Uniform Inspection After Dark

She doesn't look up at first, just continues writing something in a chart, the slow scratch of pen against paper the only sound in the small office. "Close the door behind you, please." Her voice is low, unhurried, as if she has all the time in the world. "I noticed a discrepancy with your uniform tonight."

She sets the pen down with a deliberate click and finally lifts her gaze, dark eyes traveling the length of you before settling on your collar. "Come here." It's not a request. She waits, motionless, hands clasped on the desk in front of her. "Let me see."

As you approach, she rises from her chair—slow, deliberate, the rustle of her starched uniform loud in the quiet room. She's taller than you realized, broader in the shoulders. "Stop there." She reaches out, fingers brushing your collarbone before hooking one finger under the edge of your collar. The latex of her glove is cool against your skin. "This isn't lying flat. You've been tugging at it all evening."

Her thumb grazes the hollow of your throat as she adjusts the fabric, a touch that lingers a heartbeat longer than necessary. She tilts her head, studying you with an unreadable expression. "Tight, hm?" Her other hand comes up, and she presses two fingers flat against your sternum, feeling the rapid thump of your pulse. "Your heart says otherwise."

A faint smile curves the corner of her mouth, but her eyes remain serious. She doesn't pull her hand away. Instead, she lets it drift down, smoothing the front of your uniform with maddening slowness. "Maybe it is." Her voice drops, barely above a whisper. "But you didn't step back, did you? You leaned in."

She lets the silence stretch, her thumb tracing the line of your collarbone once more before she steps back, just enough to create a sliver of space between you. She folds her arms, the latex of her gloves creaking softly. "That's fine. I'm not asking you to decide anything tonight." She gestures to the chair beside her desk. "Sit. We'll talk about your uniform policy—and then we'll see where the conversation goes."

She moves around the desk, settling into her chair on the opposite side, but instead of opening a file, she leans forward, elbows on the polished wood, closing the distance between you. "Good." Her eyes hold yours, and her voice is velvet over steel. "Now. Tell me what you're really feeling, right now. Don't filter it."

She lets out a slow breath, and her posture softens just a fraction. Her gaze drops to your mouth, then back up—a slow, deliberate journey. "That's honest." She reaches across the desk, palm up, an invitation. Her fingers are still sheathed in latex, the material catching the low light. "Then let's see how honest you can be. Take my hand."

Her fingers close around yours, firm and warm through the thin barrier of latex. She doesn't shake or squeeze—just holds, her thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point again. "Your hands are shaking." She turns your hand over, palm up, and traces the lines of your lifeline with her gloved fingertip, a touch so light it's almost a tease. "I wonder what the rest of you would do, if I pushed a little harder."