Chapter 13: Office Slow-Burn Championship

The Monday after the latte-with-a-heart incident arrived with all the subtlety of a confetti cannon.

Katherine entered the office in a red blazer — unapologetically bright, wildly inappropriate for Q1 financial reviews, and paired with glossy heels that clicked like a declaration of war. War on boredom. War on gloom. War on whatever was happening between her and Sebastian Mason that was definitely not flirting.

Definitely.

Not.

She strutted past reception, hair down, attitude dialed to eleven. She dropped her bag, spun into her chair, and announced to the room:

“I’m feeling dangerously competent today.”

Cara looked up cautiously. “Should I alert HR?”

“Only if I get promoted before 11.”

---

By Tuesday, the coffee cup came with a pun.

Scrawled in tidy, slanted print on the lid:

“Espresso yourself.”

Katherine stared at it like it had personally proposed marriage.

She picked it up reverently, turned toward Sebastian’s office — only to find him on a call again, as usual, brows furrowed, looking like war had broken out in his inbox.

And yet...

As he scribbled something in his planner, his eyes flicked up. Just once.

Just to see her reaction.

Katherine smiled.

Then turned the cup in her hands like it was holy scripture.

---

At 3:14 p.m., she slid a note under his door.

It said:

“You’re dangerously close to becoming charming. Stop it.”

Underneath it, she drew a tiny warning triangle. Inside it — a cartoon of herself with her hands on her hips.

He didn’t respond.

But the next morning?

There were two cups of coffee.

One labeled "For the chaos demon."

The other, simply: "Mine."

---

Something was shifting.

And it wasn’t just in her.

Sebastian, once the patron saint of discipline and disdain, had started doing bizarre things. Small things. Micro-movements of affection, like tectonic plates nudging closer.

He held the elevator door.

He didn’t sigh when she arrived three minutes late to a pitch.

He smirked — smirked! — when she called him “Spreadsheet Daddy” under her breath.

And then, on Friday, the impossible happened.

He laughed.

Not a smirk. Not a scoff.

A real, low, quiet chuckle.

All because she’d Photoshopped his face onto a Renaissance painting for a meme she titled:

"Sebastian Mason, Patron Saint of Budget Cuts."

It was in the middle of a staff email chain titled “Friday Madness.”

She hadn’t expected him to see it.

She definitely hadn’t expected him to reply.

And yet—

“I would have worn a better cravat.”

Cue an office-wide gasp.

Katherine spun in her chair, fingers flying over the keyboard.

“So you’re saying you approve?”

A pause.

Then came the response:

“Only because the lighting was flattering.”

And somewhere deep in the corporate soul of Mason Equity Group, a wall quietly crumbled.

---

That evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the skyline gold, Katherine found herself alone in the break room, staring out the window, sipping her final cinnamon latte of the week.

He entered silently.

Of course.

She didn’t turn around, just said, “I knew it was you.”

Sebastian leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Knew what?”

“The coffee. The puns. The towel. The note.”

A beat.

Then softly: “You made this place... feel like less of a battlefield.”

His silence wasn't cold this time.

It was warm. Listening.

“I thought,” she continued, “that if I was loud enough, chaotic enough, I could outshine the pressure. But you—you just stand there like a damn mountain and somehow make everything feel...”

“Still?” he offered.

She nodded.

Sebastian looked at her. Really looked.

And for once, he didn’t retreat behind formality or sarcasm.

Instead, he stepped closer.

“Miss Brown,” he said, voice low, “I admire your chaos.”

She blinked.

“You... do?”

“It’s incredibly inefficient,” he added.

“Obviously.”

“Wildly inappropriate at times.”

“Thank you.”

“And yet... this floor hasn’t breathed properly in five years. Until you.”

Katherine swallowed.

Then did the only thing she could.

She grinned. “Are you saying I’m your emotional fire drill?”

He huffed out a laugh.

“I’m saying... don’t stop being loud, Miss Brown.”

Their eyes met.

And the tension — the real kind, the quiet, unspeakable one — surged like static.

She opened her mouth.

Then the microwave beeped behind her and the moment shattered like glass.

Sebastian stepped back, hands in his pockets.

Katherine exhaled shakily.

“Same time Monday?” she asked.

He raised a brow. “You planning to storm the break room again?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I’ll bring cinnamon.”

---

At 10:53, she received a message.

From: Sebastian Mason

Subject: Office Inventory Audit – Creative Dept.

Body:

We appear to be missing three pens, two stress balls, and approximately one metric ton of professionalism.

Please advise.

She burst out laughing mid-sip and nearly inhaled her tea. Cara jumped.

“Is it a meme?”

“Worse,” Katherine grinned. “It’s a formal burn.”

She replied:

To: Sebastian Mason

Subject: Re: Office Inventory Audit – Creative Dept.

Body:

I filed the professionalism under ‘emotional repression’ and moved on.

Stress balls were last seen fleeing your fiscal reports. Pens… possibly unionizing.

---

He didn’t respond.

Instead, at exactly 12:00, a Post-it appeared on her monitor.

In his handwriting.

“Lunch. Conference Room B. No pens. No union.”

---

She found the room empty. For half a second, she thought he was joking. But then — the door clicked shut behind her.

He stood by the window, holding two takeaway bags from the Vietnamese place she accidentally ranted about craving last week. She hadn’t even known he was listening.

“Is this a date?” she blurted.

He turned. Raised an eyebrow.

“No. It’s a strategy session with noodles.”

Her stomach flipped.

“God, you’re romantic.”

He set the bags down. “I’m efficient.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re late.”

“It’s 12:01!”

He passed her chopsticks with mechanical grace. “I like precision.”

She leaned in, eyes gleaming. “And I like my men emotionally unavailable with subtle affection issues. So here we are.”

He coughed. Looked away.

But his ears flushed.

---

Lunch passed in flirt-barb warfare. Between bites of pho and spicy banter, she noticed something.

He wasn’t just responding.

He was initiating.

Occasionally leaning closer when she spoke.

Actually smirking.

When she told a story about pitching a campaign while covered in glitter at her last job, he didn’t interrupt. Just watched. Engaged.

Like she was… interesting.

Not annoying.

Not chaotic.

Interesting.

Dangerous territory.

---

After lunch, she returned to her desk to find a single paperclip curled into a heart shape.

She looked up.

His blinds were closed.

Coward.

She slid the paperclip into her drawer with a grin.

---

By 4:00, the office was buzzing with typical end-of-day exhaustion. Katherine, however, was still bouncing on residual Sebastian-induced adrenaline.

And then — the moment.

He walked past her desk. Briefcase in hand. Tie slightly loose.

He paused.

“Miss Brown.”

She looked up.

“Yes, Lord Mason?”

He exhaled — one of those nose-laughs he pretended weren’t real.

Then he said, “Good job today. With the investor call.”

She blinked. “That’s it? No sarcastic remark? No spreadsheet insult?”

“Not today.”

Pause.

Then — a beat slower:

“You were… compelling.”

Compelling?

Her brain blue-screened.

He nodded once and walked away.

She stared after him, eyes wide, heart thudding.

Cara peeked around her monitor. “Did he just compliment you?”

“I think,” Katherine whispered, “I just won round one.”

---