Claire’s head suddenly cocked, still straddling Rachel, her sweaty hair swirling around her shoulders. “Did you hear that?” she whispered.

“That’s not funny,” Rachel panted, her body still trembling from the aftershocks, the words barely forming past her dry lips.

But Claire wasn’t smiling anymore. The low hum of the office lights filled the silence. Then—there it was again. A distant thud. A door shutting somewhere down the corridor.

Claire’s heartbeat seemed to sync with Rachel’s, both racing in the hush of the after-hours office.

“Someone’s here,” Claire murmured, her voice suddenly small, her usual confidence fraying at the edges.

Rachel pushed at her, breathless. “Get off—now.”

They scrambled apart, the sound of fabric shifting loud enough to make them wince. Rachel’s blouse hung open; Claire’s skirt was wrinkled beyond saving. They looked at each other—disheveled, flushed, wild—and something between panic and laughter flickered in their eyes.

“Do you think it’s security?” Claire asked, running a hand through her hair in vain.

“Or the cleaning staff,” Rachel hissed, tucking her shirt back in with shaking hands. “Either way, if anyone sees us...”

She stopped. The sound of footsteps grew louder, a steady rhythm, echoing across the empty floor.

Claire reached for Rachel’s hand without thinking, fingers trembling as they gripped. Rachel shot her a glare, but didn’t pull away.

“This way,” Rachel whispered, tugging her toward the copy room. They slipped inside, closing the door just as the lights outside brightened, a sensor triggered by movement.

Through the narrow glass panel, they could see a faint silhouette: a man in coveralls pushing a mop bucket. The janitor. He moved methodically from desk to desk, humming quietly to himself.

Claire leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath. The scent of toner and warm paper filled the small space.

Rachel pressed her back to the opposite wall, eyes fixed on the doorway. Her pulse refused to slow.

“Well,” Claire murmured, the edge of a grin returning despite everything, “that was close.”

Rachel shot her a look sharp enough to cut. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” Claire said, but her smirk said otherwise. “I think it’s exhilarating.”

Rachel opened her mouth to retort, but then Claire stepped forward. The light from the window sliced across her face, catching in her eyes. She looked different now. Softer. Uncertain, even.

Concern creased Rachel’s forehead at Claire’s approach. “What are you…? D-don’t… he might hear,” she hissed.

Claire didn’t respond. She closed the gap between them in a moment, gently pressing a lithe, well-manicured finger against Rachel’s lips. The smell of their passion rose sharply, inflaming Rachel’s senses.

Claire looked deeply into Rachel’s eyes.

Past Rachel’s eyes.

Her breath was slow, deep, almost hypnotic.

Claire lifted her finger from Rachel’s lips, brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, and tenderly ran her fingers through it. She bit her lower lip in consideration before she smiled and brought those lips within a millimetre of Rachel’s.

“I know… so we’d better be quiet,” Claire whispered, pressing her warm lips into Rachel’s.

Rachel, wide-eyed, raised her hands to push Claire away. Was she insane? This was their careers. Everything they’d worked for, separately, fiercely. They couldn’t. She couldn’t. Rachel gripped Claire’s hip, fingers tense, ready to shove her off until she felt Claire’s tongue slip between her lips and tangle with her own.

Rachel moaned as pushing turned into pulling. Her hand slid back, bunching Claire’s skirt and grabbing warm, slick skin.

Claire muffled a half-chuckle, half-moan at Rachel’s response. Her hand immediately untucked and pushed aside Rachel’s ruined shirt. She used Rachel’s spine as an upward guide to her bra. She skillfully undid the clasps and freed Rachel’s breasts in one fluid motion. Then she reached behind herself and performed the same trick.

“Fuck,” Rachel purred as they pressed into each other. Electricity ping-ponged between them each time their hard nipples met.

The room suddenly felt tiny and stiflingly hot, as though they needed to fuse together to avoid being crushed. Neither noticed the distant sounds of the janitor whistling along to some unheard tune.

Claire dragged her lips away from Rachel’s, down over her chin. Rachel’s head shot back as Claire slid lower, kissing and sucking along her throat. She lingered just long enough to bite Rachel’s collarbone, giving them matching red marks.

Rachel bit her cheek to keep from wailing as Claire descended on her breast. A perfect flick of her tongue, a hungry suck, teeth dragging along her sensitive nipple with just the right pressure.

Rachel felt manicured nails trail up her thigh, leaving minuscule red lines behind. She tasted copper on her tongue when two fingers found her clit and began circling in short, rapid motions.

Claire was relentless. Rachel’s body curled and contracted. Involuntary spasms made her legs tremble in her high heels. She didn’t dare breathe, though all she wanted to do was scream as her orgasm crested.

Desperate, Rachel grabbed Claire’s head and buried her face in her hair in a vain attempt to muffle her sobbing orgasm.

Claire shut her eyes and smiled, even as she bit her cheek to keep from screaming when Rachel tugged at her hair.

A long, shattering moment later, Rachel eased her grip, and Claire slowed her fingers to a stop.

Claire rose to her feet, an exhilarated smile plastered on her face. Her eyes were alight with passion and something else. Something deeper.

Rachel missed it. Her head was still bowed until Claire gently lifted it.

“You’re shaking,” Claire whispered.

Rachel’s throat worked as she swallowed hard. “Adrenaline,” she said, though it didn’t sound convincing.

Claire’s fingers brushed hers again, tentative this time, almost apologetic. “You don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Rachel wanted to scoff, to say something sharp, to remind Claire she was her rival, not her, whatever this was. But the words stuck. Because the truth was, she was afraid. Not of being caught. Of what they’d started.

Outside, the janitor’s humming drifted closer. They saw his shadow pass the glass.

Rachel held her breath. Claire did too. The moment stretched impossibly long, hearts hammering.

When the footsteps finally receded, Rachel exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping her. “We’re insane.”

Claire grinned faintly. “Maybe. But at least we’re alive.”

She moved closer again, the faint scent of her perfume threading through the air—jasmine, warmth, danger. Rachel could feel the heat radiating between them even now, though she tried not to.

“This doesn’t leave this room,” Rachel said quietly, her tone firm again. “What happened… it was a mistake.”

Claire’s smile faltered for only a moment. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”

Rachel’s jaw tightened. “I mean it.”

Claire nodded, stepping back. But the glimmer in her eyes hadn’t faded. “You can mean it all you want, Rachel. Doesn’t make it true.”

The silence between them thickened again, but differently now—charged with the memory of what had happened and the knowledge that neither could undo it.

A soft beep came from Rachel’s computer in the other room. The janitor had moved on. The danger had passed.

But neither of them moved toward the door.

When Rachel finally did, Claire followed. They stepped back into the office, the hum of the lights returning like an old refrain. Everything looked normal again, except for the scattered papers, the overturned chair, the faint imprint on Rachel’s desk where Claire’s hand had been.

Rachel started gathering things mechanically. Claire stood watching her.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Claire said softly.

Rachel froze. “Pretend what?”

“That you didn’t feel it.”

Rachel’s eyes met hers across the room. For a long moment, neither looked away. Then Rachel sighed, straightened her jacket, and said, “Goodnight, Claire.”

She turned and walked out.

Claire stood there a while, alone in the flickering office light, her smirk fading into something unreadable. Then, slowly, she sat on the edge of Rachel’s desk, fingers tracing the grain of the wood where moments before, something electric had sparked.

She smiled to herself, quiet, dangerous, certain.

“This isn’t over,” she whispered.

Outside, the city lights gleamed through the glass, as though they already knew she was right.