Conference Room #2 After Hours (Chp 7)
Michael Bluth x Reader tags: Slow burn, Office tension, Jealousy, Angst with a hint of fluff POV: Your perspective Rating: 🔥 (18+) Summary: We’re switching things up—this chapter is told from your POV and the next chapter will be from Michaels POV. The night at the office takes on a whole new light as the HR email stirs up more than just laughter, and suddenly the boundaries between reality and imagination start to blur. 👀 Next up, we’ll see the same events again through Michael’s eyes… and let’s just say his perspective is a little different.
The night started like most others: fluorescent lights humming, a vending machine buzzing like it had a personal grudge, and me cradling a cup of reheated coffee that technically qualified as food if you didn’t think about it too hard. Michael and I had found ourselves in that strange rhythm we’d been keeping since the elevator incident—closer, but pretending not to be. Pretending not to notice each other had become our unofficial side hustle.
Then the ping. HR email. Subject line screaming in bright red:
REMINDER: Misconduct & Office Etiquette.
I perked up immediately. “Well, somebody’s in trouble.”
Michael didn’t even look up. “Do I want to know?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
I read it aloud, milking every word. “Due to a recent incident involving inappropriate conduct between an employee and their administrative assistant…”
He groaned like the weight of the world had just been added to his to-do list. “Great.”
“…the individuals were discovered in the janitor’s closet. During work hours. With clothing partially removed.”
I covered my mouth but couldn’t keep the laughter in. “Oh my God, Michael—there are descriptions.”
He closed his eyes like if he concentrated hard enough, I’d disappear. “Please don’t.”
“…tie left hanging from the cabinet handle…”
He sighed, the most defeated sound in the world. “Of course there was a tie.”
“…filing cabinet used in a manner inconsistent with office safety standards.”
That did it. I broke. Laughing so hard I snorted. Michael gave me a look—the kind you give a toddler about to throw juice on the carpet—which only made me laugh harder.
But under the humor, something shifted. The email wasn’t just absurd. It was… vivid. And once planted, the images had a way of lingering.
––
Filing duty later meant trading the glow of the monitor for a wall of paper, which was both better and worse. Better, because I could take “phone breaks” without Michael’s patented judgey side-eye. Worse, because the quiet left too much space for my brain to circle back to that email.
The idea of two people sneaking around at work should’ve been scandalous. Instead, it was… alluring. Like a spark hidden in the endless monotony of folders and staples.
As if summoned, Michael appeared in the doorway, hands in his pockets, face set in that long-suffering expression. “Seems filing is the only way you actually do any work around here,” he said, tone dry as dust.
I rolled my eyes. “Wow. Incredible material. Did you practice that one in the mirror first?”
He smirked faintly. For him, that was basically stand-up comedy.
I stretched to slot the next folder onto the top shelf and instantly regretted my stubbornness. It was just out of reach. I tried again, tiptoes straining, refusing to ask for help.
Behind me, Michael made a noise—half amusement, half exasperation. “You done yet?”
“Perfectly capable,” I snapped, stretching again.
He chuckled. And then, predictably, he moved in. “Will you just—” He brushed my hand aside, frustration undercut with that gentle restraint he always carried, like he couldn’t bring himself to actually be rough even when he wanted to. “Honestly, you’d rather break your arm than let me grab it?”
The file slid easily into his hand. And I—unfortunately—noticed everything. The muscles in his forearm flexing. The way his shirt stretched across his shoulders. The warmth of him, close enough that the air seemed heavier.
Flash #1 His arm braced beside me. His other hand gripping my hips, thumb pressing in as he leaned down, voice low: “What, no thank you? Bad girl.” His breath hot against my ear, a thrill racing down my spine—
––Reality snapped.
“Hello?” Michael waved a hand in front of my face. “You okay, or did the files put you in a coma?”
“Fine,” I said too quickly, yanking the folder from his hand.
“You sure? You looked spaced out.”
If only he knew he was the center of the trance. My cheeks burned as I ducked back into the paperwork. “Fine,” I repeated, quieter this time, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush in my face.
But of course he did. Michael always noticed. He just pretended not to.
After what felt like hours, I made my way back into the main office. The hum of the overhead lights mixed with the steady clack of Michael’s typing. He didn’t even acknowledge me—just kept going, shoulders tense, eyes locked on the screen.
“Ava gone?” I finally broke the rhythm of his keyboard.
Michael paused long enough to rub at his eyes, looking exhausted in that way only he could make seem mildly performative. “Yeah. Sent her home early. You seemed to have the filing figured out all on your own.” A smirk tugged at his mouth.
I rolled my eyes, dropping into the chair across from him. “Hilarious. I get it—I’m stubborn. But good call. I don’t think me and Ava can ‘get along’ for long.” I repeated the words, this time serious.
Michael pushed back from his desk and stood, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt lifted just enough to reveal a sliver of skin—soft line of a happy trail, muscles I hadn’t expected from him, a hint of heat under the crisp button-down exterior. My eyes darted there before I could stop myself.
“Well, I never really understood why you don’t like her,” he said, voice casual, but his stretch held my attention hostage.
“She’s… a lot,” I started, but the words thinned out. My brain wasn’t cooperating. Not when all I could think about was how I’d pegged Michael Bluth as the dapper, smug office pain—the boss’s son who lived for one-liners. I hadn’t accounted for him having actual muscle beneath all that irony.
He laughed, disarming me completely, the sound rough and real. “Well, she can be a lot… like someone else I know.” He shot me a glance now that his stretch was finished.
“What?! We’re nothing alike.” I pushed up from my chair, too fast, defensive. His words still landed, though, lodging in my chest. Maybe I was a little like her. Maybe.
“Well,” I admitted, softer. “Maybe just a tiny bit.” The admission loosened something in me. My shoulders sagged with relief—until I realized how close Michael had gotten.
I blinked, startled to find him right there, invading my space. Not in a bad way—never in a bad way. His presence was heat, steady and overwhelming.
Flash #2 He tilts my jaw with his hand, guiding my eyes up to his. They’re blue and intense enough to melt through me, cheeks heating under the weight of it. His thumb brushes across my skin, sweeping a strand of hair from my face. “You may be like her,” he says lowly, “but I like the parts that aren’t like her a lot. And the ones that are, too.” His breath ghosts across my cheek. His touch tightens, promising more—
––Reality snapped.
“Hello? Are you listening?” Michael’s voice pulled me back. He was still across the desk, waving a hand like I’d drifted into space.
My cheeks burned. “Yeah. Sorry. Just… tired.”
“Uh-huh.” He gave me that skeptical look, like he could see through the excuse but wasn’t about to call it out.
I rubbed my eyes and pushed to my feet, grabbing my bag. “I think I need some coffee.”
What I really needed was fresh air. A smoke. Something to shake the haze of fantasies that kept spiraling tighter around him. Because if I didn’t get out soon, I was bound to say something very, very stupid.
The night air would have to beat it out of me. Or at least keep me from blurting out just how much I wanted those fantasies to stop being fantasies.
The air hit me before I even lit up—cool and sharp, wrapping around me like a reminder the city could still breathe even when I felt like I couldn’t. I leaned against the fence, watching headlights dwindle as the streets emptied. The silence was steady, grounding.
Then the rooftop door creaked. The familiar scrape of shoes. Michael.
I smiled without looking. “You really love keeping tabs on me, don’t you?”
It was our routine by now—me sneaking away, him finding me, the banter inevitable. But this time his voice was lower, more deliberate.
“I do,” he said. A pause, heavier than usual. “And I also… love you.”
My breath caught. The joint slipped from my hand, forgotten on the concrete. I turned slowly, disbelief warring with the sudden thrum of my pulse.
“You—you what?”
He stepped closer, closing the space until my back brushed the fence. His arms braced on either side of me, trapping me in a cage of warmth and tension. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—God, those eyes—burned.
“I love you,” he repeated. Not flippant. Not sarcastic. Just bare.
My throat tightened. “Michael… don’t—don’t joke about that.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” His voice cracked just slightly, soft but firm. He tilted his head, closing the distance. “You drive me insane. You’re stubborn, difficult, you argue just to win. And I…” His eyes flicked to my lips. “…I love all of it. Especially the parts I shouldn’t.”
The words broke something open inside me. My hands clenched in his shirt before I realized they’d moved. “Say it again,” I whispered.
His lips hovered a breath away. “I love you.”
The kiss was inevitable. At first, hesitant—his mouth brushing mine like he wasn’t sure if this was allowed. But the hesitation crumbled. Heat poured in. His hand slid along my jaw, the other gripping my hip, pulling me flush against him.
I gasped into his mouth, and the sound seemed to undo him. The kiss turned hungry, desperate, years of restraint unraveling in seconds. My fingers dug into his shoulders, his teeth grazed my lip, and for one perfect moment the world dissolved into just this. Just him.
When I finally tore away, breathless, I opened my eyes.
No one.
The rooftop was empty. The door hadn’t moved since I’d walked out.
The phantom heat still burned on my lips.
I slapped my cheek, trying to chase the haze. Frustration twisted hot in my chest—why now? Why was this bubbling up like the HR email had flipped some hidden switch?
Bag in hand, I left fast. Down the stairs, into the street, sending a rushed text just to avoid facing Michael. But no matter how quick my steps, the words chased me:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
On loop. A hundred times. Words he had never said. Words he might never say.
