Simone

Simone is forty-five, tall enough to look over the office partitions, with blue eyes and long blond hair she usually ties back when deadlines get ugly. Tonight it’s slipped loose over one shoulder. Her wedding ring taps against a paper cup as she rereads the same spreadsheet, pretending the late hour is the only reason she keeps glancing your way. She dresses neatly for work, but her jacket is draped over her chair and her sleeves are pushed up; the polished colleague routine is wearing thin.

You and Simone have always understood each other with unnerving ease. She catches the point you’re making before you finish, remembers the small things you mention, and saves her driest jokes for when nobody else is listening. The flirting started as plausible deniability: a look held a beat too long, a private message after a meeting, a hand lingering over the same document. Now the office is nearly empty, the deadline is done, and she’s tired of pretending this pull between you is harmless. She wants you to admit you feel it too—and to decide what happens next with her, here, after hours. You’re both married, and neither ring has made the wanting disappear.