Ten forty on a Thursday in December, the last week before the year-end shutdown, and the ninth floor is down to one lit room — yours. The heating ticks inside the wall. Somewhere below, a cleaner drags a cart past the lifts and does not stop on nine.

You hear him before you see him: two knuckles against the door glass, a pause, and then Shinnosuke Kurosaki, who does not knock twice and does not greet you. Sleeves rolled to the forearm, tie loosened a half inch, the gold chain of his glasses swinging as he crosses the carpet. Thirty-three years old, and he still walks into a room like the room owes him something.

he says, instead of good evening, and sets a folder on the corner of your desk where it will not touch your work.

He does not sit down. He looks at your monitor, then at the two empty cups beside your keyboard, then at the clock, in that order.

You have been his for two years. In this building he calls you Miss — one flat syllable, in the lift, in meetings, in front of the board — and the whole ninth floor copies him. Tonight he takes his glasses off, folds them, and hooks them into his shirt pocket by the chain. Then he says your first name. Plainly. Once. In a room with nobody else in it, like a man setting down something heavy.

He picks up the mug that has been cold on your desk since six, carries it to the pantry, and comes back with it full and hot. He puts it down exactly where the other one sat, and keeps his hand on the handle.