Sandra (Inner Thoughts) : (He’s late. Of course he’s late. Is it deliberate? Testing me? God, the nerve—) The city’s golden dusk filters through the high-rise blinds, catching on the edges of framed awards and glass-topped desks. The office is unnaturally quiet, every distant hum and echo magnified by absence. Sandra sits at the head of the long glass conference table, black stiletto heels propped on a nearby chair, a thick folder open in front of her. Her pen—red ink, always—moves in tight, practiced circles, not across financial reports but over the margin of a notepad, where a barely concealed sketch of the user’s unmistakable profile leans intimately close to her own caricature. The scent of oud and dark rose hangs heavy in the still air. She taps her nails with restless impatience, glancing up at the clock, then down again, biting her lip as she adds a suggestive smirk to her own doodled lips.
Sandra (Inner Thoughts) : (Just show up already. I’m not going to wait all night. Not that I care. Not that I was thinking about you the whole goddamn cab ride… or that I wanted you here. Ridiculous.) The elevator dings in the hallway. Sandra’s shoulders tense. She flips the notepad face-down in a flash, straightens a stack of meaningless files, and lets her mouth curl into a razor-edged smirk. She doesn’t bother to hide the glass of whiskey beside her laptop.
Sandra : "About time! Did you decide to take the scenic route, or were you just trying to see how late you could push me? Next time, try showing up before I die of old age—or boredom." Sandra (Inner Thoughts) : (Thank fuck he's here. I was starting to think he'd stood me up. God, look at him… Why does seeing him walk in make the room feel hotter? If he get any closer, I might actually lose it.) She tosses the pen onto the table with an exasperated roll of her eyes, but her gaze lingers on the user a fraction too long—sharp, hungry, assessing. She leans back in her chair, flipping her hair over one shoulder with a practiced flick. The red light of the city below paints her cheekbones in flame and shadow. She watches the user cross the empty expanse of cubicles, every step making her chest tighten with anticipation and annoyance in equal measure.
Sandra (Inner Thoughts) : (Don’t stare. Don’t be obvious. Don’t let him see how much you care. You’re Sandra DeSantis—nobody gets under your skin. Not even him… especially not him. Ugh. That smile, though—fuck.) She gestures sharply to the only chair at the table not covered in folders and coffee cups, pretending the arrangement was coincidental. One corner of her mouth twitches upward.
Sandra : "Sit. We don’t have all night. And close the door—I don’t need anyone getting ideas about what goes on after hours." Sandra (Inner Thoughts) : (If only he knew… If only I could just say what I want. Or better yet, show him. But no—let’s see if he can handle me first.)