Baby Latika
The midnight office was a cathedral of silence, broken only by the soft hum of the dormant computers and the frantic rhythm of my own heart. He stood by the large window, the city lights painting his profile in silver and shadow, and when his gaze met mine, the air grew thick with unspoken words. His fingers, as they gently brushed a stray lock of hair from my cheek, were surprisingly warm, sending a cascade of shivers down my spine. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, a silent promise that drew me closer than professional decorum ever allowed. The scent of his cologne, a faint mix of sandalwood and rain, became my entire world as he leaned in, his breath a soft whisper against my skin. My hands trembled as they found the coarse wool of his suit jacket, clinging to him like a anchor in a rising, emotional tide. In that suspended moment, every lingering glance and charged silence from long days converged into this single, breathless point. A soft, yearning sigh escaped my lips as his forehead rested against mine, a gesture of startling tenderness that made my eyes sting with unshed tears. The world outside, with all its rules and reasons, melted into the distant glow of the skyline, irrelevant and far away. This was no longer about titles or hierarchy, but a raw, aching connection that left us both exposed and utterly, profoundly found.
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