Franz Sauer x Reader
The Edge of Fire 🔥 SMUT
Enemies to Lovers, Reader is a british spy (instead of Hugh Legat)
[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]
Borowski und das Haupt der Medusa
Robert Frost x Reader
Shy Eyes and Sugar Cubes 🔥 SMUT
AU: Robert lives alone, he is just a virgin nerd, not a killer, lol
[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9]
Robert Frost x Reader
Sun & Syntax 🔥 SMUT
Same AU: Robert lives alone, he is just a virgin nerd, not a killer
[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] WORK IN PROGRESS
Inglourious Basterds
Dieter Hellstrom x Reader
Smoke & Celluloid
[1] [2] [3]WORK IN PROGRESS (will be smut)
Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Dieter Hellstrom / F!Reader
Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers
Part 8/?
He didn’t remember walking back to the car.
Didn’t remember the streets of Paris folding around him, the sound of boots on pavement, the theater door clicking behind him like a shot.
All he remembered was you.
The flicker of your face under projection light. The shadows carved by the reel’s spin. The soft burn of your breath so close to his mouth he could almost taste it.
He hadn’t meant to get that close.
He hadn’t.
But something in him — low, animal, buried deep beneath the clean black of his uniform — had clawed up from the dark.
He’d wanted to crush you.
To clamp you down.
To bite.
The thought struck him hard, left him breathless.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter. His gloves creaked.
He wanted to break you. To shatter the cool edge of your defiance and see what spilled out underneath. Your pride, your fire — your resistance — it made his blood burn with a fever he couldn’t name.
No one looked at him like that.
No one dared.
You mocked him. Defied him. Played him like he was the fool. While others cowered, you rolled your eyes. While women tried to flirt, to touch, to please—you called him a war criminal with a sarcastic smile.
And he should’ve hated you for it.
He did.
Didn’t he?
Then why couldn’t he stop imagining you pinned against the projection room wall, breathless and furious beneath him, still biting back insults even as he ripped the lie from your throat?
You want her afraid, he told himself.
But the truth scratched at him like rusted nails.
No. He wanted your present.
Alert. Alive. Staring into him with those impossible eyes, even as his hands left bruises where no one else would see.
Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Dieter Hellstrom / F!Reader
Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers
Part 7/?
The knock came just as you finished threading the film reel for the afternoon show.
Sharp. Measured. You didn’t need to open the door to know who it was. No one else knocked like they were already inside.
You smoothed your skirt, rolled your shoulders back, and opened the door.
There he was.
Sturmbannführer Hellstrom.
And this time, he wasn’t alone.
Three officers stood behind him — two young, one older, all grinning like they’d been promised wine and spectacle. Their boots glistened. Their eyes scanned your face, then your hips, then the dark of the cinema behind you.
“Fräulein,” Dieter said coolly, tipping his hat. “We’re in need of your hospitality.”
“Don’t you always,” you muttered.
One of the officers chuckled. “Is that how you talk to all your guests, or just to Dieter?”
“Only the ones who think they own the air.”
You stepped aside without another word, letting them in — even though every part of you recoiled. They trailed in like shadows, the stench of smoke and cologne cutting through the usual scent of old film and waxed wood.
The theater was empty, just the way they wanted it.
A private screening, they said.
Of course it was.
The projector whirred to life moments later, casting grainy black-and-white images across the screen. Marching boots. German banners. Blonde smiles and iron crosses.
You didn’t watch.
You sat near the back, arms folded, jaw set, gaze burning through the wall.
And he kept watching you.
Even when the others laughed at the scenes, made crude jokes about the girls onscreen, whispered among themselves — he said nothing.
But his eyes never left you.
You were always colder when others were around.
He wasn’t sure if it was armor or a knife — something to protect yourself or something meant to cut.
Either way, it worked.
You hadn’t looked at the screen once. Not even for show. You sat like a statue, lips drawn tight, expression carved from indifference.
That alone irritated his colleagues.
They didn’t know you the way he did.
They shouldn’t.
“She doesn’t like German cinema?” Müller said with a smirk, nudging him.
“I don’t think she likes Germans,” Lang replied, grinning.
The eldest officer — Eberhardt, something of a bore — raised his brows. “Perhaps she’s resisting your charm, Hellstrom. Maybe you’re the reason she’s so icy.”
More laughter.
Dieter didn’t move.
“I’m not trying to charm her,” he said quietly.
Another chuckle.
“No?” Müller leaned in. “Could’ve fooled us. You’ve been at this little theater more than any brothel in the city. Don’t tell me you're chasing a lost cause.”
That struck something deep in his chest.
Not anger.
But something sharper.
Am I?
He turned his head slightly, catching your profile in the flicker of the screen. The angle of your jaw. The way your fingers dug into your sleeve.
So poised. So fucking poised. It infuriated him.
He stood without a word, stepping away from the others, toward the edge of the row — toward you.
You didn’t look up as he approached. Didn’t flinch.
He stopped just beside you, voice low enough that only you could hear.
“Tell me, Fräulein, what’s more difficult for you—pretending to be someone you’re not… or pretending I don’t affect you?”
Finally, you looked at him.
That look. Dry. Disgusted. Dangerous.
“You mistake nausea for attraction, Hauptsturmführer,” you said evenly.
He stared at you for one long, hot second.
Then turned, still expressionless — but inside?
Something clawed at his chest like fire under glass.
---
The officers filtered out, still laughing.
“We’ll leave you to your little courtship,” Lang joked as he passed, clapping Dieter on the shoulder. “Let us know when the wedding is.”
Dieter didn’t respond.
He simply watched them leave — one by one — their voices fading into the echoing corridors of the theater. The silence afterward was almost reverent. Sacred.
He adjusted his gloves, slowly. Deliberately.
Then turned and slipped into the shadows.
No footsteps. No sound but the distant purr of the projector.
He knew exactly where you'd be.
The projection room was your sanctuary.
A narrow little box above the seats, lined with spools of old film, the familiar scent of oil and dust and celluloid thick in the air. You leaned against the table, arms crossed, letting the light of the reel wash over you in rhythmic flashes.
You could still hear the soldiers’ laughter echoing down the stairwell.
God, you hated them.
You hated him.
And yet…
You felt him before you heard him.
You didn’t flinch.
You just said, flatly, “Didn’t get enough of the Third Reich on the big screen?”
His voice came from the shadows.
“I told them I had something to finish.”
The door clicked softly shut.
You didn’t turn around.
“Let me guess,” you said. “A last chance to sniff around for hidden sins? Or is this another attempt at psychological warfare? Shall I faint now, or later?”
His footsteps moved closer.
Deliberate. Measured.
“No,” he said, voice quieter now. “No games.”
You finally turned — and found him too close.
Just a breath away. Closer than anyone should stand unless they meant to kiss or kill.
His face was half-lit by the flickering reel — jaw sharp, eyes unreadable, hat gone, dark hair damp from the heat. The tight black of his uniform seemed almost painted on, sharp angles catching flashes of silver as the light cycled.
You could feel his breath on your cheek.
Low. Steady. Too steady.
He stared at you like you were a riddle he was desperate to solve — one he hated himself for needing.
“You want me to crack?” you said, voice cool but quieter now. “Is that it? You want me afraid, desperate, shaking?”
His voice was like crushed velvet. “I want the truth.”
“And what will you do with it, Hauptsturmführer?” you whispered. “Frame it? Burn it? Or kiss it when no one’s looking?”
That hit him.
He didn’t blink.
He moved even closer.
You could feel his chest brush yours with each shallow breath.
His hand rose — slowly — not touching, but hovering near your jaw, trembling almost imperceptibly before he clenched it into a fist and pulled it back.
“You think I want you,” he said, low and bitter. “You think this is weakness.”
“No,” you murmured, lips just inches from his. “I think it’s war.”
For a second — just one — the air between your mouths felt electric.
Your clouded gaze was glued to his lips, your pulse started pounding in your ears.
It seemed like in another moment he would lean lower towards your face. It seemed like he would crash his lips with yours just right now...
But then he stepped back.
Cold mask back in place.
“Consider the screening complete,” he said tightly.
Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Dieter Hellstrom / F!Reader
Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers
Part 6/?
You slammed the door of the projection room hard enough to rattle the reels.
The lights were dim, humming faintly above your head. Familiar. Safe. But your skin still itched with the phantom of his breath near your neck.
You hated it.
You hated him.
And you hated the way your body betrayed you.
You paced between the narrow metal shelves, hands in your hair, breath shallow. The silence here usually brought peace — the gentle ticking of old machines, the dust and celluloid, the ghost of dialogue in the walls. But now? It pressed against you like a vice.
“If I touched you…”
You stopped pacing.
Pressed your fingers hard into your temples.
He didn’t. He didn’t. He just wanted to scare you.
You weren’t flustered. You weren’t blushing. You were furious. Enraged. Embarrassed that you’d shown even an inch of reaction. He wanted power. He fed on it. You gave him a spark, and now he thought he had fire.
You muttered under your breath — curses in two languages, your fists tight, your teeth clenched.
Tomorrow, you would see him again.
And you would act like nothing happened.
Even if you hadn’t slept.
Even if you still felt that gaze behind your ribs.
Even if your heart wouldn’t shut up.
---
The lamp on his desk flickered slightly, casting long shadows against the sharp lines of his uniform coat, now draped carefully over the chair.
He sat stiffly, white shirt collar unbuttoned, tie loosened but still in place — as if relaxing fully would somehow unravel the last thread of control he had.
He hadn’t touched his drink.
His hands were clasped in front of him, fingers steepled, unmoving.
His thoughts were not.
They looped like film, again and again.
That village. That house. The seamless lie that smelled like lavender and Eucharist.
Your voice. Your mouth. The way you knew he was watching you, and still walked like you weren’t prey.
And that moment in the car — God.
He shouldn’t have leaned in.
He shouldn’t have said it.
But he had.
And the worst part?
You had heard him.
You didn’t flinch. Didn’t stammer. But your breath caught. Just once. Just enough.
And now he couldn’t stop thinking about it.
He told himself it was professional. A tactic. Psychological pressure. A chess game.
It wasn’t.
It wasn’t just suspicion anymore. It wasn’t just the strange pleasure of cornering something clever. It was obsession — something buried under skin and teeth.
He wanted to make you fold.
He wanted you real.
Not the performance.
Not the act.
But the woman beneath it — whatever you were.
He pushed back from the desk, slowly, methodically, standing to his full height. He picked up his coat, smoothed the fabric with mechanical precision, then hung it on the rack by the window.
Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Dieter Hellstrom / F!Reader
Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers
Part 5/?
The car hummed steadily beneath you as it slipped out of Paris, swallowing the countryside in a blur of green and gray. You kept your eyes on the road ahead, jaw set, heart clenched like a fist in your chest.
He hadn’t spoken since they left the city limits. That was somehow worse than when he did.
Your thoughts raced behind your still expression.
Your parents — Daniel and Esther, now “Jean and Marianne” — had lived this legend for years. Church-going, rosary-wearing, French-speaking farmers in a sleepy village near Paris. Their hands were always dirty, their clothes simple, their crucifixes always in plain view. On Sundays, your father rang the church bell with calloused fingers while your mother lit candles with a bowed head.
No one had ever suspected them.
Until now.
Until him.
Your hands sat motionless on your lap, nails digging faintly into your palm. From the corner of your eye, you saw him watching you. Not obviously. He was still, composed, staring straight ahead — but that presence was all over the car. Like cold fog creeping through a crack in the door.
Then, of course, he spoke.
“You didn’t seem surprised when I told you we were leaving Paris.”
You kept your gaze on the window.
“I’ve learned not to be surprised by petty men with unchecked authority.”
A pause.
You could feel his eyes now.
“I’ll assume that’s the sarcasm you use to protect yourself,” he said.
You turned your head slowly, giving him the most unimpressed look you could manage. “No, Sturmbannführer, that’s just my personality.”
His jaw flexed. You caught the flicker of it under that absurdly perfect cheekbone.
“I’m beginning to wonder,” he said, voice cool, “if your temperament is natural or a side effect of hiding something.”
You leaned your head back against the seat. “You’re not my first unpleasant man in a uniform, you know. But you’re certainly the most persistent.”
That struck something in him. You saw the twitch of muscle near his mouth again. Not quite anger. Not yet.
Annoyance.
Frustration.
Interest.
He didn’t understand you — and that drove him mad. Every other woman threw themselves into smiles, dipped their heads, batted lashes. You'd seen it. Café girls who fluttered at his sleeve, murmuring in soft accents. Women who pursued his attention like it was a prize.
But you?
You looked at him like he was a walking paper cut.
He hated that.
And you hated that he noticed.
“You play a dangerous game,” he said finally, voice low.
You turned back to the window. “So do you.”
The rest of the drive settled into tense silence again. But not empty silence — the kind that hums with unsaid things, with things buried and rotting and dangerous.
Your parents would be ready. You knew they would.
But you also knew:
He was getting closer.
And the closer he got, the harder it became to keep your hands from trembling when no one was looking.
---
The village crept into view like something out of an old postcard — quiet stone houses, crooked fences, ivy on everything. The road narrowed, lined with flickering birch trees. Spring hung soft in the air, but you felt nothing but ice in your chest.
He hadn’t said another word since the last venomous exchange. You were glad. Every breath in that car felt like you were sharing a coffin.
Then the vehicle slowed.
Your parents’ house sat just off the church square — small, wooden, with a tidy little garden out front. Harmless. Forgettable. Perfect.
But not when an SS car rolled up at the gate.
You saw the front door open before the engine even died.
Your mother stepped outside, wiping her hands on her apron. Her smile was natural — but her eyes found yours first.
You gave the slightest shake of your head. Don’t react.
She didn’t.
Then your father appeared behind her, shoulders square, face set in the same mild, pleasant expression he wore every Sunday. He looked right past the officer’s black uniform like it was a cloud in the sky.
You stepped out of the car first.
“Surprise,” you said dryly.
Your mother didn’t miss a beat. “Ah! Finally bringing a gentleman home. I was starting to worry!”
Dieter stepped out then — tall, composed, hat still in place — and your mother’s smile barely shifted as she added, “Welcome, monsieur.”
He clicked his boots politely. “Madame. Monsieur.”
The moment hung in the air.
And then it passed.
Like smoke.
He hated places like this.
Too quiet. Too clean. Everyone too polite. Too smooth.
There was always something underneath.
He followed her through the gate, eyes trailing over every flower pot, every shutter. No mess. No clutter. No trace of panic.
The woman — your mother — was warm and open. Blue dress. Clean apron. Cross around her neck, not too flashy. The father had the kind of face that belonged to every farmer in every painting: sun-darkened, blank, sturdy.
They didn’t stammer. Didn’t overcompensate.
That annoyed him.
He wanted discomfort. Fear. He got tea and smiles.
They invited him in without hesitation. The house was cool and smelled of bread. A crucifix above the door. Candles near the mantel. A Bible on the table — bookmarked and worn.
They lived the role down to the bones.
He sipped the drink offered to him and listened.
“So, monsieur, what brings you so far from the city?” your father asked in French, voice light but respectful.
“I’m just confirming a few things,” Dieter said, equally light.
“About what?”
“Your daughter,” he answered, not looking at you. “She fascinates me.”
A slight shift in the air.
But the parents didn’t miss a beat.
“Oh, well, she’s always had an… independent spirit,” your mother said with a soft chuckle.
“Sharp tongue,” your father added. “But a good girl. Attends church even when I don’t ring the bell on time.”
He asked more after that. Where they were born. How long they’d lived here. Which saint the church was named after. What they planted in spring. Their favorite hymns.
Every question was met with answers so seamless, so convincingly mundane, it made his teeth itch.
He wanted cracks.
Instead, he got scripture quotes and gardening advice.
You sat across from him, eyes half-lidded, bored, legs crossed, like this was all just another day.
But he knew better.
There was tension in you — just not the kind he expected.
It wasn’t fear. It was fury. Contained, biting, breathing under your skin.
He could see it.
And somehow, he kept finding it beautiful.
---
They left the village as the sky bruised with the first hints of dusk, that soft gold bleeding into violet. He said nothing as the car pulled away, the gravel crunching under the tires like brittle bones.
You hadn’t said goodbye.
Not properly.
A nod to your mother. A hand on your father’s arm. Then you’d slipped into the car without a word to him.
Typical.
He sat beside you again, hands folded neatly on his lap, posture impeccable. But his throat was tight. Jaw locked. Every muscle tense beneath the pristine fabric of his uniform.
You were so quiet now.
Not your usual defiant silence, not the cocky mask. This was different. Still. Contained. But not defeated.
You weren’t afraid.
You should’ve been.
You should’ve.
But instead, you sat there, watching the blur of trees like they had nothing to do with you. As if you hadn’t just walked a tightrope in front of him — and your family hadn’t just lied through their teeth with a performance so flawless it could make a priest weep.
And yet…
His hands itched.
Not from anger.
From want.
Not desire. Not lust. Something darker. A need to break through your silence, to press you down until you looked at him like everyone else did. Not with scorn. Not with teeth. With fear. With recognition.
His eyes drifted over you slowly — over the curve of your jaw, the pale line of your throat, the pulse just visible beneath the skin. What it would feel like if he just squeezed his palm on that throat... Just a little...
He didn’t realize he’d leaned closer until you spoke.
“Enjoy the show?”
Your voice broke the silence like glass.
You didn’t look at him. You didn’t need to. You felt him — too close, leaning in just slightly, his shoulder inches from yours in the back seat.
And his gaze — heavy, suffocating.
But you wouldn’t flinch.
“You looked like you were having the time of your life,” you added, eyes still fixed on the road.
He didn’t answer right away. But the air had shifted.
Thicker.
Then, softly — too soft:
“You’re very good at lying.”
You turned your head toward him. Slowly.
“Better than you are at catching them.”
A pause.
His eyes met yours. Unblinking.
There was something in them now — something you hadn’t seen before. Not rage. Not smugness. Something deeper. Almost confused.
Like he was angry that you still weren’t broken.
That he couldn’t figure you out.
“You act like you’re untouchable,” he murmured.
“And you act like you don’t care that you’re obsessed,” you shot back.
That hit something.
His hand twitched against his thigh, a flicker of restraint cracking.
Then he leaned in closer.
Too close.
His voice was so low it barely vibrated between you.
“If I touched you,” he hissed, “you’d feel it for days.”
Your breath caught — for just a second. Your eyes widened.
He saw it.
And that, somehow, gave him power again.
But when he pulled back, his face was blank. The perfect, cold porcelain mask.
No trace of the man who had almost lost control.
The car kept moving.
And you sat there, pulse hammering in your throat, furious that it had affected you — even for a moment.
Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Dieter Hellstrom / F!Reader
Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers
Part 4/?
He came in without knocking. Again.
It was late — too late for inspections. The cinema had emptied hours ago. Shadows stretched long across the walls, the projector silent now. You were behind the counter, closing the day’s books when the door creaked open and that familiar silhouette filled the frame.
Black uniform. Hat angled low, casting a shadow over his eyes. His coat hung perfectly — tailored within an inch of precision — the kind of fit that spoke of control, of vanity, of power he wore.
Dieter Hellstrom didn’t walk — he arrived.
You didn’t look up. Not right away.
“You should consider buying a ticket next time,” you said, voice flat. “Or is breaking and entering included in SS training?”
He didn’t smile. Not fully. Just the faint curve of something too cold to be amusement.
“You always have such sharp words for someone with nothing to hide,” he said, walking closer, boots silent over the worn floorboards.
You shut the ledger softly.
“And you always come back for more,” you said, meeting his gaze at last. “Starting to think you’re in love with me, Sturmbannführer.”
His mouth twitched — not in pleasure. It irritated him, that edge in your voice. That audacity. But he didn’t back down.
Instead, he removed his hat slowly, tucking it under one arm. His hair was perfectly parted, not a strand out of place. Eyes like winter glass — sharp and unreadable — now fully visible without the brim.
There was heat in them.
Not desire.
Not yet.
Something worse.
Fixation.
“You’re very clever,” he said, softly. “But clever people are often the first to slip.”
You leaned an elbow against the counter, deliberately casual. “I’d say the same about obsessive men with too much free time.”
That earned a pause. A long one.
Then he stepped closer.
Too close.
“Where is your family?” he asked. Calmly. Almost gently — and that made it worse.
You didn’t blink. “Outside Paris. Small village. My parents are farmers. Very dull.”
He tilted his head. “Farmers?”
You nodded, voice cool as the stone floor. “Yes. And church workers. My mother tends to the altar. My father rings bells. Very devout. You should visit — they’ll pray for your soul.”
His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did. Rigid. Controlled.
“And you?” he asked. “Are you devout?”
You smiled. Sweet. Poisoned. “Oh, I pray every night.”
A slow breath escaped his nose.
You could feel it then — the heat coiled under his stillness. He told himself it was scorn. Irritation. The natural reaction of a man whose authority was constantly, boldly, mocked.
But that wasn’t it.
Not really.
Because when you smiled at him like that — tired and razor-edged and amused by the whole dance — something dark in him twisted.
He wanted to shake you loose.
He wanted to see what you looked like without the mask.
And that, more than anything, made him furious.
“I think,” he said slowly, “your mask is slipping.”
You stepped from behind the counter, walking past him without a glance.
“It’s not a mask,” you said over your shoulder. “I’m just not afraid of men who ask too many questions and drink lukewarm coffee in cafés.”
He turned to follow you with his gaze, jaw tight.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
You didn’t stop walking.
“Of course you will,” you muttered. “Like a mosquito.”
You moved like you knew the weight of his eyes — and didn’t care.
You were all silence and teeth, wit sharp as a blade tucked into silk. You answered questions like they bored her, like he was the one wasting time.
But every answer was calculated.
And every lie? Beautifully crafted.
He should be angry. He was angry.
But beneath it… was something that felt dangerously close to desire.
It wasn’t attraction. Not in the soft, human sense. It was a need to unmake her.
To see the truth beneath that unbearable sarcasm, that icy defiance.
He told himself she was a threat.
But part of him knew:
He just couldn’t stop.
---
The wind tugged at the corners of the film posters as you smoothed them against the brick wall outside the cinema. Your fingers, stained faintly with glue, pressed down on Greta Garbo’s painted eyes. Just another Wednesday. Just another performance.
Then you heard it.
The low, familiar growl of a car engine.
You turned — and your stomach dropped a few degrees.
The SS vehicle came to a slow, deliberate stop in front of the building. Black. Polished. Heavy with silence. You didn’t have to see the insignia to know who it was.
The door opened.
Boots hit pavement.
And there he was.
Sturmbannführer Dieter Hellstrom.
Hat tilted, jaw clenched, coat buttoned to the throat. His eyes were shadowed under the brim, but you didn’t need to see them to feel their weight.
You rolled your eyes, more out of instinct than bravery. “You know,” you called across the street, “most men bring flowers when they want attention.”
He didn’t smile. Of course he didn’t.
Instead, he stepped forward, slow and stiff, until you met him halfway on the sidewalk.
“We’re going for a drive,” he said flatly.
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He gestured toward the car with a tilt of his head. “Now.”
“Oh? Where to, Sturmbannführer? A romantic getaway? Picnic in the woods? Or do I finally get the pleasure of being shot in a ditch?”
His jaw tensed.
And then, quietly — with just enough edge to be dangerous — he said:
“Beweg deinen Arsch ins Auto.”
The German hit like a slap. Crude. Sudden.
You froze for a beat, stunned not just by the language, but by the tone.
That wasn’t the polished officer voice. That was something else — something raw.
And it startled you more than you wanted to admit.
Still, you lifted your chin, mouth tight with disdain. “What, no bitte?”
But you moved.
You walked toward the car with sharp, controlled steps, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hesitation.
He opened the door himself, silently.
You slid into the seat, spine straight, heart a pounding war drum in your chest.
When he got in beside you, he didn’t speak. The driver started the engine.
The car rolled forward.
And just like that, Paris blurred behind you.
He couldn’t breathe in your presence.
Not properly.
Not when you stood there with glue-stained fingers and that mouth full of contempt. Like none of it — none of it — touched you. Not his rank. Not the danger. Not the weight of everything he represented.
He’d snapped. Just a little. The words had slipped out without the usual calculation. Coarse German, meant to slice.
And you’d blinked.
Just for a second.
That second had lodged itself under his skin like a thorn.
You obeyed — but not out of fear.
Because you were trying to figure out what game this was.
You thought you were still in control.
Good.
Let you believe that.
The village wasn’t far, and his intel — what little of it existed — was thin. You’d spoken of farmers. A church. Devout parents. So normal it rang false.
He needed to see it. Smell it. Watch you in it.
If it was a lie, it would break at the seams.
And if it wasn’t…?
No. It was.
He could feel it in the tension of your shoulders beside him. The silence that wasn’t indifference — it was calculation. Masking.
And yet, as the fields blurred past the window and the city dissolved behind them, something inside him twisted.
Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Dieter Hellstrom / F!Reader
Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers
Part 3/?
It was one of the few places left untouched by the war — at least on the surface. A narrow café tucked between two shuttered shops, its green awning faded, its windows streaked with the steam of warm bodies and bitter coffee. You sat in the corner near the window, back to the wall. Always.
You sipped slowly. Alone. The day had been quiet. Uneventful.
Until you saw him.
Your heart skipped, but your expression didn’t change.
He moved through the door like he owned the air.
Dieter Hellstrom.
Again.
This time, without his gloves. His jacket is fully buttoned, uniform is flawless, the cap fits perfectly. He scanned the room — just once — then his eyes landed on you.
A slow, deliberate smile.
He approached.
You didn’t flinch.
“Mademoiselle,” he greeted, voice silk wrapped around steel. “What a surprise.”
“It’s a popular café,” you replied. “Surely not that surprising.”
He chuckled. Low. Sharp. “No, I suppose not. May I?”
You didn’t answer, but he sat anyway. He took off his cap and put it on the table.
The waiter appeared instantly, too nervous to question the uniform. Dieter ordered black coffee. Nothing else.
You glanced at him once, then returned to your cup.
“What brings you here?” you asked lightly.
He tilted his head. “Curiosity.”
“About coffee?”
“About you.”
There it was. Not subtle.
You raised a brow. “I thought your inspection was complete. Are you spying on me?”
He leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the table. “Inspections never really end. They simply… evolve. And I am just observing....”
A pause. You met his gaze — unblinking, cool. “Is that a threat?”
He smiled again. “No. If it were, you’d know.”
His fingers tapped the porcelain edge of his cup.
“I find it… intriguing,” he continued, “how little I know about you.”
You shrugged faintly. “There’s little to know.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He watched you like a man watches a puzzle he intends to dismantle.
You matched his calm. “Then perhaps you’re just not looking in the right places.”
That made him go still for half a second. Like a wire pulled taut.
Then he leaned back, eyes gleaming faintly. “Touché.”
You didn’t answer.
But beneath the table, your hands were curled into fists in your lap.
This was no longer a game. He was hunting. Slowly. Elegantly. But it was hunting all the same.
And you — the prey — weren’t running. Not yet.
You would not let him see fear. You would not let him win.
“Do you do this often?” you asked suddenly. “Harass women in cafés?”
He smirked. “Only those whom I irritate.”
You tilted your head, voice flat. “Then I’m sure you’re very busy.”
A flicker passed between you.
A thread pulled tight.
Then — coffee arrived. He didn’t touch it.
He just stared at you, eyes cold, hungry, curious.
Like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to unmake you… or understand you.
And you — for a split second — weren’t sure which was worse.
You leaned in, resting your chin on your hand. “What’s next? A stroll through the park? A candlelit search of my basement?”
His jaw flexed.
“There are ways to be cooperative, you know,” he said. “Politeness goes far.”
“Oh, I am polite,” you said with faux sweetness. “You’re the one looming like death over my lunch.”
“You seem rather calm for someone under suspicion.”
“And you seem rather flustered for someone in control.”
He inhaled slowly through his nose.
~She was doing it on purpose. Poking. Toying.
Does she know?~
No — you couldn’t. You couldn’t possibly know how much your voice grated beneath his skin, how your eyes — unafraid and shining with contempt — made his blood thrum.
He wanted to slam your cup off the table.
Wanted to choke the smug little breath out of you.
But he sat still.
Tight.
Silent.
“Your questions,” you added lazily, “are beginning to feel more like foreplay than investigation.”
That broke something. Not visibly. But inwardly?
He fractured.
“I wonder,” he said, his voice a low threat, “how long you’ll keep that tongue when no one’s watching.”
You smiled.
“Long enough to bite.”
And God help him — he felt heat coil in his spine.
He pushed back his chair then, slowly, calmly — as though he hadn’t just imagined you pinned beneath his palm.
“We’ll speak again.”
“I’m counting the minutes.” A mischievous smile.
He stood up abruptly, grabbed his cap, put it on with a sharp movement, and straitened it out with his palm.
He nodded once.
And left.
But your voice stayed behind in his ears like perfume and poison.
hey hello!! thank u so much for your amazing work as a (smut) writer. please, could u share the link where u found the streaming of tatort, since i know mr. frost thanks to your ff, but i want to actually see august being murderous af.
hehe thank you, anon! 🩷
sure, here’s the link:
Fernsehfilm Deutschland 2025
Um einen neuen Reisepass zu beantragen, besucht Borowski das Bürgeramt. Als der Kommissar am Nebentisch des
it is in german, of course, but there is not much talking so if you don’t know the language, i think it will still work ☺️
Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Dieter Hellstrom / F!Reader
Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers
Part 2/?
You heard the knock before the bell.
Three, sharp. Intentional.
You were already behind the counter when the door opened. Already composed. As if you hadn’t been waiting all morning, heart coiled like a spring.
Dieter Hellstrom stepped inside again, just as precise, just as unreadable. The leather of his gloves creaked faintly as he pulled them tighter. His black boots were perfectly polished to, his black leather coat made his silhouette sinister, his cap covered the keen gaze of his iced-blue eyes.
“Bonjour,” he said, voice low.
His eyes swept over the room like yesterday hadn’t ended.
You gave him the same look you’d practiced in the mirror — casual, alert, faintly puzzled. “Monsieur Hellstrom. Back so soon?”
He paused a fraction too long.
Then: “I said I’d return.”
You gestured toward the cinema, the register, the neat little space arranged like a dollhouse. “You’re welcome to inspect, as promised. Nothing’s changed since yesterday.”
He didn’t move.
Not right away.
“I disagree,” he said.
Your fingers froze over the edge of the desk.
He took a step forward.
“You seemed… different today.”
Your lips parted slightly — just slightly — but you closed them again. “Is that part of your inspection?”
There it was.
That flicker.
His jaw flexed once. His eyes narrowed like he was parsing a code buried beneath your words.
“You tell me,” he said, stepping closer.
You didn’t move. Wouldn’t give him the ground.
He stood on the other side of the ticket counter now, too close, his shadow stretching over the polished wood between you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The only sound was the distant hum of the projector upstairs. Or maybe that was your blood in your ears.
His gaze dropped — not inappropriately, but appraising. Calculating.
“Do you live alone?” he asked suddenly.
A test.
“Yes,” you replied. No hesitation.
But the pause afterward was heavy.
You knew better than to fill it.
“Strange,” he murmured. “For a woman running a business. In these times.”
Another test.
You tilted your head slightly. “The French government supports independence, monsieur. Women must do what they can.”
That made his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not amusement.
Something else.
“You speak like someone rehearsed.”
You allowed the smallest laugh, light and false like cheap champagne.
“Perhaps I’ve had practice.”
He leaned forward, just slightly.
“I think you’ve had plenty.”
Your breath caught.
Not fear. Not quite.
But a shift in the air. Like a storm crossing the edge of the horizon.
Dieter straightened again, brushing a hand across the counter as if dismissing the moment.
“I’ll check the booth,” he said flatly.
You nodded. “Of course.”
He walked past, and you felt the room realign with his movement — gravity following him like smoke.
But the moment between you still hung in the air like an unfinished sentence.
Dieter’s POV:
The booth was clean. Organized.
That, somehow, irritated him more than if it hadn’t been.
Everything in its place. Everything accounted for. Like her.
Still, he opened drawers. Ran fingers over the ledger. Flipped through the projection reels. Titles matched.
But none of it mattered.
He was already certain she was lying.
He just didn’t know about what.
And worse — far worse — was the gnawing heat beneath his ribs.
The way she looked at him. Not with fear. Not exactly. But with defiance pressed into stillness. Like a coiled wire.
She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t shrink. Didn’t charm. Didn’t plead.
She held.
She watched him like she was waiting for him to crack.
And something in him — something buried deep under medals and procedure — wanted to.
Not with violence. Not with suspicion.
With understanding.
That was the worst part. That part that wanted to see her undo.
But he couldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t. She was lying. That made her dangerous.
Inglourious Basterds
Pairing: Dieter Hellstrom / F!Reader
Tags: Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers
Part 1/?
It is a mix of Dieter Hellstrom character and Fredrick Zoller/Shosanna Dreyfus line. You are jewish girl pretending to be french, your family live near Paris, pretending to be french farmers and local church workers. Dieter is inspecting your cinema and started suspecting you at the first sight. He just feels something is wrong with you. There is an enemies to lovers dynamic and forbidden passion.
The door creaked open with the dull chime of the bell overhead, a sound too delicate for the boots that followed. The cinema was quiet — just the distant murmur of a reel spinning behind velvet curtains and the faint scent of burnt dust from the projector room.
You looked up from the small ticket counter, expression blank, body still.
He stepped inside like a man not used to knocking.
SS-Sturmbannführer Dieter Hellstrom. Crisp uniform. Gloves still on. Posture military-perfect. His gaze moved quickly — left wall, right wall, lobby window, your face.
“Bonsoir. Dieter Hellstrom, SS-Sturmbannführer” he said, voice smooth, he clicked his boots. The kind of man who only asked questions he already knew the answer to. “You are the owner of this establishment?”
You met his eyes. Not too long. Not too short.
“Oui, monsieur,” you replied evenly. “C’est mon cinéma. Est-ce qu’il y a un problème?”
There was nothing in your tone. Just a trace of weary politeness, like you’d answered this a hundred times before.
Dieter tilted his head slightly. He hated when things looked too perfect. And this — this picture of calm, this woman with not a single tremor in her hands — irritated him immediately.
“No problem,” he said, in French too clean to be Parisian. “Just routine. We’ve had reports of certain cinemas… screening unapproved materials. Harboring undesirables.”
Your eyebrows raised just slightly, an appropriate show of concern. “Not here. I follow the schedule from the Ministry.”
You pulled the register book from beneath the counter, opening it toward him like a well-rehearsed play.
He didn’t look at it.
His eyes were on you.
You didn’t flinch. Poker face, still.
Dieter’s mind ticked. The reports had said nothing about this place. He had noticed it during a walk. A small cinema, tucked where it shouldn’t be, surviving too quietly. Something in the shadows of its windows, in the overly calm rhythm of its routine.
And now her. Not a stutter. Not a hint of fear. Too smooth. Too... practiced.
“Your name?”
You said it. A good French name. A simple one. But his eyes narrowed slightly. Something about your accent. Too clean. Too Parisian. The kind of French someone might learn, not be born into.
He filed the thought away.
She’s hiding something.
“Do you mind if I look around?” he asked, already moving past the counter.
“Of course not,” you replied, stepping aside.
He moved slowly. Deliberately. Gloved fingers brushing the back of a theater seat, the edge of a poster. His boots echoed faintly against the old floorboards.
He felt her eyes on him. But she didn't speak.
He turned back. She was standing the same way. Calm. Polite.
Fake.
“You live nearby?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked — a human gesture. “Just upstairs.”
Convenient. Easy to watch.
He didn’t smile.
“Very well,” he said. “I will return tomorrow. A full inspection.”
You gave the faintest nod, like it didn’t matter.
But Dieter Hellstrom’s pulse was faster than it should’ve been.
There was something wrong with her.
He just didn’t know what yet.
---
The door closed behind him with a soft metallic click, swallowed by the quiet street.
He didn’t look back. Not yet.
His boots carried him forward down the cobblestone path, but his mind remained inside that dim cinema — hovering in the heavy air between her and the velvet curtains, retracing every syllable from your mouth, every flick of your eye.
Too calm.
That was the first thing. Civilians flinched. Civilians stumbled over words in the presence of his uniform, especially women. Especially alone. They became shadows of themselves. You… did not.
And then there was your voice. Perfect French, but like a coat worn too neatly. No regional dialect. No lazy consonants. No sign of the fatigue that came with a city occupied. He’d interrogated hundreds of Parisians. He knew how native French bent around the bones.
Learned.
Practiced.
There was something hollow behind her inflections. A rhythm rehearsed.
He turned a corner slowly, letting himself blend into the city’s grey silence.
His hand twitched inside the leather glove.
There was no evidence. No proof. Just instinct. But Dieter Hellstrom was not a man who ignored instinct.
You were hiding something.
He would find it.
And yet…
A part of him — the part buried under uniform and procedure — hadn’t wanted to leave. Your eyes… they were dark, unreadable, but sharp. You were too composed, but not the way most liars were. You wanted him to see the surface. You wanted him to believe the game.
Or maybe… maybe you knew exactly how dangerous it was to attract his interest.
And played anyway.
The thought made his jaw clench.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t over.
Not even close.
---
When the door clicked shut you didn’t move.
Not for ten whole seconds. Not until the distant echo of his boots vanished into the city’s lungs.
Then — only then — you let your shoulders fall.
Your breath shuddered out like smoke from a snuffed candle.
He knew.
Not the what, but something. He felt it. You saw it in the way his eyes dragged over your face like a knife against porcelain. The way he didn’t believe anything you said, but didn’t say it. That silence — that was worse than shouting.
Hellstrom.
You knew the name. Cold, methodical. Fluent in French. Known for spotting irregularities like a hound.
And he’d walked into your cinema.
You looked around the room, vision tightening. The walls were normal. The posters clean. The books aligned. He hadn’t gone into the projection booth. He hadn’t asked for identification. Not yet.
But he would.
And you had to be ready.
Your hands curled around the edge of the ticket counter. They were steady now. You’d trained them to be. But inside your chest, your heart was battering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You could play this game. You had to. It was the only thing keeping you alive.
But for the first time in months, a cold voice whispered at the back of your mind — a warning you tried not to hear:
He will come back.
And next time, you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep him out.
Tags: Slow Burn, Office romance, Smut, Fist Sex, Semi-Public Sex, P in V
Part 5/?
Same desks, same overhead lights humming dully, same clatter of keyboards and low murmur of phone calls.
But for Robert—everything had shifted.
Because now he knew what your lips tasted like.
And now you were here.
In your soft sweater and flowy skirt, that same subtle scent—sweet, grapefruit and rose—trailing behind her as you walked past his desk.
He barely breathed.
~I kissed her.
I kissed her and now I want to do it again.
Every goddamn second.~
He gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white.
Just one look at you—tucking your hair behind your ear, leaning slightly forward as you helped a colleague with a printer—and he was wrecked.
His chest was tight. His whole body ached with want.
It wasn’t just lust.
It was you.
The way you moved. The way your voice dipped when you laughed. The way you brushed the drawer shut with your hip again and he felt it in his throat.
It was driving him insane.
And the worst part?
He could see it in you too.
You hadn’t spoken much that morning. Just one quiet “morning” exchanged by the coffee machine. But your eyes—
Your eyes lingered.
Every time you passed each other. Every accidental touch.
You reached for the same mug in the kitchen. Your hands brushed. Just the backs of your fingers.
But it might as well have been lightning.
He flinched like he’d been electrocuted.
And you—
You looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted just slightly.
Neither of you spoke.
But both of you felt it.
In the hallway near the meeting rooms, you squeezed past him in the narrow space—and your bodies pressed, for just a second. Just enough.
Your chest against him. He could feel your breasts brushed against his shoulder. The soft touch of your thighs. Your breath catching audibly.
He felt like the world turned inside out.
His whole body tightened, breath hissing through his teeth.
~I want to touch her again. I want to grab her waist, to squeeze her butt, feel every curve I’ve been too afraid to imagine out loud.
I want to taste her neck, her shoulders, her skin. I want to hear the sounds she makes when no one else can.
I want to ruin her for anyone else.
But I’m too fucking scared.
What if I do it wrong? What if I mess it up?~
He caught you looking, once.
From across the office, just a flicker of her eyes—down to his hands, back up to his mouth.
And the way rout thighs squeezed together subtly in your seat after made him feel like he was burning alive.
He adjusted his jacket to hide the way his body responded.
It was unbearable.
Every second with you just feet away, like a spark hovering near gasoline. You laughed too loudly at someone’s joke. You leaned too close to someone’s desk. He saw a hand on yout elbow and wanted to kill something.
And still—
He did nothing.
You were flushed
~Say something.
Do something.
Kiss me again, I’m right here.
You kissed me like you needed me, but now you’re looking at the floor again?
God, if he doesn’t touch me soon, I might grab him.~
By the end of the day, the tension was unbearable.
You passed him again near the break area, both of you moving at once—shoulders brushing, his hand catching yours.
This time, neither of you pulled away.
You looked up at him.
He stared back.
A breath passed between you.
He didn’t say a word.
But his thumb stroked your knuckle once—soft, reverent, like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
Then he let go.
---
The office was almost empty.
End of the day. Lights dimmed, a few screens glowing in the background, the low hum of machines winding down. Rain tapped lightly on the windows.
Robert stood by the copier, pretending to read a report, pretending he wasn’t about to combust.
You were watching him.
He knew it.
The heat of your eyes on the back of his neck. The same look you’d been giving him all day—heavy, hungry, a silent demand wrapped in patience she didn’t have anymore.
He didn’t dare turn around.
Because if he did, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself.
Then—footsteps.
Click. Click.
Soft. Slow. Deliberate.
You.
He didn’t breathe.
“Robert.”
Your voice, right behind him. Low. Throaty.
He turned, and you was close.
Closer than ever.
Your eyes dragged over his face, searching. Your cheeks were flushed, Your chest rising fast.
“You’ve been driving me crazy.”
He opened his mouth—no words came.
“You kissed me like you were starving,” you whispered, “and now you’re acting like nothing happened.”
He swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean to— I mean I meant to, I just didn’t know if—”
You stepped forward, grabbed his jacket—right near his collar—and tugged him.
He stumbled forward.
You backed toward the empty meeting room.
“Come with me.”
“I—”
You opened the door with one hand, pulled him inside with the other.
The room was dark, only the streetlight outside casting a faint blue glow through the blinds.
The door clicked shut behind them.
He blinked, dazed. Breath caught in his chest.
You pressed your hands to his chest. “Gosh,” you said, voice shaking with tension, “just do it finally. Or I’ll explode.”
Something in him broke.
All the restraint. All the fear. All the overthinking and hiding and aching. It all shattered.
He grabbed you.
One sharp, desperate pull—and your mouths collided.
This wasn’t a kiss. It was everything.
His hands tangled in your hair, your body pressed to his so tightly he could feel the shape of your breath, the heat of your skin through her sweater.
You moaned into his mouth and he lost it.
“God,” he gasped, pulling back just enough to see your eyes, wild and dark. “I’ve wanted this so long—so fucking long—”
“Then take it,” you breathed.
He pushed you gently, blindly, until your back hit the wall.
His mouth was on your neck, on your jaw, kissing like he’d die if he stopped. You clutched his jacket, dragged it up his back, nails grazing his skin.
He groaned—deep, low, desperate.
“I thought about this,” he murmured against your skin. “Every night. Your mouth. Your hands. The way your hips move when you walk…”
You whimpered.
“You drive me insane.”
He kissed you again, harder, your lips soft and parted for him. Your tongue brushed his and he nearly collapsed from it.
His hands moved down—slowly, reverently—curling around your hips, your waist, feeling every curve he’d been aching to touch. Your body was softer than he imagined, but exactly as warm, exactly as addictive.
~She’s real.
She wants me.
She’s letting me touch her like this, like I’m not just some miserable IT ghost in the corner. Like I’m wanted.~
You whispered his name.
Over and over. Between kisses. Between gasps.
He felt it—how badly you needed him. How your fingers trembled when you dragged them up into his hair. How your body arched into his like you couldn’t get close enough.
And he wasn’t shy anymore.
Not here.
Not when your hands were on his skin and your breath was hitching every time he kissed lower, touched deeper.
“I don’t want to stop,” he rasped.
You bit your lip. Smiled.
“Then don’t.”
---
The room was dark, still, filled with breathless heat.
His body pressed yours to the wall, hips to hips, chest to chest. Your hands were twisted in the fabric of his jacket, your lips red and swollen from his kisses. Your heartbeat hammered against him like a second pulse.
He couldn’t stop kissing you.
Couldn’t stop touching you.
Fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t know how to let go.
You felt the tremble in his hands. The quake in his breath.
Like he was about to say something—
And then he did.
“I’ve wanted this…”
His voice cracked, mouth brushing the skin just under her ear.
“I’ve wanted you for so long I thought it was going to kill me.”
Your fingers paused at the hem of his jacket.
He leaned his forehead against hers, breath hot, voice low.
“You don’t know what it’s like. Sitting across from you, day after day. Watching you be kind to everyone. Smiling at them. Laughing. And I was just… there.”
His hand slid up your back, fingers trembling.
“I hated myself for wanting you,” he whispered. “Thought I had no right. I’m this… awkward, miserable thing. And you—you’re light. You’re everything I thought I could never touch.”
Your thumb stroked his jaw, gentle, soothing, eyes wide.
“I used to watch you from my desk,” he confessed, kissing her again, slower this time. “The way you’d move around the office. The way your skirt sways. How your hips knock the drawers shut like it’s nothing. I’d sit there and feel like I was going insane.”
Your breath hitched.
He kissed the side of your neck. Spoke the words against your skin.
“I thought about this. So many times. Having you like this. In my arms. Just holding you. Kissing you. Imagining what your skin would taste like, how you’d sound when you said my name with need.”
You gasped—he felt it.
The way your nails dug into his arms, the way your body arched.
“I used to go home and… fantasize,” he breathed, “about touching you like this. About you looking at me the way you’re looking at me now.”
“And now?” you whispered, breath shaking.
He pulled back just enough to see your face.
Now his eyes were dark, undone, pupils wide with need and disbelief.
“Now I don’t want to stop until I’ve memorized everything about you.”
His hands moved.
Tracing your curves—hips, thighs, up your back. He was reverent, like worship. But desperate, too.
You lifted your arms, let him pull your sweater over your head, and he paused—just stared. Your bare brests rose and fell from heavy breathing, your nipples already hard and asked for touch.
You felt the weight of his gaze. The awe. Like you were a dream he still couldn’t believe.
“You’re…” He swallowed. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Then his mouth was on yours again.
And you pulled him closer.
Your bodies pressed tight—no space left between you, nothing but heat and frantic breath and quiet, whispered need.
The dark meeting room felt like a different world.
Outside, fluorescent lights flickered. People packed up and left, unaware of the storm behind the closed door. But inside… time stopped.
Your shirt was on the floor. His jaket and sweater abandoned somewhere near the door.
And Robert—quiet, miserable Robert—was looking at you like you were something sacred.
Like you were everything he’d ever prayed for without believing he deserved to be heard.
You reached for him again. He stilled you hand with his, eyes locked on hers.
His voice was a breath. A confession.
“I want you so bad,” he whispered, like it hurt. “All of you”
Your fingers laced into his.
“How?” you asked, barely audible.
He swallowed, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.
“I’d picture you like this,” he said. “In soft light. No one around. Just us. Your skin warm under my hands. Your breath in my mouth. You looking at me like I wasn’t invisible.”
You touched his cheek, tender.
“I imagined how you’d sound,” he continued, his voice shaking. “If I kissed you slow. If I whispered your name.”
He leaned in—brushed your lips again.
“God, I’ve read so much. I know the theory. Every detail. But this…”
His hand slid down your side, tentative but hungry. “This is you. And I don’t want to mess it up.”
“You won’t,” she whispered. “You’re not.”
His hands roamed—still shy, still careful—but bold with wonder. Tracing the curve of your waist, squeezing it. The dip of your spine, the softness of your thighs.
He kissed you like he was trying to imprint you on his tongue.
Your fingers found his chest, his back, everywhere you could feel him.
He gasped when your lips brushed his neck, your hands pushed under his shirt, nails dragging against bare skin. He was trembling. Barely holding it together.
“Is this okay?” he asked. “Tell me if I—if I do something wrong—”
He made a sound deep in his throat—half moan, half something close to a sob—and wrapped his arms around you like he couldn’t bear any more space between them.
You guided him, slow but sure, pulling him down onto the little couch against the wall. He lay down on you, your bodies rubbed against each other. You felt how hard he is for you. It drove you crazy. You just need him inside of you right now. Your inner walls clenched with need, you were already too wet to think clearly.
You moved like a secret—kisses deepening, breath catching, hands finally free.
Your touch burned him alive. You unbuckled his belt. It sent a shiver down his spine. He hissed and it made you smile a little. You go down with your hand and stroked his swollen cock through the fabric of his trousers.
“Jeez…” He hissed again and buckled into your hand.
“Shh… You’re so sensitive, Robert…” you have a noughty smile on your face.
“I’m… I’m sorry, I just…” He closed his eyes with shame.
“There is nothing to be sorry about, darling. I like it.”
This words just snapped him.
His touch was reverent. Devoted. Like he was building memory on your skin. His hands shivered but grip was firm. You moaned as he squeezed you just right.
His mind was chaos.
~She’s letting me touch her.
She wants this. She wants me.
I’ve never—God, I’ve never done this—but I want to learn everything. I can’t disappoint her. I want to know how to love her right. How to make her feel good. How to make her fall apart in my arms.~
When you undressed each other fully, there was no rush—only breathless tension. His eyes didn’t leave you once. He was quiet, but his face said everything.
Worship.
Desire.
Awe.
He placed his palm in your panties and you made that sweet gasp he never knew he dreamed to hear.
“Oh God, you are so wet…”
“Mhm… It’s all because of you. I was needy since morning.” You thrusted further to his palm.
“You are killing me.” He exhaled with lust and kiss you harder.
You moaned, wrapped you legs around his waist. It was just like a dream for him. Just as he fantasised. All of this made him an absolute mess. He grabbed your ass to lifted you up a little, he pulled your panties down in one firm move. You gasped as cold air of the room reach your wet pussy. He touched your breasts with his shaky hands and the sensation of your softness made him whining. Your nipples were so sensitive it almost hurts. And when he finally touched them you hissed with pleasure.
After that he pulled his dripping with precum cock out of his boxers and rubbed your wetness up and down a little. When he stopped at your entrance he glanced at you one more time. You moved forward with the most vicious sound, your eyes were full of lust.
And when he finally entered you—slowly, carefully, with one shaky exhale against your neck—he stopped. You could feel him trembling.
“You feel like heaven,” he breathed.
You cupped his face. “You’re doing perfect.”
You moved together slowly, then his hips went faster and faster, until it became a rhythm, a need, a prayer neither of you could speak.
His breath caught every time you gasped.
You both tried to stay quiet, so nobody could hear you.
His lips murmured your name brushing his lips against your skin like it was a spell.
“Just like that, just don’t stop, don’t stop, Robert.” You whispered and grabbed the back of his neck. “It feels so so good…”
You started to move randomly and jerky. Your breath is intermittent.
“Robert…” You look him in the eyes. His gaze was foggy with lust. “You’re so good, I’m gonna cum. Just… Right now.” You threw your head back with pleasure.
And when you came—fingers digging into his back, body trembling under him—he felt something shift in his chest.
Like your pleasure broke him open.
He followed soon after, clinging to you, breathless and stunned, collapsing against her with a choked sound of release he couldn’t have faked if he tried. Kissing you messy everywhere he could reach.
“Oh, God, Robert, you’re so good for me.” you murmured. And traced your fingers through his hair.
“You don’t know what you’ve just done to me, Y/N…” He gasped into your neck, completely powerless. “I have never felt this kind of things… I have never actually did this before…”
“What do you mean?” You tilted your head to him.
“I’ve never been with a woman before…” His cheeks were red his eyes glistened.
“Oh… God…” You cupped his cheeks with your hands. “I didn’t know…” You kiss him tenderly. “It was not right for a proper first time… in the office…” You smiled.
“It was perfect. More than I could ever imagine” He buried his face in you hair and breathed your scent.
You stayed like that, tangled up, hearts still racing.
His hand brushed through you hair. His nose nudged your cheek.
“Tell me this is real,” he whispered.
You smiled against his jaw.
“It is definitely real.” You chuckled.
And he finally let out a shaky, helpless laugh—like years of loneliness had cracked and spilled out of him.
The room was dim and quiet now, holding the warmth of what had just happened.
You were curled against him, skin-to-skin, your breath soft and content. Your fingers played with the skit on his chest, aimlessly, tenderly, like you were still drifting somewhere between dream and reality.
Robert lay on you, completely still, except for the slow rise and fall of his chest. His eyes were wide open, staring nowhere as though he was waiting to wake up.
He couldn’t speak at first.
He could barely breathe.
You let out a satisfied, sleepy sigh and nuzzled closer, pressing a lazy kiss to the side of his throat. Your voice came in a purr, thick and dreamy:
“Mmm… You were so good, Robert… so good.”
He exhaled shakily, as though your words punched the air right out of him.
“I—I don’t know how,” he murmured, dazed, “but… God. Thank you. Thank you.”
He turned to look at you—really look—and it nearly undid him.
Your flushed cheeks. Your swollen lips. The sweet mess of your hair around your face. And tour eyes—soft, heavy-lidded, so full of affection it made his stomach twist.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, reverent and breathless. “I’ve wanted this… you… for so long I didn’t think it was even real anymore.”
You smiled lazily. “You were amazing, Robert.”
He made a broken sound, his hand brushing over your bare side, trembling just a little.
“I used to sit in my stupid little corner and imagine this exact thing. The way your skin would feel. The way your voice would sound when I touched you. I—” His voice cracked. “I imagined your scent. Your mouth. The way your thighs would wrap around me…”
Your breath hitched, aroused even in your blissed-out state.
He turned on his side, brushing your hair away from her cheek.
“I dreamed about your body more times than I can count,” he confessed, and it wasn’t lustful—it was honest. “The way your waist curves. The softness of your stomach. The little crease where your thighs meet your hips. I’ve imagined kissing every inch of you.”
You closed your eyes, shivering slightly as he traced a hand gently over your arm.
“You taste exactly like I hoped you would,” he whispered. “Warm. Sweet. Like something forbidden.”
Your body purred under his voice—delighted, cherished.
You giggled, dreamy and wrecked. “That’s the most poetic thing anyone’s ever said after sex.”
He laughed, hoarse and low, pressing his lips to her shoulder. “Sorry. I think I’ve been holding it in for years.”
You stretched slowly like a cat, and your leg hooked around his. “You did everything right,” she murmured, your voice a warm hum against his chest. “Every touch… every kiss… It felt like you knew my body already.”
“I did,” he said, serious. “I mean… I wanted to. I thought about how you’d move. How you’d sound when you’d come. I used to lie awake wondering if I’d ever hear that sound.”
You blushed but didn’t look away.
“And now you have,” you whispered.
He held you tighter. “I’ll never forget it.”
You stayed quiet after that. Just breathing. Just being.
No questions. No future-talk. No fear.
Just skin and breath and warmth and trust.
And the secret of what you’d become, tucked safely into the soft dark of the meeting room.
Thumb flicking across the screen. Checking and rechecking.
But nothing.
Not even a “seen.”
The silence felt heavier than a response could ever be. And in that silence, a quiet certainty settled over you like fog.
It was him.
Robert.
It had to be.
The next morning at the office felt like walking into a play where only you and one other person knew the lines had changed.
You walked past his desk.
Didn’t look at him.
Didn’t smile.
Not even a soft “good morning.”
Just the click of your shoes, the scent of your perfume, and the quiet tension that followed in your wake like static.
~Why didn’t he answer?
If it wasn’t him, he’d just say so. Right?
If it was him… then why hide again now?
Was it all a game?
Was I just something he wanted to observe from a distance? Like a window he didn’t dare open?~
Across the office, Robert sat at his desk, looking even worse than usual. His hoodie was wrinkled, his eyes sunken, a stubble-shadow tracing his jaw like guilt grown overnight.
You felt his gaze the moment you stepped in.
Like he always watched.
But when you looked up—nothing. He snapped back to his screen. Pretended.
As if you weren’t there.
You mimicked it.
You pretended too.
All day.
No shared glances.
No cookie offerings.
No polite small talk.
Nothing.
But the space between you?
It buzzed with things unsaid.
~Say something.
Anything.
You spilled your heart into those messages and now you’re just… nothing again?
You don’t get to know everything about me and then vanish.~
At one point, you passed behind his chair to grab a report. His shoulder tensed, like he felt you in his bloodstream. You saw him grip his mouse a little too tight.
He knew you were ignoring him.
Good.
Let him sweat.
Let him miss you.
Robert barely breathed all day.
He couldn’t look at you.
Couldn’t stand how cold you were now.
But what could he say?
He had already ruined it.
And yet… he wanted to tell her. Needed to.
The words were in his throat like swallowed glass.
~She knows. She knows. And I froze like a damn coward.
She thinks I used her. That I was mocking her or playing her and I wasn’t. I wasn’t.
God, she’s not smiling. Not even at the others. She’s—
I broke something. I broke her.
How do I fix this?~
That night, the chat remained quiet again.
And so did you.
But you watched.
And waited.
One more day.
One more sign.
One more chance for him to be brave.
---
You hadn’t smiled all morning.
Not the kind you were known for, anyway.
No giggles over someone’s cat photos. No cookies passed around the office. No playful comments about the rain or how the tea always tasted like wet cardboard.
You answered emails, nodded through briefings, and kept your voice quiet.
But your eyes—they didn’t light up.
And people noticed.
Eva leaned in as you were organizing supplies, her kind gaze warm with quiet concern.
“Everything okay, Liebes?”
You forced a little smile. “Just tired.”
Her look lingered a second too long.
“You haven’t been yourself this week. Is it something I can help with?”
You shook your head. “No… I’m okay. Just some thoughts I can’t quite get out of my head.”
She nodded slowly, giving your arm a gentle pat. “Don’t let them eat you alive, sweetheart.”
Robert heard it.
From behind his monitor, he heard your voice, soft and different.
He didn’t even realize he’d been holding his breath until you walked away again.
You hadn’t looked at him once.
It was like he didn’t exist.
And homehow, that was worse than all the groans and awkward glances and gritted-teeth longing he’d suffered before.
He deserved this.
He knew he did.
You sitting with your smartphone in your hand
~You saw it.
I saw the “read” receipt.
You read it, and you said nothing.
Not even a lie this time. Just silence.
Why?~
That Night
You lay curled up on the couch, phone in hand, heart a little too loud in your chest.
You opened the chat again. The green dot beside his name blinked softly—taunting.
You had written earlier.
YOU: “If it was you… I just want to understand why. That’s all.”
“Why did you hide behind a screen instead of just talking to me?”
Read.
No reply.
So you typed again.
YOU: “I see you read my messages.”
“Why are you ignoring me now?”
Across town, Robert sat in the dark, the soft glow of his laptop screen illuminating the wreck of his thoughts.
He read her words again.
Again.
Why are you ignoring me now?
Because I’m a coward.
Because I thought I could have one piece of you, and it wouldn’t matter that I could never have you.
Because I didn’t think you’d ever find out.
And now that you have… I don’t know what I am to you anymore.
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Stopped.
Then just stared at the blinking cursor, his throat thick with something like grief.
~She’s waiting.
She deserves a voice, not a ghost.
But what if when I speak, she never looks at me again?
What if the only version of me she could ever love was the one who didn’t have a face?~
But still, he didn’t reply.
And the silence between you grew heavier.
More dangerous.
More personal.
Like a wire pulled too tight—ready to snap.
---
It was late.
The kind of quiet that settles into the office like dust. Most lights off. Most desks empty. The sound of the cleaning crew echoing faintly from another floor.
Robert assumed everyone had gone home.
Especially you.
He stayed later than usual, pretending he had things to fix. But really, he just didn’t want to go home. Not when yout last message still burned into his screen.
“I see you read my messages. Why are you ignoring me now?”
He hadn’t replied.
Couldn’t.
And yet… he opened the chat again anyway. Fingers trembling.
Toy saw the “online” notification pop up.
You were already waiting.
Hidden in the conference room near the break area. Your coat folded on the chair, bag by her feet. Breath held.
When you saw him read the message—finally—you stood up.
Quiet. Calm. Yor heart a thunder drum.
He was sitting by his desk in the half-dark, eyes glued to the message window, when—
“Hey.”
He froze.
Completely still.
Then slowly turned in his chair.
You were standing there.
Just a few feet away.
No smile. No sweetness. Just a calm, unreadable expression.
His screen glowed behind him, still open on the chat. The fake profile.
Your message.
Still visible.
You folded her arms. “So. It is you.”
His mouth opened—but no sound came out.
Your gaze didn’t waver. “I waited, Robert. I waited for you to say something. Anything. And instead, you ghost me?”
His voice finally came, hoarse and too low. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to what?” you stepped closer, eyes searching his. “You didn’t mean to lie? To hide? To ask me about my life and my sadness and my heart like you cared—then disappear the second I saw through it?”
He flinched like her words physically hit him.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he muttered, looking down. “I just… I couldn’t talk to you. Not as me.”
You stared at him. “Why?”
His voice cracked. “Because I’m me.”
~Because I’m nothing.
Because I can barely look at you without my chest caving in.
Because when you smile at someone else, it feels like I’m suffocating, and when you smile at me, it feels like a joke.
Because you’re everything bright and soft, and I’m just the miserable shadow in the corner.~
You exhaled, eyes softening slightly.
“You know what the worst part is?” you said quietly. “I liked that person. The one behind the screen. I told him things I never tell anyone.”
He looked up, guilt carving valleys into his face.
“I still like him,” you whispered.
His breath caught.
“But I don’t know what to do with you,” you said, stepping even closer, lowering her voice. “Because the Robert I see here never looks at me. He groans when I enter the room. He acts like I ruin his day just by existing.”
His lips parted. “That’s not—”
“It is.”
Silence.
You watched him.
Waited.
“…Say something.”
He was in a stupor
~Say anything. Tell her the truth. Say it’s always been her.
That her laugh wrecks you. That her hair, her voice, the way she moves—all of it lives in your head on a loop.
Tell her you didn’t send the chocolates because you were afraid it would give you away.
Tell her that she makes you ache in places you didn’t know could feel.
Tell her you’re hers.~
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, voice low and heavy. “I never meant for it to go that far. I just wanted to know you.
“You could’ve known me,” you said softly, sadly. “I was right here. Every day. Always right here.”
He lowered his head.
Ashamed.
You turned to go.
Paused.
Then looked over yout shoulder, voice barely above a whisper:
“Goodnight, Robert.”
And then you walked away.
---
“Wait—please.”
Robert’s voice cracked through the empty hallway, desperate and unsteady. “Don’t go like this.”
You stopped in front of the elevator, your back to him.
Slowly, your head turned. Your eyes were sharp, your expression unreadable.
“I just—” he stumbled forward, still breathless. “I didn’t mean to mock you. I never did.”
You faced him fully now. Chin high, arms crossed like a shield. “Then what was that, Robert?”
Silence.
He looked wrecked. Truly. Hair a mess, hoodie stretched, his expression caught somewhere between shame and heartbreak.
“You acted like you hated me,” you said. “Every single day. You never smiled. You groaned the second I walked into a room. You looked at me like I annoyed you just by breathing.”
“I didn’t hate you,” he said quickly. “I was just—God—I didn’t know how to be around you.”
~Because you’re light. And I’ve lived in shadows so long, I didn’t know how to step into it.
Because if I spoke, I’d say too much. If I looked too long, I’d give everything away.
Because you made me feel like I was drowning in something I couldn’t name.~
“You were kind to everyone,” he said. “Sweet to everyone. I couldn’t stand how easy it was for them to talk to you. Laugh with you. Flirt with you.”
He looked away, jaw clenched.
“I didn’t know how to be one of them.”
“You didn’t have to be one of them,” you snapped, voice breaking. “You just had to be someone.”
You both stood there, staring.
The air between you was molten.
“I told that stranger everything,” you said, softer now, raw. “I told him I was lonely. That I’d been hurt. That I felt invisible.”
Her eyes glistened. “And it turns out the only person who saw me was the one I thought couldn’t stand me.”
He looked at you like he couldn’t breathe.
“I never hated you,” he whispered. “I—”
He swallowed hard. “You once said… in a message… that my moustache was kind of cute.”
Your eyes widened.
He took a shaky step closer.
“That I have moles all over my face and neck. That I am like “Dot-to-Dot” game. That they made me different. Special. You noticed them.”
Another step.
Your breath hitched.
“I read it a hundred times,” he said. “That night. And I cried like a fucking idiot.”
You blinked fast. Your throat burned.
“I didn’t feel human until you said those things."
The silence between you collapsed into something trembling. Unbearable. His chest rose and fell too fast. Your fingers curled tightly at your sides.
Then—
You whispered, “Why didn’t you just talk to me?”
“I wanted to,” he breathed. “Every day. Every second.”
Another step.
Close now.
You could smell his skin. The faint deodorant, warm with sweat and nerves. His lips were parted. His eyes, impossibly dark.
He reached up, hesitant fingers hovering near your cheek—then stopped himself.
But you didn’t move.
You didn’t flinch.
~Do it.
Please. Just once.
Make this real.~
And then—
He kissed you.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was frantic. Starved. A little clumsy.
His hands cupped your face like he wasn’t sure this was allowed. Like he’d dreamed of it too long and now didn’t know what was real.
Your lips met his with equal heat, equal ache—so much need packed into every motion, months of longing crashing like waves.
His mouth was warm and trembling.
Yours soft, open, willing.
When you broke apart, you were both breathless.
Foreheads pressed together.
Silence.
Then a whisper:
“…I didn’t want to be a ghost to you.”
You touched his face, thumb brushing one of the tiny moles along his cheek.
The next morning at the office, you moved a little slower than usual—still sleep-starved from another late-night conversation with your mystery confidant. But something was different.
You kept looking at your phone, then at the room.
Not searching. Just… wondering.
As if maybe the man behind the messages was closer than you thought.
Over by the IT corner, Robert sat stiffly behind his monitor, hood up as always, headphones around his neck but not playing anything. Just there. Like armor.
He noticed it.
How you walked in and looked around.
How your eyes brushed across him—lingered, maybe half a second longer than usual—before you smiled faintly at a colleague and sat down.
He immediately looked away.
~She’s looking for him. For… me.
God. I have to stop. This is going to blow up in my face.
But I can’t stop.~
Midday, she caught him by the printer. He was fixing a jammed tray, cursing softly under his breath, sleeves pushed up, hands ink-smudged.
You hesitated.
Then stepped a little closer.
“Hey, um… Robert?”
He jolted slightly. Almost dropped the tray.
“…Yeah?”
You smiled gently. “Just… thanks. For yesterday. For the tea. That was really kind.”
His face twitched. An unreadable expression crossed it—half panic, half disbelief.
“…Wasn’t a big deal,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
“It was to me,” you said quietly.
He looked at you then. Really looked.
And that second—too short and too much—it almost broke him.
He groaned. Loudly. Exaggerated.
“Ugh, people are so nice now,” he grumbled, turning back to the printer.
You blinked, trying not to laugh. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he mumbled.
You giggled, shook your head, and walked away.
~She thanked me.
She smiled at me again.
She giggled. Because of me.
…I’m gonna pass out.~
That night, as she curled up in bed, you opened your phone again.
Your fingers hovered for a while.
Then:
YOU: “Can I ask you something?”
“Who are you?”
Robert stared at the message.
It sat there on his screen, bright and direct, like a flashlight in the dark.
He stared at it for minutes.
His heart pounded.
He typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Then finally:
ANON: “Someone who listens.”
“Does it matter?”
You frowned a little at your screen, rolling onto your side.
YOU: “It does. A little.”
“You say these beautiful things and you know so much about me, but I don’t know anything about you.”
Robert bit the inside of his cheek. Hard.
He wanted to tell you. God, he wanted to tell you everything.
But you'd stop talking to him
You'd stop looking at him the same way. Or worse—start pitying him.
He couldn’t risk that.
So he lied.
Just a little.
ANON: “I’m not anyone important.”
“Just someone who sees you.”
You stared at the words.
They made your heart ache.
YOU: “You say that like it’s not everything.”
Robert swallowed.
Hard.
Closed his eyes.
He’d never felt lonelier or more connected at the same time.
~She deserves better.
But she’s talking to me.
And I’ll take that—even if I have to be no one.~
---
The weather had turned gray. Soft drizzle clung to the office windows, streaking down in tired rivulets, like the sky itself was sleep-deprived.
You sat at your desk, eyes flicking from your inbox to your phone screen, thumb hovering over the chat window like it might answer you first.
The anonymous messages still glowed softly on your screen from the night before. They’d stopped suddenly—abruptly—right after your last question.
Who are you?
He’d dodged again. You could feel it in your chest now: that edge of something off, something sad in it all.
You looked across the office.
Robert.
Same as always—hood up, slouched deep into his chair like he was trying to merge with the floor. The hum of his monitors flickered softly across his glasses.
You hesitated.
Fidgeted with your pen.
Then got up.
Robert was halfway through debugging some wretched spaghetti-code mess someone from Accounting had sent him when he heard you coming.
Click-click-click.
Your heels. Always that same rhythm. Always recognizable.
He stared at his screen, suddenly hyper-aware of his own heartbeat.
Then you were right there, next to his desk.
“Hey… Robert?”
He flinched. Then slowly looked up. His eyes were rimmed red behind his glasses. His hoodie strings were twisted in one hand. He looked wrecked.
“…Hey,” he said cautiously.
You gave him a slightly nervous smile. “You’re the IT genius around here, right?”
He blinked.
That… sounded like a trap.
“…Define ‘genius,’” he mumbled.
You laughed softly. “I mean, you can pretty much find anything or anyone on the internet if you try, yeah?”
“…Okay?” He narrowed his eyes slightly, every inch of him on high alert now. “Where is this going?”
You hesitated again, then pulled your phone from your pocket, thumb hovering over the chat.
“I’ve been getting these messages,” you said, voice a little quieter. “From someone anonymous. He knows things about me. He’s sweet, and kind of poetic, and he says he just wants to listen, but… I’m starting to wonder. He won’t tell me who he is.”
Robert didn’t move.
Not a twitch
Not a blink.
He was no longer a man—just a statue made of sheer, collapsing panic.
~She knows.
She’s onto me.
Abort. DIE. I should’ve never touched a keyboard in my life.~
You bit your lip, showing him the chat without showing him the name. “I thought maybe you could take a look? I don’t want to, like, expose him or anything. I just… I need to know if he’s safe. Or real. Or something.”
Robert stared at the phone like it had grown teeth and was about to bite him.
“…I… I guess I could…” he croaked. Then cleared his throat violently. “I mean. Yeah. Sure. I guess.”
He reached out—slow, mechanical—and took the phone like it was radioactive.
Your fingers brushed.
He dropped it.
“Shit—sorry—!” he scrambled to pick it up before you could, handing it back like it burned.
You tilted your head a little.
“…You okay?”
“Fine,” he said too fast.
You gave a soft smile. “You seem nervous.”
“Me? No.” His voice cracked. “Why would I be nervous? Just the fate of someone’s emotional world resting in my hands, no big deal.”
He paused.
You squinted, half-amused, half-confused.
“…That was very specific.”
Robert laughed. It sounded like a cough. Then he quickly stood from his chair.
“I’ll look into it. Don’t worry.”
And with that, he was gone. Vanished into the server room like a puff of anxious smoke.
Later That Night.
He sat on the floor of his dim apartment, back against the wall, your phone number still glowing on his computer screen.
He hadn’t touched the chat again.
He couldn’t.
His whole body was vibrating with guilt and… longing.
You trusted him. You brought it to him. Because you thought he was safe.
And he was the guy she was trying to unmask.
~She deserves someone better.
Someone with confidence. Someone who wouldn’t hide like a coward behind code and usernames.
But she came to me. She asked me for help. She smiled. She trusts me.
She thinks I’m poetic. Christ.
What am I doing?~
He opened the anonymous chat again.
Typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Then finally:
ANON: “You asked who I am.”
“And I want to tell you. I really do.”
“But I’m scared that once you know, you’ll stop talking to me.”
“Can we keep talking just a little longer?”
You read it in bed, your screen casting soft light across your face.
You didn’t reply right away.
You just stared.
And wondered.
Why was your heart racing?
Why did his words sound familiar?
Let’s go.
---
It was a rainy Tuesday when it happened.
Nothing special in the air. Same grey sky. Same fluorescent lights humming above. Same clatter of keyboards and the soft gurgle of the old coffee machine in the corner.
You had settled into your desk, still thinking about him. About the way he spoke through the screen. That gentle, careful way he carved words. Sad, beautiful words.
You hadn’t written back yet.
You didn’t know what to say.
But you kept rereading the line:
“I’m scared that once you know, you’ll stop talking to me.”
It echoed in your mind all morning.
And then—he said it.
Robert was fixing the marketing department’s half-dead printer, hunched over it like it had personally betrayed him. You were standing nearby, half-watching, arms crossed, sipping your tea. Trying not to stare at the way his fingers moved or how his glasses slid down the bridge of his nose.
The silence between you felt thick.
Then, out of nowhere, he muttered—like a groan wrapped in regret:
“…People only like you until they really know you.”
You froze.
Tea halfway to your lips.
Because he had said that.
Exactly that.
Two nights ago. In the chat. Word for word.
“People only like the idea of you. Once they know the real you, it fades.”
You blinked. Slowly.
He didn’t even notice your change in expression. He just sighed and pulled a jammed paper out with far too much force.
“Stupid thing.”
You stared at him.
And for the first time, not as “just Robert, the grumpy IT guy.”
But as someone… familiar.
~No way.
No. No, that’s—
Couldn’t be. He wouldn’t…
Would he?~
You tilted your head slightly.
“…What did you just say?”
He paused. Looked up at you, cautious.
“What?"
“That line. About people only liking you until they know you.”
He blinked. Clearly didn’t even realize what he’d said.
“…I dunno. Just something I think sometimes.”
You nodded slowly.
“Right.”
Then turned, walking away casually.
But your heart?
Hammering.
Later That Night.
You sat in bed, staring at your phone.
You opened the anonymous chat.
Typed:
YOU: “Have you ever said that to someone else before?”
“The thing about people only liking the idea of you.”
“Just wondering.”
He didn’t reply.
Not for a long time.
Meanwhile, Robert was standing in his kitchen, hands gripping the edge of the sink like it might steady the quake in his chest.
Robert showed up looking like he hadn’t slept (he hadn’t), in a hoodie that somehow looked grumpier than usual. The weight of shame after last night was killing him. His jaw was set in a way that said “don’t even look at me,” and his entire aura radiated a mood so thunderous, even Jens didn’t dare crack a joke.
He shuffled past the front desk, avoiding eye contact, coffee cup in hand, sweater sleeves pulled halfway over his fingers like makeshift shields.
~Don’t talk to her. Don’t look at her. Don’t breathe near her. Just do your job. Fix the server. Avoid the sunshine. Pretend you’re emotionally stable. It’s Monday. Everyone hates Mondays. You can get away with being a corpse.~
Except, of course, he could hear you.
Somewhere near the copier, your voice lit up the hallway. Friendly, soft, laughing at something someone said. You weren’t even speaking to him, but it still clawed its way under his skin.
And when he accidentally caught a glimpse of you—new blouse, sleeves rolled up, a subtle shade of lip gloss you hadn’t worn before—he physically winced.
~New lip gloss. Great. What is that, raspberry? Rosewater? Why do I even notice that?
I need to move. Or go feral in the woods. Or both.~
He locked himself in his corner, typing aggressively. He didn’t even eat lunch. Just chewed his pencil and stared at lines of code while trying not to picture how your lips looked when you drank your tea.
By 3:00 PM, he was dehydrated, angry at the air, and regretting every emotion he’d ever had.
So naturally, that’s when it happened.
The coffee machine in the main breakroom short-circuited. Because of course it did. Of course he had to go fix it.
He stomped toward the breakroom like a man being marched to execution.
When he opened the door—you were already there
Alone.
Sipping tea.
You looked up, bright as ever. “Hey, Robert!”
He paused.
Groaned.
Audibly.
“Of course,” he muttered, under his breath.
You blinked. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” he sighed, already crouching near the machine like it personally offended him. “Just that Mondays are a nightmare.”
You smiled, trying to break the fog between you. “You say that every day.”
“I mean it every day.”
He didn’t look at you.
You studied him quietly for a moment.
~God, he looks tired. And miserable. Like, extra miserable. Did he not sleep? Is he okay? He’s always like this, but today he looks like he’s trying to dissolve into the floor.~
He fiddled with the power panel in silence, clearly trying to become one with the machine and disappear from existence.
You took a slow sip of tea, watching him, then—gently:
“Rough weekend?”
He grunted. “Define ‘rough.’”
You tilted your head. “Did you at least do something fun?”
He didn’t answer.
Just cursed softly under his breath as a wire refused to snap back into place.
~Yeah. I thought about you for six hours straight. I imagined what music you might like. I wondered if you sleep with socks on or not. I imagined kissing your shoulder, and then I felt so pathetic I almost deleted my hard drive.
But sure. Let’s talk about ‘fun.’~
Finally, you leaned a little over the counter to grab a paper towel—just slightly too close—and your arm brushed against his shoulder.
Just like that, tension snapped like a livewire between you.
He flinched again. Subtle, but real.
You blinked.
So did he.
You were wide-eyed, confused):
~Why does he do that? Is it me? Is he uncomfortable? Am I… bothering him?~
“Sorry,” you said quickly, stepping back.
He shook his head, still crouched, still not looking at you. “It’s fine.”
But his voice was too tight.
His face was burning.
And when he finally stood up and fixed the machine with one last dramatic sigh, he didn’t leave immediately.
He lingered.
Still not meeting your eyes.
“Do you…” He hesitated. “Do you always drink the same tea?”
You blinked. “What?”
He cleared his throat. “Just. Noticed. That it’s always the same.”
“Oh,” you smiled. “Yeah. It’s jasmine. Why?”
He shrugged. “No reason.”
And just like that, he turned and left the breakroom like he hadn’t just lost a psychological boxing match with himself.
-That was a conversation. A real one. I said something. It wasn’t smooth. But it happened.
Her arm touched mine.
Her skin is soft.
I’m going to spontaneously combust in the server room.~
----
It had been a weird week.
You felt it.
Something shifted.
At first, you thought maybe you were imagining things. But every time you walked into the office—every single morning—Robert would look up, make eye contact for half a second, and groan.
A low, tortured sound like your existence gave him a headache.
The first time, you brushed it off. Maybe he was tired.
The second time, you laughed about it with a coworker. “Robert hates mornings more than anyone I know.”
But the fifth time? The seventh? The tenth?
You started to wonder.
~Is it… me?
Does he hate me?
I didn’t do anything. I just say hi. Offer him cookies. Smile. Am I being annoying?
Why does he look at me like I’m a problem he can’t solve?~
He never said anything cruel. He didn’t really say much at all. But his face—god, his face—spoke volumes. Always that same irritated sigh, that pained grunt, that exasperated air whenever you were near.
You started skipping your usual greetings.
You stopped offering him snacks.
Just in case.
And that—that—was what nearly broke Robert.
~She didn’t say good morning.
No cookies. No tea. No smile. Did I ruin it?
I ruined it.
She thinks I hate her.
God. I look at her and it hurts. I ache for her. And the only way I can survive it is to act like I don’t see her at all.
I’m the villain in her story.~
He watched you from the safety of his desk.
You laughed with everyone else. Moved like light through the dull corridors. You were still you—soft, sweet, magnetic—but now there was a flicker of restraint in your smile when you passed him.
You were pulling away.
Because of him.
And the worst part?
He wanted you to keep your distance.
And he didn’t.
At the same time.
He was drowning in the space you no longer filled.
~She’s not touching my desk anymore. Not coming near. I should feel relieved. I should.
But I miss her. I miss her voice. Her perfume. The way she laughs when she’s nervous. I miss the way she brushes lint off her skirt like it matters.
I want to touch her. Not in some gross way. Just—her wrist. Her fingers. The back of her neck. Anything.
What would her hand feel like in mine? What would she do if I just… touched her cheek?
She’d probably flinch. Because she thinks I hate her.~
That afternoon, you stood by the window, talking quietly to someone, your silhouette bathed in pale, rainy light. You laughed at something they said—soft and bright and absolutely devastating.
Robert watched, frozen, unable to look away.
You turned slightly, caught his gaze across the room.
He groaned.
You looked down immediately.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t look back.
~There it is again. That sound. That look.
I get it, okay? You don’t have to make it that obvious.
I’m sorry I ever tried to be kind.
I’m sorry I wanted to talk to you.
You win, Robert Frost. I’ll leave you alone.~
And just like that, the light dimmed.
He didn’t mean it.
God, he didn’t mean it.
But all he could do was sit in silence.
And rot in it.
---
It was raining again.
The kind of quiet drizzle that made the office feel sleepier than usual—low hums of conversation, the click of keyboards, the occasional clink of coffee mugs. Robert liked days like this. People kept to themselves. No one asked too many questions.
He sat in his usual corner, hoodie up, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest that always settled when you were near.
You hadn’t spoken to him in two days.
Not a hello. Not a smile. Not a cookie.
He deserved it.
~I ruined it. She was kind. And I treated her like a virus in the system. All because I couldn’t deal with how badly I wanted her.~
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop.
Really.
He’d just gone to refill his mug, stepped around the corner into the tiny kitchen by the back hallway, and paused when he heard your voice—soft and low, like you were saying something you didn’t want the whole world to hear.
You were talking to Eva.
Sweet Eva, the gentle older woman from accounting who always brought in muffins and remembered birthdays.
He stayed hidden in the hallway, heartbeat instantly climbing into his throat.
“Do you think Robert… hates me?”
There was a pause. A surprised inhale.
“I don’t know what I did,” you continued, your voice smaller now. “I was just trying to be nice. I mean, he groans every time I walk in. He looks at me like I’m a bug in his soup. It’s just—ugh, I don’t know. He’s always unhappy, and I thought maybe I could… I don’t know. Brighten his day a little? But I guess that was stupid.”
Robert went still.
Utterly, terrifyingly still.
It felt like being struck by lightning—except he was the cloud, and you were the only warm light trying to peek through.
~She thinks I hate her.
She actually thinks that.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She tried to be kind. She tried to reach out. And I made her feel like a burden.
I’m a coward. A broken idiot who can’t even smile at the girl who made my entire life softer just by existing.~
Eva, ever the wise one, gave a gentle hum.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said. “Robert’s just… complicated. He’s not good with people. But I see how he looks at you when he thinks no one’s watching.”
Your breath caught. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Eva smiled, “don’t count yourself out just yet.”
Robert turned and walked away before he could hear more. Before he started shaking.
He went back to his desk and stared at the same line of code for ten minutes, jaw tight, stomach in knots.
And then—there you were.
You passed by.
Graceful, warm, wearing that soft sweater with the sleeves half-pushed up and the collar slipping just enough to show the line of your neck.
You stopped near your desk drawer. Bent slightly. Closed it with a subtle push of your hip.
And he saw it.
All of it.
The gentle curve of your body. The smooth, unconscious way you moved—like every step was music. Like gravity worked differently around you.
You walked away, and he watched the sway of your hips, the soft movement of your skirt, the flick of your hair tied loosely back with a ribbon.
~She doesn’t even know she does that.
The way she moves. Like sunlight slipping through blinds. Like a breeze made of skin.
Her hips. Her hands. The curve of her waist. Her mouth.
How the hell am I supposed to function?~
He turned back to his screen.
Typed one word.
Deleted it.
Rubbed his face like he could scrub the feelings off.
But it was useless.
He was wrecked.
And the worst part?
You thought he hated you.
And he didn’t know how to fix that without unraveling completely.
---
It was Thursday afternoon when it arrived.
You were at your desk, checking something off your to-do list, when one of the younger interns—Sophie—strolled up, eyes bright and full of mischief.
She plopped a sleek little parcel onto your desk. Beautifully wrapped. Pale pink paper, tied with silver ribbon, a tiny card tucked into the bow.
“Someone asked me to pass this to you,” she said with a grin.
Your brows lifted. “Who?”
She shrugged, knowingly. “Didn’t say.”
“Oh…”
~That’s… new.
Is this some kind of office prank?
Wait, no. That’s… that’s actual chocolate. That’s expensive. That’s not a prank.
What the hell is going on?~
Around the office, a few people lifted their heads, curiosity sparking.
You flushed, smiling awkwardly as you untied the ribbon.
Inside: a box of handmade Belgian chocolates. The real kind. Silky black box. Gold detailing. Not cheap.
The card inside just said: “For the sweetest one in the office.”
Your heart skipped.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “What is this…”
Across the room, Robert saw everything.
He was standing by the printer, holding a report he no longer had any interest in reading, heart hammering in his chest like he’d just witnessed a crime scene.
You were smiling.
Your eyes lit up.
You looked… flattered.
Happy.
And why shouldn’t you be?
Someone had noticed you—someone bold enough to show it. Not like him. Not like the coward hiding behind cables and firewalls.
~Of course. Of course someone made a move.
She’s beautiful. Kind. She lights up the entire office just by walking in. She could have anyone she wanted. Any guy in here would be lucky just to talk to her.
And me?
I can’t even look her in the eye without wanting to crawl out of my own skin.
I’m a ghost in a hoodie. A glitch in the background.~
He went back to his desk, tossed the report aside.
His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. Something in his chest burned, tight and wild and mean.
Jealousy. Ugly. Pure. And hopeless.
~She deserves someone normal.
Someone who takes her out. Makes her laugh. Kisses her neck in the hallway.
I don’t even know how to start a conversation.
God, I’ve never even touched a woman like that. Not really. Never been someone anyone wanted.
She’ll be kissed tonight. Or flirted with. Or touched. And I’ll go home. To silence. To thinking about the way her hip brushed the drawer this morning.
Pathetic.~
He didn’t speak the rest of the day.
Didn’t look up when you walked past.
Didn’t even flinch when someone joked, “Careful, Robert, looks like someone’s got competition.”
He just kept typing.
Dead-eyed.
Wrecked.
And when he got home that night, he didn’t turn on the lights.
He sat in the dark with his laptop open, pretending to work, the image of you unwrapping that gift playing on repeat in his mind.
~What does she like?
What does she watch before bed?
Would she ever let someone hold her face and kiss her slow?
Not someone like me.
Never someone like me.~
---
It was past midnight.
Robert sat in the dim glow of his monitor, hoodie up, the only sound in his flat the low hum of his PC fans and the distant murmur of the rain.
He should have been asleep.
He should have been doing literally anything else.
But instead—he was staring at your name.
No profile picture. No mutuals. Not your full name—just a handle he only found because of a playlist you once left open on your work computer for two seconds too long. He didn’t even mean to look. But something clicked. A half-glimpsed username. A post-it note on your monitor with a phrase he remembered seeing online.
And now?
Now he was in your world.
Your Page.
It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t curated.
But it was you.
A digital garden of moody film stills, blurry café shots, whispered thoughts at 2AM. Classical music linked without comment. Haunting, beautiful paintings. Quotes from old books. Observations like—
“There’s something devastating about seeing a sunset alone.”
“I wish I could be touched without feeling like someone’s going to leave right after.”
“I smile too much. People think I’m okay.”
Robert was breathless
~She’s lonely.
God. She’s really lonely.
How could someone like her—so soft, so kind—feel like this?
Who did this to her?
Who hurt her?~
He scrolled through more posts. One from a few weeks ago stuck like a knife:
“Being sweet doesn’t protect you from being forgotten.”
He read it three times.
And then he leaned back in his chair, ran both hands down his face, and exhaled like it physically hurt.
~She hides it all so well.
She’s like me.
We’re both just walking around pretending we’re fine.~
He thought about messaging you.
He almost did.
But what would he say?
“Hi. I’m the grumpy IT guy who makes weird noises every time you look at me. I found your secret little corner of the internet and now I want to hold your soul in my hands.”
Yeah. That wouldn’t go over well.
So instead…
He made a new account.
Just a blank profile. No name. No photo. Just an empty space where something honest might exist.
His fingers hovered over the message box for a long, long time.
~This is stupid. She’ll block me. Or worse—know it’s me. She’ll think I’m a creep.
But maybe… maybe if I just talk to her. Not as Robert. Not as anyone. Just someone who sees her.
Maybe that would be enough.
Maybe that’s all I can be.~
He typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Deleted again.
And then finally, with hands shaking, he wrote something simple:
“Your posts feel like they were written in the dark. I hope someone turns the light on for you someday.”
He stared at it.
Hovered over “Send.”
And clicked.
Then immediately yanked his sweater over his head and shoved away from the desk like it was burning.
~She’s going to think I’m insane. She’s going to laugh. Or be creeped out. What the hell did I just do?
Why am I like this?~
But five minutes later…
He checked again.
And there it was.
A tiny heart under the message.
A “seen.”
And one word in reply:
“Thank you.”
---
The office was asleep. The city too.
Except for two quiet lights glowing miles apart—two souls stitched together by the anonymity of night, fingertips brushing only through text.
It started with her simple reply: “Thank you.”
Robert stared at that one message for twenty minutes, a soft hum in his chest like static under skin.
And then he wrote back.
HIM: “Why are you sad?”
YOU: “That’s a big question.”
HIM: “You don’t have to answer. Just… from the outside, you seem so full of light. But in your posts, there’s this sadness. Like you’re tired of pretending.”
You didn’t reply right away.
He panicked. Regretted everything.
And then, finally:
YOU: “Yeah. That’s kind of exactly it.”
From there… it just spilled out.
An hour. Then two. Then five.
You talked like you’d known each other in another life.
You told him how lonely it felt to be everyone’s sunshine—but no one’s favorite person. How exhausting it was to be the cheerful one, the sweet one, the one people liked, but no one really saw.
He didn’t interrupt. He let you pour your heart into that little chat box like water from a cracked glass.
And then, timidly, he typed:
HIM: “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“You’re beautiful. Not just your face. The way you move. The way you write. I don’t think I’ve ever been so drawn to a person in my life.”
Robert froze after hitting send.
Stared at the screen like he just confessed a murder.
~Stupid. Idiot. She’ll block you. You went too far.~
But then… the three dots appeared.
YOU: “Is this your way of telling me you’re the chocolate guy?”
He blinked.
Wait. What?
HIM: “No.”
“Should I be?”
YOU: “Haha. I don’t know. I just… assumed. You’re being really sweet.”
And that hit him like a shot to the chest.
You was imagining someone else.
Someone confident.
Charming.
A man who buys chocolate without flinching. Who flirts in daylight and doesn’t stutter in the break room.
Not him.
Not the miserable nerd in the corner who grunts when you walks in because he’s short-circuiting internally.
~She’s thinking of someone tall. Handsome. Normal.
And here I am, hiding behind a screen like a teenager.
But at least like this… I get to be close to her. I get to be the version of me I wish she knew.~
He leaned back in his chair, the light of dawn starting to creep in through the blinds.
He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t even blink properly.
But for the first time in a long time… his chest wasn’t entirely hollow.
You had spoken to him—not Robert Frost, grumpy IT hermit, but the part of him that was soft, scared, and hungry for someone who saw the world like he did.
And he knew it couldn’t last forever.
But for now… it was enough.
---
The office smelled like burnt coffee and printer toner when you stepped in that morning, clutching your thermos like it was life support.
Your bun was looser than usual, silver tips slightly out of place, and your cardigan hung off one shoulder like even it was too tired to stay upright. You yawned for the third time before you reached your desk.
“Rough night?” Eva called from her desk, her tone amused but concerned.
You gave her a sleepy smile. “Didn’t sleep much.”
“Someone kept you up?” another colleague teased. “A someone maybe?”
You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh. “No! Just… couldn’t stop thinking.”
Robert was already at his desk, fingers on the keyboard, eyes on his monitor.
But he heard everything.
And when you passed by with that dazed look and your sleepy smile, he glanced up—just once.
~She’s tired… because of me.
We talked for six hours last night. She told me things no one else knows. And now she’s yawning her way through the day while I pretend I’ve never even spoken to her.
This is so fucked up.~
Every time you yawned, his gut twisted. Every time you rubbed your eyes or sipped your coffee with that spacey little sigh, he felt it.
And yet, when you gave him a soft smile across the room—just trying to be friendly, even in your exhaustion—he still instinctively groaned and looked away, like your presence personally pained him.
It wasn’t intentional.
It was reflex.
You wounded
~God. Again? What is his problem?
I didn’t even say anything. I just smiled.
Does he really hate me that much?~
Later that night, curled up in bed with the lights off and your screen lighting your face, you messaged the only person who seemed to see you lately.
YOU: “Can I tell you something kind of dumb?”
ANON: “Always.”
You hesitated.
Then typed.
YOU: “There’s this guy at work. He’s like… this constant raincloud. Always grumpy. Never smiles. Doesn’t talk to anyone unless he absolutely has to.”
“I don’t think he likes me. Actually, I’m sure he doesn’t.”
“He groans every time I walk past. I’m not exaggerating. Groans. Like the sound you make when your internet dies.”
Robert stared at the screen.
Every word was a punch to the ribs.
~She noticed. She notices. Every groan. Every look-away. Every time I thought I was protecting myself by being quiet—I was just hurting her.
She thinks I hate her.
And she’s telling me… about me.~
ANON (typing carefully):
“Maybe he’s not good with people. Maybe he doesn’t know how to handle someone like you.”
“You’re warm. Open. You smile like the world isn’t falling apart. That can be… a lot, for someone who’s used to hiding.”
You stared at the message for a long time.
Then typed:
YOU: “Why are you being so nice to me?”
He paused.
His hands hovered over the keyboard.
So many answers burned in his throat.
But all he wrote was:
ANON: “Because you deserve it.”
You smiled at the screen.
And far across town, so did he.
The first real smile he’d allowed himself in weeks.
And yet his heart still ached, because he knew:
You were falling for someone who didn’t exist.
And the real him… was just the raincloud who groaned when you smiled.
---
The morning after that conversation, Robert didn’t sleep.
Not really.
He just lay there in his dark room, blanket tangled around his legs, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. Her words kept circling his mind like a haunting loop.
“I don’t think he likes me.”
“Actually, I’m sure he doesn’t.”
“I wish he liked me.”
You said it so quietly in the chat, almost like a joke. But he knew better. He could feel the softness under it. The ache.
And it ruined him
~She wishes I liked her.
God, if she only knew. If she knew how much I think about her hands. Her voice. The way she tucks her hair when she’s focused. The curve of her waist when she reaches for something. The way she bites her lip when she’s annoyed with the printer.
She thinks I’m indifferent. She has no idea I go home and replay every glance like it’s a movie reel I’m addicted to.~
That day, the office buzzed the same as always.
Emails, phone calls, laughter.
You was quieter than usual.
Still smiled. Still greeted everyone. But the light wasn’t fully there. You were… dimmer somehow. And only someone who watched her the way he did would notice.
He kept sneaking glances from his screen, stealing seconds between tasks. Every time you passed by, he’d feel that usual pressure in his chest. That painful mix of wanting to disappear and be seen.
But something had changed now.
Now he knew what was behind your smile.
And it made everything worse.
Later that day, the hallway was quiet—mid-afternoon slump. Most people were out at lunch. Robert headed to the server room with a tool kit, mind running in loops, hoodie sleeves pulled down over his hands.
Then he heard it.
A small sniffle.
Not dramatic. Not attention-seeking.
Just… real.
Like someone trying not to cry.
He stopped.
Turned slowly.
Down the hallway, near the copy machine, you sat alone on one of the side benches, head tilted slightly away, eyes red, a tissue crushed in your hand. You weren't sobbing. You weren’t making a scene.
You were just… breaking, quietly.
~She’s crying.
She never cries. Not in front of people.
What do I do? Do I say something? No. I’ll make it worse. She’ll think I’m being weird.
But I can’t just walk away. I can’t pretend I don’t see her.~
He took a slow, reluctant step closer. His boots made a soft sound on the floor.
You didn’t look up.
You probably didn’t even notice him yet.
He stood there, stupidly holding his toolkit, like that was going to fix this.
Then, awkward and low, his voice came out like a glitch in the quiet:
“…Uh.”
You jumped slightly, turning to look at him.
“Oh—Robert.”
You tried to smile, wiping your eyes quickly. “Sorry. Just… a stupid moment.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Looked at the ground. Then at you. Then away again.
“…It doesn’t look stupid.”
You blinked, surprised.
It was the first time he’d ever said anything… remotely kind to you. Or at all, outside of tech issues.
He barely holding it together
~Say something else. Anything. Don’t stand here like an idiot.
Tell her it’s okay. Ask if she wants to talk. Ask if someone hurt her.
Ask if it was you.~
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
Then, quietly:
“…You want a tea or something?”
Your face broke into a soft, confused smile. Like you didn’t know if you should be touched or laugh.
“I—uh… okay. Sure.”
He nodded, already turning awkwardly, walking toward the kitchenette like it was a battlefield.
~I’m going to burn the tea. She’s going to think I poisoned it. What am I doing?
But she said yes. She said yes to something.~
Back on the bench, you sat a little straighter.
Still a little sad.
But now curious.
Because Robert Frost, professional raincloud, had just offered you tea.
And you didn’t know what the hell it meant.
But something inside you whispered—
Maybe he didn’t hate you after all.
---
The kitchenette light buzzed faintly overhead as Robert stood by the kettle, watching it boil like it was a bomb about to go off. He gripped the counter edge with both hands, hoodie sleeves half-covering his fingers.
He had no idea what kind of tea to make. He had no idea how to do this. His hands shook a little as he poured the water into the mug, the bag still floating like he forgot to even remove the wrapper properly.
The idea of handing it to her made his stomach twist into a full knot.
Still, he carried it back like it was something sacred—hot ceramic and trembling hope.
She was still sitting quietly on the bench, wiping beneath her eyes with a tissue, but her expression had softened when she saw him.
He held the mug out stiffly.
“Uh. It’s, um… black tea.”
You accepted it gently, your fingers brushing his.
It was a tiny touch, barely anything—but his body reacted like static electricity had just sparked through his spine.
He’s panicking
~She touched me. Oh god, I hope my hand wasn’t clammy. Was it clammy? It definitely was. Great. Perfect. She probably thinks I’m diseased.~
“Thank you,” you said softly, looking up at him, that tired but kind smile still there. “That’s really sweet.”
He cleared his throat.
Awkward pause.
Then, completely out of character:
“…Why were you sad?”
You blinked.
A little surprised.
He stared straight ahead, as if the air itself would provide a distraction. His hand gripped his sleeve tighter.
You hesitated.
“…It’s nothing. Just silly thoughts,” you said quietly, giving a little shrug. “You ever feel like you’re surrounded by people, and still kind of… not seen at all?”
His chest tightened.
He nodded, just once.
Not smiling.
Not comforting.
Just understanding.
“…Yeah,” he said. “All the time.”
Then turned and walked away.
---
Later That Night
You lay in bed, wrapped in the familiar glow of your phone screen, heart a little heavier than usual.
You opened the chat.
YOU: “Hey. Can I tell you something?”
ANON: “Always.”
You paused.
Then typed:
YOU: “Something weird happened today. That guy from work I told you about… Robert. He gave me tea.”
“Like, he made it and brought it to me. It was the first time he didn’t sound like I was ruining his day by existing.”
“Maybe he doesn’t hate me after all?”
“He asked why I was sad. I didn’t really answer. But… I don’t know. It meant something.”
Robert stared at the messages, the phone warm in his hands, his chest cracked open like someone had gently peeled back the armor he wore every day.
His mouth went dry. His throat, tight.
You were talking about him. And you didn’t sound angry. You didn’t mock his awkwardness. You sounded… touched.
He scrolled, waiting, breath caught.
Then
YOU: “Also… this is embarrassing, but…”
“He’s actually kind of attractive?”
“Not like, typical guy-at-the-bar attractive. But in his own way. Like… I don’t know. He has this little mustache? It’s so outdated but it kind of works? And he has these tiny moles on his face and neck that no one probably ever notices but I have. He is like “Dot-to-Dot” game, you can just connect those little dots on his face and neck and receive a picture. Hehe that’s cringe, I’m sorry.”
“It makes him look real. Not filtered. Not like every other copy-paste guy.”
“There’s something soft about him underneath all the grumbling. I wish he didn’t try so hard to hide it.”
Robert dropped his phone.
Literally. It slid off his hand and hit the floor.
He stared at the wall like he’d seen a ghost.
~She noticed my moles. My moles. She thinks my mustache is… cute? Dot-to-Dot game? She thought about touching me or what? What the hell is happening.
She doesn’t think I’m invisible. She sees me.
She thinks I’m hiding something soft. God. She has no idea how right she is.
I can’t do this. I can’t keep pretending.
But I can’t tell her either.~
He retrieved the phone, his hands shaking.
He didn’t know what to say.
But he typed, carefully. Honestly.
ANON: “Maybe he’s just scared.”
“People like that… they build walls because they’re terrified of being seen. Especially by someone like you.”
“You seem like the kind of person who would ruin him—in the best way.”
You read it twice, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs.
YOU: “That’s a really beautiful thing to say.”
“Are you always this poetic, or just when I’m sad?”
Tags: Slow Burn, Office romance, Smut, Male masturbation
You are the office manager and working with Robert. You noticed he is always grumpy and seems like every little action causes him physical pain. Like nobody ever was kind to him. It intrigues you and you decided give him a bit of kindness.
Part 1/?
Robert Frost was a man in constant agony.
Not the dramatic, poetic kind—though his name suggested otherwise—but the quiet, bone-deep kind. The kind that came from fluorescent lights, small talk, and being surrounded by people who smiled in the morning.
He didn’t smile. Not once. Not even on holidays.
He existed—barely. Mostly at his desk, in a grey jacket that never left his frame as if it’s always cold and glasses that sat perpetually crooked. A groan accompanied every movement. Standing? Groan. Sitting? Groan. Turning to check the printer? A sound of such suffering you’d think he was in the last act of Hamlet.
He wasn’t mean. Just… terminally miserable.
And you?
You were the social butterfly.
You remembered birthdays. You organized snack drawers. You taped little smiley face stickers to the water cooler. You helped everyone without them need to ask. You were the kind of person who creates the mood.
Everyone liked you.
Everyone except Robert Frost, apparently. He barely looked at you.
Or so you thought.
~Why does he act like opening his email causes him physical pain? And how does he always look vaguely damp, even indoors? He’s like a sad wet cat with a masters in cryptography. I should leave him alone… but also, like… is he okay?~
You had made cookies the night before. Soft, still a little warm in the morning, tucked into a reusable container. You passed them out without thinking. Desk to desk, cheerful as always.
Until you stopped at his.
Robert didn’t look up. Typing furiously. Sighing like gravity had personally wronged him.
You hesitated.
It wasn’t like he’d ever accepted anything before. Honestly, he seemed allergic to kindness. But… maybe today was different. Maybe—just maybe—a cookie could bring something good into his day.
You placed one gently on the edge of his desk, then cleared your throat.
“Hey. Want a cookie?”
He froze.
Like an animal caught mid-prowl.
Slowly, slowly, he turned his head to look at you. Blank expression. Eyes slightly narrowed.
“You have a birthday or something?”
~Okay. That was… odd… What is going on in his life that he thinks cookies can only be eaten on birthdays?~
You laughed nervously. “No. Just, you know… thought it might brighten your day. Eat it.”
He stared at it like it was radioactive. Then back at you. Then back at the cookie.
A long silence.
Then, grumbling low in his throat, he muttered: “It’s probably raisin.”
You blinked. “It’s chocolate chip.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t touch it. You weren’t even sure he blinked.
You smiled anyway. “Okay. Well. Enjoy… or don’t. It’s up to you.”
And walked away.
He was a total chaos
~Why would she do that? What does she want? What game is this? Is this a prank? No one gives me cookies. No one gives me anything. And she just… smiled. At me. Like I’m a person. Is it poisoned? No. It smells good. She smells good. Her perfume is—God. Shut up. Eat the cookie. Don’t eat the cookie. Die here. In peace.~
He ate it three minutes later.
Silently.
No groan this time.
She had a little spark of mischief.
~He ate it. I knew he would. He’s so dramatic. Who reacts like that to a cookie? But he’s interesting, in a weird, sad, mysterious way. Like… does he even own a plant? Does he cry in the shower? What is his deal?~
Robert, for his part, resumed typing. Faster now. Eyes burning holes through his screen. Like nothing happened.
But something had.
Because tomorrow, when you left a mini muffin near his mouse pad with a sticky note that said “muffin to smile about”, he didn’t throw it away.
He just sighed.
And ate it.
And for a second—just a second—he didn’t look quite so miserable.
***
It started the moment she walked in.
The office, usually sluggish and barely awake before ten, suddenly lit up with chatter and compliments as soon as she stepped through the door.
It wasn’t even anything dramatic. Her clothes were normal, soft and cozy like always. But her hair—swept up in a messy bun with a few delicate silver star shaped hairclips glinting in the morning light—had transformed her into something ethereal. Casual magic. Effortless sparkle. The kind of beauty that didn’t try.
“Whoa,” said Lena from HR, blinking. “New hair? You look amazing today!”
“It’s just a bun,” you laughed, brushing a strand behind your ear.
“No, this is not ‘just a bun,’” said Nico from Sales, eyes wide. “This is gorgeous. I’m actually speechless.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, walking toward your desk. “It’s just hair, guys…”
But they kept on.
“Are those silver clips?”
“You look like you’re going to a brunch with angels.”
“I swear you get prettier every week, it’s almost rude.”
You laughed again, cheeks pink. “Alright, alright. Can someone please make the coffee while I go hide in a drawer?”
You were joking, of course. But part of you was used to it by now—the attention. You never asked for it. But your softness had a gravity, and people noticed.
Everyone noticed.
Including him.
Robert Frost sat slouched at his desk like a man burdened by all the sins of the world and also a migraine. Jacket up. Headphones around his neck. Typing furiously, as if the code might combust if he hesitated for a second.
He heard the compliments.
He heard your laugh.
And then—he looked up. Your eyes accidentally met.
His eyes landed on you like they always did, and it hit him all at once. The bun. The star shaped hairclips. The effortless, casual softness that made his chest hurt.
And he groaned.
Loudly.
A sound of such exaggerated suffering that his deskmate, Jens, leaned over and whispered, “Jesus, man, are you in pain?”
Robert didn’t answer. Just stared at his screen with the intensity of someone trying to disassociate into binary.
You were confused
~What does that even mean? I walk in and he reacts like someone stabbed his soul. Is it because I look stupid? Is he allergic to femininity? Is he hating me? Or… is that just his resting pain face?~
Robert’s ears were burning.
And the compliments just kept coming. Every “you look beautiful today” was another nail in his mental coffin.
His Thoughts were spiraling hard.
~Of course they’re saying it. Of course they see it. She is beautiful. Not just today. Always. And she walks in like sunshine and I sit here like a moldy sock. I can’t say anything. She’d laugh. Or worse, she’d thank me like it’s just another polite compliment from someone with a functioning personality.~
He couldn’t even look at you again. It was unbearable. The way your bun made your neck visible. The curve of it. The glint of that silver hairpins. Your cardigan slipping off one shoulder, and the way you tilted your head when you smiled at people.
It was like watching light and knowing you were born from shadows.
~I hate this. I hate that I care. I hate that I can’t stop looking at her and wanting things I have no right to want. She deserves people who can talk. Laugh. Exist like humans. I’m a walking 404 error in a jacket.~
You returned to your table from the kitchen. You looked at your monitor—and there it was.
A small sticky note. Pale yellow. Just sitting there beside your teacup.
Written in sharp, uneven block letters:
“Nice hairclips. —R”
Your heart flipped.
You were stunned, touched, unsure.
~Oh my god. He doesn’t hate me? Why does he care about my look?~
You glanced over to his desk.
He was typing like his life depended on it. Not looking your way. Face blank. But his hands were moving too fast for someone who wasn’t running from his own embarrassment.
You smiled.
Genuinely.
And tucked the sticky note gently into your planner like it was something fragile.
Something worth keeping.
He was completely unwell.
~She saw it. I’m dead. That’s it. She’s laughing. She’s going to show it to the whole office and they’ll all know the creepy goblin in IT has a crush. Why did I write that. Why do I have fingers. I need to change my name and move into the mountains.~
***
Fridays at the office usually meant doughnuts, light inboxes, and pretending to work while watching the clock tick toward freedom.
But not today.
Today IT was crawling.
Something about a faulty port, loose connections, and “the system units needing direct access under the desks.”
Which meant, to Robert’s horror, he had to crawl under nearly every desk in the office. Including yours.
He groaned louder than usual when the task landed on him.
“Really?” he muttered. “No one else knows how to do this?”
~Great. Exactly what I need. Physical labor. On a Friday. In a sweater I haven’t washed in two weeks. And of course, I’ll have to crawl under her desk. Which is… fine. It’s fine. It’s not like I’ll accidentally die from emotional implosion or anything.~
By the time he made it to your side of the room, he’d fixed five workstations and collected enough carpet lint to build a second Robert. He approached your desk like a man heading into battle.
You looked up from your spreadsheet and smiled, bright and oblivious to the complete nuclear meltdown happening three feet away.
“Oh, hey. IT hero! You’ve been summoned?”
“Yeah,” he muttered, not looking at you. “Need to check your unit. The port’s glitching.”
You blinked. “My unit?”
He froze. Flushed. Then looked away so fast he probably gave himself whiplash.
“You know what I mean.”
You tried not to laugh. “Go ahead, I’ll move.”
You slid your chair back to give him room, accidentally brushing your knee against his.
He flinched like you’d electrocuted him.
Your brows raised.
~Is he okay? That was like… a full-body recoil. Do I give off static? Or is it just me?~
Robert crouched down, muttering something under his breath, and began pulling cables like his life depended on it. His shoulder accidentally brushed your leg again as he ducked further under the desk.
And that’s when it happened.
Your foot tapped his thigh.
Just a gentle nudge. Totally accidental.
Time stopped.
He’s entering total shutdown.
~Her foot just—did she—oh god. She touched me. I can feel the warmth. Through my jeans. This is not survivable. Abort mission. Emergency eject. Heart rate: 1000 BPM. Status: dying.~
He stayed down there way longer than necessary.
Partially because the port was loose.
Mostly because he needed to breathe.
The space under your desk was small, dim, and smelled faintly of grapefruit and rose—you. Your perfume. The one he’d memorized without meaning to.
Your legs were crossed. He could see the curve of your ankle, the way your sock slouched slightly at the heel. The hem of your skirt hovered just above his line of sight. Suddenly his jeans became tighter.
He looked away. Shut his eyes. Breathed.
He mentally begging for mercy.
~Focus. Focus, you tragic meat puppet. It’s a wire. You’re fixing a wire. Don’t think about her legs. Or her scent. Or the way she said “my unit” and laughed like a little sunbeam. You’re in hell. And she’s smiling in it.~
“Everything alright down there?” you asked gently, amused.
His voice came back a little too high. “Fine. Yep. Just—cables.”
You leaned a bit, peering under the desk. “Need help?”
He nearly hit his head on the underside.
“No. No. I got it.”
You smiled to yourself, leaning back again.
~He’s blushing. I swear he’s blushing. What is going on with him? He acts like being near me is painful, but he also left me a compliment on a sticky note.~
Eventually, Robert emerged—dusty, red-faced, and emotionally wrecked.
He didn’t make eye contact. Just muttered, “Port’s stable now. Should be fine.”
You tilted your head. “Thanks, Robert.”
He paused. Swallowed hard. Then gave the smallest nod before retreating back to his desk like he’d survived a war.
~She thanked me. She looked at me when she said my name. How do people live like this? How do normal humans survive being within two feet of someone that smells like sugar and looks like that and doesn’t flinch when they smile at you? I need a nap. Or a coma.~
You returned to your spreadsheet.
He returned to pretending to code.
Neither of you got much done after that.
***
The next week started off quiet.
Robert tried to go about his life pretending he hadn’t nearly ascended to the astral plane under your desk on Friday. But every time he thought about the brush of your foot against his leg, the warmth of your laugh, or the faint scent of grapefruit and rose from your perfume—his stomach did this weird, traitorous flip.
He hated it.
And he hated how he liked it.
So he did what he always did: kept his head down, typed too loudly, and avoided you like you were a pop-up window he couldn’t close.
But today, his defense systems would fail.
It started around 10:30.
You were by the copier, smiling—of course—and chatting with someone from another department. Robert didn’t even know the guy’s name. One of those effortlessly cool types. Wore fitted shirts, used expensive cologne, probably called women babe unironically.
The guy leaned a little too close. Said something that made you laugh—tilting your head back, that silver clip in your hair catching the light again.
Robert heard it from across the room.
Then came the words that lit a fuse in his chest:
“So, since i treated you to salad for lunch, you now have to make me breakfast some day?”
Your laugh polite, awkward. “That’s… bold.”
“Come on, Y/N, I’ll wait for it.”
Robert nearly broke his keyboard.
~Make a breakfast? Really? What is this, a pick-up method? You can’t just say that. You don’t even know her. She’s not some prize to win. She’s a person. With layers. And kindness. And laughter that sounds like morning light. And a weird, adorable way she organizes her pens by mood. And you—god—you don’t even see her.~
And why should I care?
Why do I care?
Why do I want to strangle that guy with an ethernet cable?~
He didn’t look. Not directly.
But he could feel it.
Jealousy. Hot and sharp and ugly. Crawling under his skin like static.
You eventually walked back to your desk, a little pink in the cheeks, your polite smile fading the moment you sat down.
He watched from the corner of his eye.
You didn’t look happy.
~Why do guys always do that? Like, being friendly means you’re inviting them in. I was literally just waiting for the copier. And of course he made it weird. Of course. I should’ve brought my headphones.~
She’s uncomfortable, he thought. And the realization hit him harder than expected.
She was uncomfortable. And she was alone in that discomfort. And all he could do was sit there like some mute statue.
Unless…
No. Don’t be stupid.
***
As you walked past him into the kitchen, your hand casually brushes his shoulder.
And then the rest of the day moved in slow motion for Robert.
Your brush against his shoulder lingered like a fingerprint on skin. It was nothing. Nothing. But to him?
It may as well have been a declaration of war on his emotional stability.
You hadn’t even looked at him. Not really. Just walked by, humming softly under your breath, probably unaware you were slowly unraveling the fabric of his nervous system.
By 5:00 PM, he was fried. And not from the code.
He was grumpy, emotionally fried
~This is stupid. I shouldn’t care. It’s just a girl. A nice girl. With warm eyes and soft sweaters and a voice that makes my chest ache. I’m not fourteen. I’m not a character in a cheap romance novel.
She hummed something earlier. What was it? Some indie band? Or was it a film score?~
***
When he finally got home—his small, dimly-lit apartment that smelled faintly of old books and dust—he dropped his bag, shed his jacket, and stood in the middle of the room like someone who forgot how to function.
He sat at his desk. The glow of his second monitor lit up the room with sterile blue light.
But he didn’t open his work.
He just stared.
And thought of you.
~She probably likes cozy movies. Autumn movies. The ones with too much dialogue and warm lighting. Maybe she plays piano. Or used to. Maybe she likes poetry—probably not the weird kind. The kind that feels like a hug.
Does she go home to roommates? A cat? Does she light candles? Does she wear those fluffy socks?
I bet she does.
I bet her apartment smells like cinnamon.~
He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, let the thoughts keep coming. He couldn’t stop them anyway.
~She has no idea I even think this way. That I notice everything. The way she always offers the middle piece of the brownie tray. The way she says people’s names with care. The way she glows when she laughs—like really laughs.
I’ve never seen anyone look so alive.~
He shifted, exhaled deeply, ran his hands down his face like it might quiet his mind.
But it didn’t.
Because then he pictured how your skirt moved when you walked. The soft way you twisted your hair up in that bun. The little star shaped silver clips glinting on your hair.
The way your cardigan always seemed one size too big, slipping from your shoulder, hinting at the soft skin beneath.
He’d barely let himself think about that before.
But now, alone in his silence, the thoughts came uninvited.
~Her collarbone. Her waist. Her smile. The curve of her hips when she leans over the desk.
God, she’s beautiful.
Not in that loud way. Not in the way everyone else notices first. In the way that hurts to look at for too long. Like it’s too much.~
He pressed his palm to his chest. It ached again—just like it always did when you were near.
He thought of how everyone else flirted with you so easily.
And how he couldn’t even say hello without sweating through his shirt.
~What does she even want? Someone charming? Confident? With clean shoes and a playlist of cool songs?
What would she even say if she knew I go home and think about what she smells like, what her laugh sounds like in the dark, what her mouth would feel like against— ~
He stopped himself.
Groaned.
“Jesus,” he muttered out loud. “Get a grip.”
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Because you were still there. In his head. Wrapped in soft cardigans and grapefruit and rose-scented memory.
And no amount of logic could shut that out.
Later at night, lying in his bed, he was tormented by obsessive thoughts.
~Gosh… I can’t stop thinking about her. What her thighs would feel like under my touch. Damn. Stop it. Her body is so full and strong. What if she’s sits on me with her weight… Oh, to feel that pressure…~
He groaned and rubbed his eyes. His breath now heavy, he feels warn down his stomach. His hand moved down his torso.
~Jesus, don’t do that, Robert. Don’t…~
He sighed as his hand goes under the elstic of his boxers.
~Her neck looks so tender… Oh, to touch her there… To dig my fingers into her waist… to squeeze her flesh… to feel her warm…~
He touched slightly his already swollen cock. Soft moan escaped his lips as he imagined you sitting on his desk, legs spread.
~Fuck. I am disgusting. I have to stop that.~
He hissed and didn’t stop. He wrapped his palm around his cock and started stroking it.
~She actually seemed like never wear a bra. Sometimes a can see her nipples are hard. Jees… How I would touch them and rub them and… Oh God… I would suck and lick them. How would she sound because of that?~
The rhythm of his hand on his dick became jerky. His breath is messy. The sounds coming from his lips are absolutely obscene.
~I bet she feels like heaven… I bet she tastes as sweet as the most delicious fruit…~
He imagined as you welcomed him between your legs, sitting on his work desk. How you wrapped around his waist, how you pulled him tighter. How his lips and tongue move on your neck to collarbone. How you sighed and moaned his name with that sweet voice.
He whined and felt he’s already close.
~Fuck, I want her so bad it hurts. She would look so beautiful under my touches and on my cock. Oh, to feel that heat…~
His imagination gave him pictures of you bouncing on his cock, moaning and whimpering. Telling him how good you feel, how he’s doing everything so right.
And there he snapped. He didn’t even realise this before but he definitely have a praise kink.
He was so so close, he hissed and groaned as he imagined you telling him how much you like all of his actions.
In his imagination you said “Your cock feels so right, so good, Robert. I’ve never felt so good. Just like that, fuck me with your perfect dick, good boy.”
As his mind generated the “good boy” thing he just came as hard as he never did before with a loud hoarse sound.
“Oh fuck… What have I done.. I’m disgusting creature…”
He covered his face with a pillow and sighed with disappointment.
