure,” she buffers, but she gives in. She doesn’t even slip the strap in all the way as she bucks. She doesn’t even tighten her grip as she begins to moan. You arch to try and entice her, but it’s no use. Not even five minutes in, you take her hand for yourself.
“Here,” you awkwardly grip her by the wrist. “Try this.” With as much force as you can muster, you bring her palm crashing down against your ass. She doesn’t say a word so you do it again and then let go, but she doesn’t continue. When you find her over your shoulder, she blankly gawks at you. “What’s wrong?”
Yelena shakes her head softly. “I-I’m sorry, I’m just a little . . .”
Frustrated. That’s the word. You sigh before pulling yourself from her. Folded on your knees, you find your bra and clasp it back on. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to . . . I don’t know, spice it up a little bit?”
“But I like things the way they are.” She places a hand on your thigh. “It’s nice. Like, loving, wouldn’t you agree?” But you have no response for her. “I don’t want to hit you.”
Frustrated, you nod your head. “Yeah, no I understand. It’s okay.” When you stand up to dress yourself, Yelena calls.
“We can still finish, if you want to.”
You feel a hint of remorse for her. However, that remorse is diminished when you remember the hot sting of Hange’s hand. “It’s okay, I’m a little tired. I have to work early tomorrow anyways.” You try to smile, you even give her a short kiss but ultimately you pull away, leaving her in the dust of your own strawberry-pink confusion.
¸.*♡*.¸
Hange’s busy this morning. Typically, they’d pause their phone calls to give you a simple greeting, but today there’s only silence. They nod their head when you bring them their coffee, other than that they hardly even look at you. As much as you try not to take it personally, you do—it’s inevitable. As inevitable as the memory of their hands on you. It comes often, during the idle moments in between phone calls and typing. During the minute it takes to wash your hands in the bathroom, the same bathroom where you quietly moaned their name over and over again. It’s pathetic, you think. As pathetic as how fast your head turns when the door to their office opens wide. By the grace of God, they look at you and smile softly.
“Sorry, I had to take care of quite a mess today,” they explain, easing your clenched up heart. Your shoulders lax at once.
“It’s okay . . . Is everything alright?”
Hange sighs as they lean onto one side of the door frame. As per usual, their hands slip perfectly into their front pockets. White and black are the colors for today—you decide they look best in a white button up. “Mr. Kirstein . . . In lay terms, he fucked up.”
Your lips part, flashing a small grin because the only emotion you feel is uncertainty. “Oh . . .” Habitually, your fingers curl around the tight seam of your skirt. “Is there any way I can help?”
Hange smiles again, though their eyes travel down your blouse before meeting your gaze once more. “No, Miss l/n. You’re a sweet girl.” Shock hits you again, that same kind of astonishment which first appeared the moment they ordered you over their desk. For a moment, you wonder if they even remember it. The way they act, it’s as if nothing ever happened at all. You debate this until they call your name ever so softly. “I want to apologize to you.” The strain of your fingers tighten. Instead of dropping like yours, their eyes stay directly on you, on every single reaction you have. “The other day . . . I don’t know what came over me.”
Word vomit comes up your throat. “No, Mr. Zoe, there’s no need I—”
“It was irrevocably inappropriate. I’d understand if you’d like a reassignment for your positi—”
“No.” Instead of meek, you’re stern. Your voice isn’t soft, it’s straight-edged and loud—just how they taught you to be. You meet their stare at once and finally, you elicit the expression of shock out of them. “I don’t want that.”
And Hange does as Keith never had. “Why?”
There’s only one answer—one they didn’t expect, yet it’s the single answer they dearly hoped for. “I don’t want it to stop.”
Hange smiles small, soft, rounded at the edges of their creased cheeks. “That’s good to hear. I hope you know, all you have to say is stop.”
“I know. I trust you.”
They straighten up. “I’m well aware of that, my dear.” Your heart flutters, not out of uncertainty anymore. You’d be a fool to doubt them now. It flutters the same as your stomach as they order you for a few copies and recoil back into their office.
¸.*♡*.¸
A week later to the day, Hange calls you into their office just before closing. One week of wondering, aching, for the moment they’d strike a red sharpie across your letters. It never comes. When you step inside the curtains are open but the day is dark. The windows only offer a reflection, not the night time sky. You try for a glance of the moon but nothing else is more important than this—Hange’s leaning back against the front of their desk, one ankle over the other and for a second there’s a glimmer coming off their shiny loafers. Today they’re black on black with a hint of brown plaid for a suit vest, nothing more and nothing less. They seem excited when you enter.
“It’s cold today, isn’t it?” But it’s not. The day is humid, however that doesn’t matter. You nod because Hange deemed it so.
“Yes.” They pop something into their mouth, chewing with a shear jaw as they pat once on the meat of their thigh.
“Come in, I won’t bite.”
A part of you wants to leave the door open. It’s the right professional thing to do. Though, another part of you, the part which gnaws at the back of your knee as they suck a stem clean, closes it shut.
“I’d offer you a drink,” they admit as you stop a few feet away. “But you’re done with that now, correct?” It’s a test.
“I am.”
The smile they wear has an undertone to it—it’s not just joy, it’s satisfaction, it’s knowing they’re in control. “That’s my girl. Here.” Their brows knit. “Sorry, help yourself if you’d like.” In a small wooden bowl is a mound of cherries. They hold it out yet your eyes lock on the vein prodding near their thumb. You take. The bowl sets back down with a soft thud as they shift slightly. The cherries are fresh and a deep red, large mouth filling as they twirl a clean stem between two fingers. You chew with their eyes on you before they break the silence. “You know . . .” They bring that stem to eye level, studying it carefully. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to tie these things.”
The thought of it appears perfectly in your head—Hange and their tongue. It makes you shake a breath out after you swallow. “I’ve always wondered how people—”
“Can you do it for me?” Hange drops the stem into the bowl before gripping their hands on the edge of their desk. Between your own fingers, you twirl the stem like they had, completely dumbfounded once again.
“I don’t know how.”
“Can you do it for me.” This time, it’s not a question, it’s a demand. All at once you’re stripped from the present to the past because the way they look at you is the same expression they gave when they bent you over. Instead of trepidation, you feel excitement.
“I can try,” you’re soft.
“Please.” They aren’t begging, not fully. It’s as if they knew you’d fold with no need for a push.
You’re reluctant at first. The same way you had, you move slowly as if each motion is under a microscope—it is. Hange watches like you’re the most fascinating discovery in the world as you bring that stem to your lips. Gazes locked, you clasp it against your tongue and sew your mouth shut. Hange crosses one arm over their chest, a board to prop the other elbow up as their hand grazes their chin, their jaw, then down their neck as they watch your cheeks hollow then fill, over and over again. You manage enough, struggling but in the matter of three minutes you’re able to push one end through a loop, however, that loop is almost the same circumference as your tongue. You try to tug it shut, but there’s no use. You’re stuck at a dead end and you feel like Hange can tell.
“I can’t pull it tight,” you admit.
“Are you sure?” They’re immediate, and they furrow with a fist under their chin. You just give them a nod. As abruptly as they stand, you hold your breath. The heat. The sting. You expect a strike but all you receive is a thumb under your chin, gently drawing your mouth open. With a slight curve of their spine they examine you like their orchids. You ponder if they’d pull out a pick all the same although they simply grasp your chin instead. “Stick your tongue out for me.” Hange isn’t loud, they don’t need to be to make you submit. The loose knot of a stem glistens in your mouth with one end dangling off the tip. “Bite down.” Their voice is near a whisper, it could make you melt as you follow along.
There’s nothing to expect. Every day working for Mr. Zoe has proven a new, baffling experience. So when Hange leans in, you don’t know what to do. By the tip of their front teeth, they take the opposite end of the stem and pull back slowly. Their lips never touch yours but it feels like they do, as the air stops dead in your lungs until your chest burns all together. They tug it tight until there’s no more room to give.
It’s involuntary, the way your breath trembles lightly through your strained jaw. They don’t eye you, mere inches away they stare, they study, your lips and the firm bite of your teeth. When they finally meet your dried gaze, you know without needing to be told. Letting go, they eagerly take the stem into their own mouth, onto their own tongue as they back. With a thumb and finger they strip that stem—not before sucking it dry in one go—once again twirling it, watching it as if it’s some newfound phenomenon. They let a closed mouth smile crease their cheeks before dropping the knot into the bowl with the rest. “I was right,” they state, hoarseness dripping from their voice.
Your hands go for the neatly tucked in billow of your blouse. For a moment, you have to reteach yourself how to talk. “About what?”
Hange returns how they once were—leaned with ankles crossed but now they do the same with their arms before looking your way. “You’re sweet.” They let it simmer for just a few seconds more. “Get home safe, Miss l/n.” They speak as if they haven’t just split your world in two, as if your fingers aren’t stiff and the air isn’t burning hot. Hange casually pops another cherry in their mouth before standing and cornering their desk, packing up their day's work as you stand there like a jaw-dropped bystander. To you, however, you know damn well you’ll never be the same again.
¸.*♡*.¸