𝑏𝑟𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑖𝑑 ⌖𓆪 @liqhtwxxd - Tumblr Blog

Not My Type.

Pairing: Buck Cashman x fem!reader

Word count: 8.3K

Warnings: No warnings!! Except for subtle swear words.

Context: Teasing, making out, slight chocking if you squint.

Summary: Buck Cashman is teasing you nonstop for days as revenge of you calling him he's not your type.

Author Note: This was the first draft that made me start to write for Buck Cashman and you guys don't know how happy I am that it ended. I was thinking about writing smut in the end but it didn't feel like it and I hope you enjoy this long piece!

Taglist: @itsneversirius @not-the-teen-witch @mahumf9 @itsdynotdaddy @gh0st-quart3t

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

“No offense, but you’re not really my type.”

The words that left your lips caused a brief pause in the small, private room of one of your newest friends, Daniel Blake. There was a small smile on your face, your lips pressed together in an apologetic way as your eyes locked onto Buck Cashman, who was looking at you in a rather… puzzled and caught-off-guard manner.

It had become a ritual these past few days for you to meet with Daniel during your lunch breaks. He was the only one in City Hall close to your age, and the two of you had bonded rather quickly. It was one of those rather sunny Mondays where everyone felt the drag of a new week. You loved talking with Daniel—he seemed like a total sweetheart, and you never felt awkward during conversations, as he always made things easier.

And then there was his other friend, whom you weren’t very familiar with. A tall brunette man with a rather serious expression whenever you saw him with Mayor Fisk. You were pretty sure you had never seen him alone before, to be honest—until today, when he joined you both for lunch, or rather, was forced into it by Daniel, who was desperately trying to set the two of you up.

That’s how the conversation evolved—between bites of your hot dogs, you sitting on the chair next to Daniel at a respectful distance, and Buck perched on the edge of Daniel’s desk, only half of him resting on it. One leg was slightly raised, just enough for his neat, meticulously ironed trousers to ride up, revealing the strip of skin above where his black sock ended.

It was Daniel who did most of the talking, while you were more reserved in the presence of someone new—not exactly shy like a teenager, but carrying that quiet introversion of meeting someone you’ve seen often yet never properly spoken to. Still, with Daniel’s help, you were slowly stepping out of your comfort zone—until he commented on how cute of a couple you and Buck would be.

Your answer came out impulsively, in a moment of vulnerability, meant to joke and ease the atmosphere into something more lighthearted. Buck tilted his head slightly to the side. He didn’t look offended—not at all—but rather intrigued.

“Am I not?” he asked. His thick accent was present even in the three words he rolled so smoothly off his tongue. The weight in his gaze stole your breath for a moment. You weren’t afraid—just affected by the intensity of those brown eyes, as if they could see straight through you, reaching the deepest, darkest parts of yourself that you couldn’t even acknowledge.

Without waiting for your answer, the left side of his lips curled upward, amused. The very prominent dimple of his—even without a full smile—became more pronounced as he spoke.

“Who’s your type exactly, if I may ask?” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as the tip of his tongue traced the curve of his upper lip for a brief second. His head remained tilted to the side, as if he were deeply invested in your answer.

You had known this man for barely twenty minutes—which only reminded you how little time you had left before your boss, Sheila, would inevitably intrude to remind you to get back to work—and yet he had already left an impression on your thoughts, even if you claimed he wasn’t your type.

“Um…” you hummed, your fingers finding the edge of your skirt as you tugged it down nervously. Being asked a question you weren’t sure how to answer made you hesitate. You took a deep breath, glancing around the room before your gaze landed on Daniel, who seemed far more entertained than he should have been, his fingers playing with his lower lip as his elbow rested on the arm of his chair.

“I don’t know. Maybe someone like Matt Murdock?” you said, the first name that came to mind, shrugging lightly. You sensed a sudden shift in the room, a faint coldness you couldn’t quite explain. “I mean, he saved Mayor Fisk from getting shot, right? He seems like a decent person.”

Your explanation didn’t quite land with either of them. Daniel let out a nervous chuckle, glancing between you and Buck, while Buck himself looked completely unfazed, an easygoing smirk settling on his lips.

“Indeed,” Buck replied. Something flickered in his eyes, though you couldn’t quite name it. “But is he actually your type, or do you simply have a fondness for heroic acts?” he asked.

You had just opened your mouth to respond when the door to Daniel’s office was knocked on rather impatiently a few times before opening. Sheila Rivera stepped inside, her expression tight with impatience. She called your name in a warning tone.

You rose from your seat, quietly grateful for the interruption as you offered a polite smile.

“I believe in the power of action,” you said, before adding a soft, “Gentlemen,” as you crumpled the napkin that had rested on your lap—spread there to keep your skirt clean while eating—and tossed it into the bin beneath the desk. “It was a nice conversation. A pleasure meeting you again, Mr. Cashman.”

Buck, ever the well-mannered man, was already on his feet the moment Mrs. Rivera entered the room. He extended his hand for a handshake before you could.

A warmth rose from your chest to your neck as you placed your hand in his. For a moment, you couldn’t help but notice that no matter how large your own hand might have seemed, his was large enough to make yours feel small as his fingers wrapped around it. The contact lasted no more than two seconds, but you registered how soft his hands were—for a man, at least—and how warm his palm felt, noticeably warmer than your own.

You left the room with your heart beating rapidly, and the brunette man watched the spot where you had disappeared for a few lingering seconds. Even if he hated to admit it, he enjoyed how the scent of your perfume still lingered in the air, how your hair had bounced softly with every step as you walked away. It was Daniel’s muffled giggle that finally pulled him out of that brief trance.

He wasn’t exactly pissed off, but your words had dealt a small blow to his ego. And the way the young man sat there in his chair, wearing a wicked yet boyish smile as if it were all terribly amusing, irritated him in the most peculiar way.

“Shut up, Daniel,” he said, a subtle smirk woven into his voice.

His tongue ran along the surface of his teeth as he slipped his hands into his pockets, his gaze drifting back to the door you had just walked through. His lips pressed together slightly—a quiet tell of the thoughts beginning to take shape in his mind, and of what he intended to do next.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

It was Tuesday. After the lunch break you couldn’t have with Daniel—or even Buck, whom you couldn’t quite get out of your head for the rest of yesterday evening—things felt oddly quiet. He hadn’t been at City Hall, out with Mayor Fisk for the upcoming public announcements, trying to repair his reputation after the smear campaigns circulating online.

You sat at your small desk in the corner of the office you shared with Mrs. Rivera as her assistant. The room was empty; she was out with the mayor as well. It was usually quiet like this anyway, leaving you to handle most of the paperwork for your boss, who reviewed everything before submitting it to the big boss—Mayor Fisk himself.

The work was stressful. There was no room for mistakes, no allowance for anything less than perfect, and that constant pressure rested heavily on your shoulders. But at the moment, you weren’t doing any of that.

You had been given a new assignment—one that pulled you away from routine entirely. You were to find the person who had leaked footage of Daredevil to The Northern Star. There wasn’t much to go on beyond access logs: reviewing everyone’s computer data, tracing inputs and outputs, and checking for any undeclared external device activity.

You heard voices outside, realizing people were returning to City Hall. The door to your office opened, and two figures stepped inside. One was Sheila. And the other—

“I heard you were looking for the leak,” Buck said, his gaze fixed directly on you as he began walking in your direction.

Sheila walked over to her desk, gathering a few paper files from the surface before slipping them into her bag. She took her coat from the hanger and turned to you before you could properly focus on the man now standing behind your desk—right next to you—as he looked down at your computer screen.

“I’m calling it a day,” she said, then spoke your name as she slipped on her long wool coat. “You can leave whenever you want. That’s all for today.” She pulled her hair free from the neckline of her coat before glancing toward the tall man beside your chair.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Cashman. Don’t keep my assistant under surveillance,” she added, her tone edged with snark.

A small smile settled on his lips, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as you said your goodbyes to Mrs. Rivera.

The second the door closed, Buck moved. He stepped closer, towering over you, both hands planted on the surface of your desk, effectively caging you into the small space. You could barely reach your keyboard and mouse without brushing against his arms.

“Let’s see what you’ve found so far,” he murmured, his voice low, resonant from deep in his chest. His chin barely brushed the hair at your temple as he leaned in, his head tilted just slightly downward.

For a moment, you forgot everything. Your breath hitched as the warmth from his body seeped through his jacket and crisp white shirt, even without him fully touching you. The proximity was overwhelming, his scent wrapping around you like a thick haze. His cologne blended with the freshness of aftershave—something he likely used daily, judging by the faint shadow of his beard against his skin, like a permanent trace.

You swallowed, feeling as though minutes had passed, even though it had only been a few rapid heartbeats. Clearing your throat softly, you reached for the mouse.

A quiet hum left your lips as your tongue brushed over them for a brief second. Your arm grazed his as you guided the cursor across the screen, explaining everything you had found so far, your voice carefully steady despite the effect he had on you. He listened.

Every so often, he responded with a low hum—subtle vibrations from his chest that signaled his approval.

At one point, his hand slid over yours where it rested on the mouse. Without hesitation, he guided it across the screen, clicking open a file as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your whole body felt like it was on fire, a heat burning under your skin for no clear reason, which only made you panic internally even more. What was wrong with him? He could have simply asked you to open the file—or at the very least, gently nudged your hand aside—but no. He chose to cover your hand with his—larger, warmer—and then, as if that wasn’t enough, he left it there for no reason at all.

You tilted your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face and the way his eyes were fixed on the screen. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth as his gaze moved across the lines of text, and you were suddenly, acutely aware of his scent—stronger now, drifting from his neck and filling your senses completely.

Your teeth clenched as you swallowed hard, your grip tightening ever so slightly—on the mouse, on your lap, on anything that might ground you.

When he finally looked down at you, a flicker of panic surged through you at the thought that he might notice your state—but instead, he acted as if nothing had happened.

“Well done,” he said, then spoke your name—instead of the usual “Miss” followed by your surname. The hand that had been resting over yours lifted, only to come to rest briefly atop your head, giving you a soft, almost absentminded pat.

With his face so close, you could feel the cool brush of his breath against your chin. And if you had been breathing normally, you were certain he would have felt yours just as clearly.

“I’ll let HR know about your hard work.”

Then he stepped back. Just like that, he gave you space—adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as if nothing unusual had happened—before turning and walking away, leaving you alone with a restless mind and unsteady breath.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Wednesday was the day where things started to get hard both in the city-hall and in her own mind. She was constantly lost in thought, thinking about him and it made her heart beat differently that made her sigh every few seconds as she felt sorry for herself. Has it really been that while for her to get effected by a few minutes of proximity where nothing really even happened.

You were going up and down in the building, mostly using stairs instead of elevator as it was pretty occupied all the time and she didn’t want to stop moving in order to not think too much. But everywhere she went, she saw a glimpse of him somehow and she wasn’t sure if it was coincidence or not anymore.

He was there in the file room, when you went there to grab something. He was on the cafeteria when you got yourself a coffee, you saw him almost everywhere but near Fisk which was odd on its own.

It was late in the afternoon, when you had just stepped out of one of the smaller meeting rooms down the corridor, a folder tucked under your arm and your mind still half-occupied with the notes you had taken. The hallway was quieter than usual— most people were either in meetings or lingering near the main offices, and for once, you allowed yourself to walk without watching every step.

That was your first mistake.

You turned the corner too quickly. And ran straight into something solid— or rather, someone. The impact knocked the air out of you for a second, your balance tipping forward before a pair of hands caught you firmly by your arms, steadying you before you could even think to react.

“Careful.”

His voice came low, controlled, right above you.

You froze. Your fingers tightened around the folder as your breath stalled somewhere in your throat, your eyes lifting—slowly, cautiously—only to meet his. Buck. You could swear you never met someone with eyes like his as if it was a dark hole and you were caught in its orbit, pulled into it without putting up a fight with the knowledge of it was useless.

Of course it was him of all people you’d run into.

His hands were still on you, not loosely, not as if he had just caught you and was about to let go. It was firm, grounding even as his thumbs pressed just enough into your sleeves to remind you exactly where he held you.

You swallowed, your pulse suddenly loud in your ears.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you.’’ you started, but your voice came out thinner than you intended and that cause you to frown at yourself internally.

“I gathered that.” he replied, almost mildly but he didn’t move, didn’t step back and definitely didn’t release you.

Your back was dangerously close to the wall now— close enough that if you leaned even an inch, you’d be pinned between it and him. And he… he was too close. Close enough that you could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his gaze lingered not just on your face—but on you, like he was assessing something you couldn’t quite name.

Your breathing betrayed you first, it was too shallow and quick. His eyes flickered just slightly, noticing the state of you and enjoying it without letting you know.

“Rushing somewhere?” he asked, quieter now.

You shook your head, a little too fast. “No, I was just heading back to—”

His grip shifted, not tighter but not gone either. One hand slid just slightly, adjusting its hold as if to steady you better—though you were already perfectly still as if he just wanted an excuse to have the pleasure of keeping your words at bay.

“Then slow down,” he murmured, your stomach twisted at the tone alone. For a second—just a second—you thought he might lean closer but his gaze held yours a moment longer before he finally, finally let go. The absence of his hands felt just as noticeable as their presence had and he stepped back as if nothing had happened, straightening his cuffs with practiced ease.

“Try not to injure yourself in the hallway,” he added, almost dryly. And then he walked past you. Leaving you standing there, back nearly against the wall, heart beating far too fast for something that had lasted only seconds and it brought a sense of déjà vu that left you completely fucked in the head.

By the time evening settled in, most of the building had begun to empty. The steady noise of the day faded into something quieter, hollower—footsteps echoing farther, voices fewer and more distant when you were getting ready to leave. Sheila was there with you in the office, telling you which files should be ready by tomorrow morning and all the boring things that you took a note on the small notebook of yours that you brought with yourself everywhere.

‘’Leaving already?’’ the voice came from the already parted door of the room; your head snapped to the owner of that voice that haunted your mind endlessly and he took a look at you for split second before handing Mrs. Rivera something that you didn’t see, as you looked away.

You checked your desk instead, it was finally cleared, your tasks completed for the day with the kind of precision that left no room for correction. You exhaled softly, reaching for your coat draped over the opposite side of the room and you moved to brush passed by him in a few steps. Seeing where you were headed, he moved on first and grabbed your coat before you.

Your hands paused mid-motion, fingers still caught in the lining of your sleeve as his warmth approached your back with your coat in his hands.

“Hold still.” The words were low, near your ear as your breath hitched. His hands came into view a second later —large, precise— as they reached for the collar of your coat. He adjusted it with careful, deliberate movements, smoothing the fabric down over your shoulders like it had been bothering him personally as he helped you get into your own coat like it was so casual.

You didn’t move, couldn’t really as every nerve in your body felt suddenly aware and you felt embarrassed with the possibility of Mrs. Rivera taking this gesture in a rather different way.

“You missed this,” he added quietly as his fingers brushed the back of your neck just barely but enough for your spine to be straightened instinctively, a sharp inhale catching in your chest as the sensation lingered far longer than it should have.

He didn’t rush, didn’t step away immediately but instead, his hands remained there for a moment— resting lightly at your shoulders, as if testing whether you’d move.

You didn’t, you weren’t even sure if you could as your grip tightened on the front of your coat when you stared ahead, pulse climbing again, that same heat from earlier creeping back under your skin.

Then—just as suddenly—

He stepped back and the absence of him hit you all over again.

“There,” he said, tone returning to something more neutral, as if he had simply corrected a minor detail. “Presentable.”

You turned slightly, not fully facing him with a composure thinner than you liked.

“Thank you,” you managed, quieter than intended and his gaze lingered enough for you to feel it even without looking directly.

“Mm.”

A pause.

Then, almost as an afterthought—

“Try not to run into anyone on your way out.”

Your stomach dropped at the faint edge in his voice.

And before you could even think of a response, he was already moving past you, just like before—controlled, composed, leaving nothing behind but the echo of his presence and the lingering weight of his touch as he bid good evenings to Mrs. Rivera.

The hallway felt colder when you finally stepped into it.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Wednesday morning was rather difficult for you, mostly due to the lack of sleep you had gotten the night before. You had spent hours tossing and turning, his image etched into your mind like something carved in stone. His scent lingered in your memory—intoxicating, heavy, yet never unpleasant or suffocating. It suited him far too well, and you found yourself irritated at how much you had dwelled on it, to the point of losing sleep.

The middle of the week was always one of the busiest times, second only to Monday, which bore the weight of the weekend’s backlog. Wednesdays rarely allowed you to remain seated; instead, you spent most of the day moving up and down the stairs, carrying files that needed to be corrected, signed, or reprinted before they could be presented to the mayor by the end of the week. From there, he would approve or reject them over the weekend—and then the cycle would begin again.

The lack of sleep had gifted you a dull but persistent headache. Still, you refused to take any painkillers, stubbornly denying yourself even that small relief, as if it were some kind of punishment for the thoughts you had entertained. In a way, the discomfort helped—it distracted you, kept your mind from drifting back to him too often. But by the time lunch came and went—missed entirely due to the workload—the ache had worsened, doubling in intensity. You silently cursed yourself for not taking the pills earlier; now, it felt far too late, and you found yourself wishing you had listened to Daniel.

Distracted, irritated, and slightly dazed, you stepped into the elevator for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The weight of your work kept your thoughts occupied—until you heard a familiar voice to your left.

“You seem distressed.”

The thick, heavy accent in his voice startled you. Your eyes widened as you turned toward him, clutching the file to your chest a little tighter. The sudden movement let in more light, sending a sharp spike of pain through your head. You groaned softly, tilting your head back against the mirrored wall of the elevator, eyes closing.

“And you seem way too fine,” you murmured.

Silence settled in the elevator. You didn’t immediately realize the double meaning of your words—not until the elevator chimed and came to a stop.

Your eyes snapped open, a flicker of panic crossing your face as you looked at him. He was already stepping out, a pleased smirk tugging at his lips, his dimples deepening in a way that felt almost permanent. He turned just slightly, now standing outside the elevator with his hands tucked into his pockets, his gaze fixed on you—something dangerously amused flickering in his expression.

“I didn’t mean—”

“A thank you would be sufficient, I hope,” he interrupted smoothly, his eyes trailing over your flushed, slightly feverish face as the doors began to close. “You look fine yourself as well.”

A dumbfounded look settled on your face as you let out a quiet groan, dragging a hand over it in frustration. After everything you had already gone through that day, did he really have to mess with your head again by calling you fine?

You glanced at your reflection in the metal surface of the elevator from the corner of your eye. You were certain you looked nothing close to fine—yet his words still left you feeling oddly giddy, enough that the hint of a smile threatened to form on your lips.

You stepped out of the elevator and made your way to the file room—a space noticeably colder than the rest of the building. You had a stack of papers to stamp before getting them signed by the supervisor.

Quiet. Isolated.

Only the soft rustle of paper and the dull, repetitive sound of the stamp hitting the surface filled the room as you worked through the documents, slightly hunched over a desk that never quite matched your height.

A few minutes passed before the heavy door opened as if it weighed nothing.

You tilted your head back—and there he was. The current source of your unrest. The sight of him made your heart leap, only to drop straight into your stomach.

“You should listen to people more, you know,” he said.

That was when you noticed the bottle of water in his hand. He stepped closer, unscrewing the cap before holding it out to you.

“I heard from Daniel that you refused to take painkillers,” he added, as if explaining the confusion written across your face.

You took the bottle from him, but before you could pull your hand away, his other hand came up and wrapped lightly around your wrist—as if you might spill it, though your grip was steady despite the way your heart trembled.

“I like to test my limits,” you murmured, almost teasing.

A faint smirk flickered across his face for a split second—one you didn’t quite catch, your attention instead drawn to the small pill still wrapped in its foil. He popped it free himself.

You lifted your palm, expecting him to drop it there—but instead, the back of his fingers brushed your hand aside.

His fingers curled loosely around your wrist, then traced upward, grazing along your arm over the thin fabric of your shirt, stopping just above your elbow. His touch was slow, deliberate.

“Open your mouth,” he said, his voice low, steady.

Your stomach tightened.

You didn’t even pause to question it—didn’t stop to wonder why you were obeying now, after refusing all day. Why you were letting him do this. Why you weren’t pulling away.

You should have questioned it. You should have refused.

But you didn’t.

You were letting him.

With a flutter of your eyelashes that met his gaze without breaking eye contact, you parted your lips slightly wider. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a distracted thought flickered—if he had nothing better to do, like handling whatever questionable matters Mayor Fisk kept buried, things you had no desire to dig into or understand.

But the intensity in his eyes told you otherwise. It was as if nothing in the world mattered more in that moment than making you swallow the pill. The pill, of course.

The small white tablet held between his fingers moved closer to your lips, and nothing about this situation felt remotely normal. A faint, uneasy thought crossed your mind—you might cringe later if you let yourself think too deeply about it.

And yet, at that moment, you felt strangely suspended in it, almost mesmerized. Too aware of him, too aware of yourself, too aware of the space between his hand and your mouth. It left you slightly breathless in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely. You let him do it without question, which you knew—some distant, rational part of you insisted—was dangerous.

But that was a thought for later.

Your mind went briefly blank the second his fingers brushed your lips, warm and steady, as he placed the pill inside your mouth. The contact alone made something in your chest tighten unexpectedly, a small, betraying fluster rising up your neck before you could stop it.

You almost forgot to drink the water when his hand at your elbow guided your own upward, bringing the bottle closer as he spoke again—his tone no longer casual, but controlled, deliberate.

“Swallow.”

And you did. The pill went down.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” he said, his hand withdrawing as he tilted his head slightly, studying you with an assessing gaze. “Taking care of yourself. Isn’t it?”

You nodded, quickly looking away as you handed the water bottle back to him. The heat in your face lingered longer than you wanted it to. “I doubt it will help at all, but—thank you.”

He closed the bottle and set it beside the files you had been working on, as you continued, quieter now—less steady than you intended.

“I didn’t mean what I said… back in the elevator, I mean.”

He was inspecting the files, his fingers still hovering over the edge of the pages as he pursed his lips in thought when you spoke. You were facing his broad back, his posture slightly strained as he leaned over your desk. His suit jacket was doing its job—perfectly tailored, perfectly put together.

“I know,” he said.

The words eased your wandering thoughts for a brief moment. You exhaled softly—but that relief didn’t last.

“I did, though.”

Buck looked at you over his shoulder, the line of his black suit jacket framing the movement as he studied you for a second before turning away again. Then, as if nothing significant had happened at all, he walked toward the door.

You watched him go, your expression tightening with something unsettled—almost frustration, almost confusion. For a split second, irritation flared in your chest, sharp and uninvited.

What you didn’t see was the way he subtly adjusted the contents of his pocket as he left—the crumpled aluminum wrapping from the pill still caught between his fingers for a moment before he tucked it away, the same fingers that had just brushed your lips.

A faint, satisfied smirk tugged at his mouth as he walked.

You weren’t pushing back. Not really.

And that, he thought, was useful.

That evening, when you returned to the house you shared with two other people—because, well, rent was far too high for a two-room apartment to survive alone—you were fuming.

Mostly at yourself. For letting your guard down so easily with a man you had only met that Monday. It wasn’t clever, and you hated how you had come across. The uncertainty gnawed at you—whether he had formed the wrong impression of you, whether he thought you were easy.

You shook your head as you let your hair down and shrugged off your jacket. Why should his opinion matter anyway? He could think whatever he wanted. What mattered was how you felt about yourself—and right now, you needed a mental reset.

You dropped onto your bed, your button-up already discarded on the floor along with your skirt, not bothering to change properly before showering. You stared up at the popcorn ceiling, trying to clear your mind.

But it didn’t work.

The memory of his fingers lingered—how they had felt against your skin, how his presence had filled the room so completely it seemed to press against you from all sides. The way he had leaned in, close enough that his chin brushed your temple. The way his hand had covered yours, grounding it, controlling it, as if it belonged there.

And worse—the scent of him. Still vivid. Still too close in your memory.

God, you were losing it.

You had never wanted someone like this before, and the realization alone made your stomach tighten unpleasantly. You let out a frustrated groan, kicking the mattress beneath you.

It was attraction. Clearly. But not just because of how he looked. It was the way he carried himself, the control in his movements, the quiet certainty in his presence—and those stupid brown eyes you couldn’t stop thinking about, the ones you irrationally wanted to see undone, wrecked of all composure.

And that was worse than a simple crush because this wasn’t just emotional anymore. It was physical and that made it harder to ignore than anything else.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

On Friday, you went back to work with a determined mindset of ignoring him as much as you could. You were faced with your desire to ruin that man and make him break under the amount of pleasure you were denying him, but you realized you couldn’t do that at all. It was a true disappointment, really. Especially when your mind went south every second you didn’t distract yourself.

Every time your thoughts slipped—every time your mind wandered even for a second—it went right back to him. Not to the frustration, not to the irritation, but to the other thing. The one you refused to name properly. The one that sat low in your stomach and twisted every time you remembered the way he looked at you, the way he spoke to you, the way he touched you like it meant nothing and everything at the same time.

You hated it. Hated how your mind betrayed you, hated how your body followed. You wanted to ruin him for it. Strip that composure off his face, make him lose the control he carried so effortlessly. Deny him whatever game he thought he was playing with you and see how long he could keep that same calm tone, that same unreadable expression.

But you couldn’t. And that—more than anything—was the real frustration. Because no matter how much you tried to twist it in your favor, you knew it wasn’t you in control here, not even close. And the thought of it kept you on edge, because that was unacceptable. You would not obey and submit to him just because he felt like it and then leave you standing there like nothing had happened. Even if you had in the past, you wouldn’t do it anymore.

The tension in your shoulders was heavy; you spent the day moving between carrying stacks of files and your desk, keeping yourself busy—your mind, your hands, anything. And you were in a rather good mood, because Mayor Fisk would be out of town—as far as you knew—and that meant Mr. Cashman wouldn’t be around either. At least it kept him out of your head for a few minutes at a time. The thought alone made your mood lighter. Not good or relaxed, but manageable.

With a bag containing your lunch in hand, you made your way to Daniel’s office. It had been a busy week for him as well, with all the fuss about finding the mole, and you hadn’t been able to catch up for a few days. And to be fair, you had tried your best to avoid sharing space with the man who kept you on edge, unconsciously, and you missed that normalcy more than you cared to admit. Something simple, something unaffected, something that didn’t come with tension sitting under your skin.

You stopped. A sharp inhale caught in your throat, your body going rigid at the sight in front of you. Him?

You knocked lightly before pushing the door open—

“I brought the—”

“What are you doing here—?” you asked, clearing your throat a little too sharply as you stood in the doorway with the paper bag still in your hand.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, as if calculating the audacity of your question about his presence.

“I believe I do work here,” he said, then added your name as he took a few slow, unhurried steps closer, hands in his pockets. He stopped in the middle of the room, his eyes moving over you without shame.

After yesterday—when he’d gotten the green light, he seemed to be waiting for—there was something different in the way he looked at you now, as if he had already learned something about you over the past few days. Something he wasn’t supposed to know yet.

“I thought you’d be out of town—with the mayor,” you said, stepping inside quickly and skirting around him before he could close the distance. You placed the bag on Daniel’s desk, putting something—anything—between you.

“You thought of me?” he said. The shift in his tone was immediate—lighter, sharper, and playful in a way that made your teeth clench.

You turned back to him, irritation flaring faster this time.

“No, that’s not what I—why are you always twisting my words?” you said, flustered and frustrated as you looked back at him. Your eyebrows knitted together as you forced a deep breath.

You were standing just as he was, your posture a little more rigid than his, your eyes locked on him as the subtle movement at the corner of his mouth deepened, his dimples sinking into that smooth skin of his.

“I do not,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You seem a bit tense today.”

“I am not,” you said, your words betraying you after his earlier comment, and you hated how easily you fell into keeping up with him. You sighed, fingers brushing through your hair as the heat in the room felt even more unbearable with the frustration building inside you. “Where is Daniel?” you asked.

“Not here,” he said. That made you roll your eyes.

“Yeah, no way,” you muttered, taking off your jacket and dropping it onto the desk beside the brown paper bag you had been so eager to eat from moments ago. Now your stomach felt tight for an entirely different reason.

You moved toward the door again—quick, decisive—because you weren’t doing this. Not today. Not ever again.

But this time, he didn’t let you pass. His hand caught your elbow, firm enough to stop you mid-step, pulling you back just enough that your balance shifted—and suddenly you were too close.

Your breath hitched as your chest brushed his, the contact brief but enough to send heat rushing through you, making your frustration spike even higher.

“That was disrespectful,” he said, his voice low as his gaze moved over your face. And for a moment—just a moment—you almost gave in to his charm, almost forgot why you were angry. But it came back just as quickly, sharper and stronger.

“You know what is disrespectful?” you said, your chest rising and falling with a sudden heat of confrontation. “This game you’re playing.”

“I am not quite sure of your implication.”

“Don’t,” you cut in, shaking your head slightly. “Don’t play dumb with me, Cashman. Until Monday we didn’t even know each other, and now it’s like you’ve made it your personal mission to—what? Linger? Hover? Touch whenever you feel like it?”

“Why would I do that when I know I’m not your type at all,” he said—and something in his tone shifted. The teasing you were used to thinned out, replaced by something sharper.

Your lips parted, a soft scoff caught between a laugh and surprise as they curved upward slightly.

Oh.

So that was it.

A slow breath left you, your tongue pressing briefly against the inside of your cheek as your eyes stayed locked on his—really looking at him this time. Not avoiding, not dodging.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered, though there was no real bite to it—just heat and frustration, with something dangerously close to amusement creeping in where irritation had been. Your head tilted slightly as you mirrored him.

“You’ve been doing all of this…” you gestured vaguely between the two of you, stepping closer instead of away, closing the space yourself “…because I said you’re not my type?”

It was your turn to take in the moment now, even if you were still irritated that he had been toying with you. The tension between you burned louder than anything else.

He didn’t step back—because of course he wouldn’t. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, just for a second, but you caught it this time and didn’t let it pass.

“That bothered you that much?” you pressed, your voice softer now, almost coaxing.

“It did not.”

“It did,” you shot back immediately—but you didn’t step away, didn’t break eye contact, and if anything, you stepped closer.

Close enough now that the air shifted, and you could feel the warmth of him without touching. Your pulse picked up, but you didn’t retreat, because you saw the way his lips parted slightly—and how he swallowed tightly afterward.

Your hand moved lightly and deliberately before you could overthink it, fingers catching the front of his tie just enough to keep him there, this close.

“You want me to want you,” you said, not as a question but as a statement.

Your grip tightened slightly—not enough to wrinkle the fabric, but enough to make the gesture intentional.

“And that’s the game, isn’t it?”

“You said you believe in the power of act,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “I merely followed it.”

Silence stretched between you, thick, heavy, and charged as your breaths mingled. His eyes dropped again—slower this time—taking in the way your hand held him, the way you hadn’t stepped away, the way you were the one closing the distance now. And for the first time, he didn’t look entirely in control.

That realization sent something sharp through you. Something bold and reckless enough to make your thoughts scatter.

Your breath hitched as you pulled him a fraction closer—not enough to crash into him, just enough to erase the last inch of space—before you crashed your lips against his. A muffled sound escaped him, and you moved with him as you took a step forward, pressing him back against the wall.

This was reckless. Dangerous. Anyone could walk in, could see the state of you, and how his hands couldn’t stay still—one at your waist, the other sliding upward until it tangled in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp.

One of your hands was still gripping his tie, now wrapped around your wrist as you tried to hold onto control after days of being toyed with. That frustration made your other hand move to his neck, fingers pressing lightly at the sides of his windpipes just enough to make him light-headed as you nibbled at his lip, earning a low, breathy sound that you swallowed eagerly before pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.

But he was impatient.

With a shift of his arm around your waist, he turned you, pinning you against the wall instead—this time with you trapped beneath him.

“Are you aware what kind of self-control it took for me to not cram you into places where no one could hear you?” he said, his voice slightly unsteady, his lips glossy from your kisses. He looked desperate—on the verge of snapping, of asking for more. His head dipped, helpless in a way that made it clear how much he wanted you, and you could feel it in the way he breathed you in.

His lips pressed just under your ear, against the tender skin, leaving an open-mouthed kiss that made your back arch slightly against the wall despite yourself.

Your fingers tightened around his tie instinctively.

His breath was warm—too warm—spilling across your skin as he lingered there, not rushing, not taking more than he already had. And somehow, that restraint made everything worse. Made you worse.

A shaky exhale slipped past your lips, your grip on his throat loosening just enough to slide down to his collar instead, bunching the fabric between your fingers as you tilted your head back against the wall.

“You’re the one who started this,” you murmured, though your voice lacked the bite it had earlier—softer now, pulled thin by how close he was, how overwhelming he felt without even doing much at all.

He looked so composed, yet so undone at the same time.

A quiet sound left him, something between a breath and a restrained laugh.

“Did I?” he whispered, his lips brushing just beneath your ear again—not quite kissing this time, just close enough to drive you insane.

Your stomach tightened. Your hands moved again—one still tangled in his tie, the other sliding up to his jaw, forcing his face up just enough so you could look at him properly. Really look.

His composure wasn’t gone, but it wasn’t untouched either. His breathing was heavier now, his lips slightly parted, his gaze darker than you’d seen before—all that control still there, but strained at the edges.

And that made you laugh softly.

‘’This is so stupid,’’ you whispered, smile still etched on your face and the sight of you almost brought a smile into his own face.

And that made you laugh softly.

“This is so stupid,” you whispered, a faint smile still etched on your lips, though your breathing hadn’t quite settled. The sight of you almost pulled a smile from him too—almost, but not quite.

Instead, his gaze lingered on you, heavier now, slower, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your expression. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your jaw where your hand still held him, grounding you there as if he had no intention of letting go.

“Is it?” he murmured, voice lower than before, less teasing now and something closer to restrained.

Your smile faltered slightly at the shift, your fingers tightening again around his tie without thinking.

“You’re still doing it,” you said quietly, though it came out softer than you intended. Less accusation, more awareness.

His eyes flicked to your mouth again— brief but unmistakable.

“Doing what?”

You huffed a small breath through your nose, shaking your head slightly as if that would clear the haze between you.

“Acting like you’re in control,” you said. “When you clearly aren’t.”

That caused a subtle shift in him—barely there, but enough. His jaw tensed for a second, breath catching like he’d been hit with something he didn’t quite expect you to say out loud. And then, slowly, his hand at your waist tightened certainly.

“Careful,” he murmured, closer now again, his voice brushing against your skin more than your ears. “You keep talking like that and I might cause scandal.’’

Your breath hitched slightly, but you didn’t look away. If anything, you leaned in a fraction closer, like you were testing him.

“Is that a threat?” you asked softly.

His gaze dropped to your lips again. ‘’I have a feeling you would rather it is.’’

Your stomach churned and clenched once again; the desire taking its toll on your veins. Your grip on his tie tightened slightly, but the sound of approaching footsteps broke through the tension before either of you could respond.

Daniel.

Your eyes widened just slightly, breath catching as instinct took over before thought. You pushed him by his chest, too quickly for it to look casual, fingers slipping from his tie as if it had burned you. Buck didn’t move immediately—just watched you for a second longer, like he was deciding whether to keep you there anyway. The tips of his ears were still red, his lips slightly swollen from your kisses and nibbles, and when you pushed him away, the space between you suddenly felt too loud.

You ran a hand through your hair quickly, smoothing it down as if that could erase the last few seconds, tugging your clothes into place with a sharp, distracted motion. Your heart was still too fast, too obvious in your chest. He adjusted his sleeves next, slow and deliberate, as if nothing had happened at all. Except his eyes—his eyes stayed on you, sharper now, quieter in a way that felt almost worse, as if now he knew how you felt, how you tasted.

The door handle turned as you were already by the side of Daniel’s desk—further away from Buck—as you tried to regain some self-control, stepping aside and grabbing the nearest excuse of normality you could find: your posture, your breath, your expression.

Daniel’s voice came in right after, casual, unaware.

“I see you two get on well,” said Daniel, his slight lisp softening his words and a sweet, wicked smile on his face.

His words sent a subtle wave of panic through you. Did he see? No, he couldn’t have. It was impossible. Was there a camera in the room he could check from his phone? That was ridiculous. The last thought that lingered was that he might have heard something—but even that unraveled when Buck began speaking, smoothly taking control of the conversation and making it clear Daniel was simply… mocking.

“Miss Charming is rather reserved, as I perceived,” said Buck, not breaking eye contact with you as his thumb slowly brushed across his bottom lip, as if wiping something away, a smirk forming that only you could understand the weight of.

“It’s quite hard to get her to talk. I guess I’ll have to try different alternative ways to make her sing.”

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