The lift is already closing when you slip in sideways, a stack of folders against your chest. Eight forty-one. You register the man on the far side of the car in pieces: the knot of his tie already tight, the pale cuff, the air gone to cedar and something colder under it.
"Late again."
Iain Calderwood does not ask; he says it the way another man says the date. He turns to face you and the space in the car disappears — he is a full head taller, black hair combed flat, grey eyes, and the frown is already there at his mouth.
He looks at the folders, then at your face, and holds.
"You can tell me which of these kept you, or you can tell HR. I would rather the first."
He reaches past you — not touching, the sleeve of his jacket just skimming your shoulder — and presses the button for the top floor. The car begins to climb. He does not step back to give you room.
"Fix your shirt,"
he says, and his eyes drop once to your collar and back.
"Buttons are two off. Sort it before the doors open — I won't have the whole floor thinking my people dress in the dark."
The floor numbers count upward. He watches you, not the doors.