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You never planned on working for a man like him.
The job was simple on paper—good pay, minimal interaction, discretion required.
You were what he needed: someone quiet, someone unassuming. And when options were thin, when desperation outweighed preference, you became the best choice, and frankly, you needed the job.
You never asked questions. Not about the deals he made, the people he met, or why his name could silence an entire room. You kept your head down, did what was required. It should have been easy.
Except for one thing. You watched him.
Your gaze strayed when you believed he wouldn’t notice—lingering in stolen seconds, collecting details like secrets you’d never dare to voice. The sharp cut of his jaw, the way his presence commanded a space without effort, the uneven ridges of ruined skin that told stories you’d never ask him to recount. He was danger carved into flesh and steel.
You should have left hours ago. The office above The Last Drop had long steeped into evening dimness, shadows pooling in the corners, stretching long against the floor as the last traces of daylight bled through the round iron-clad window.
The air carries a subtle chill—not biting, but enough to press against your skin, a reminder of the late hour. The room itself—spacious, heavy with dark wood and low lighting—feels even larger with just the two of you here. You have no reason to linger, really. No unfinished work keeping you chained to your desk. Just Silco.
A smart woman— one who values her safety, her wellbeing —wouldn’t still be here.
You’ve heard the warnings. Listened to the stories about him told in whispers. A man like him doesn’t inspire trust. He commands respect, obedience, fear—but not trust.
And yet, despite everything, you feel none of the unease you’re supposed to feel. You trust him. Perhaps that was its own brand of foolishness.
Perhaps that’s why you keep looking at him. You’re careful when doing it— or so you think.
“You like staring, do you?”
Your breath hitches. His voice carries no real curiosity, only the weight of knowing—knowing far too much, seeing far too well everything you had thought was hidden. He leans back slightly, measuring your reaction.
You look away fast, as if retreating will erase the truth he has already unearthed.
“It’s impolite,” he continues, his tone flat, measured. “To gawk.”
“I—I wasn’t gawking,” you manage, still refusing to meet his eyes. The words come out too soft, unconvincing even to yourself.
A quiet scoff. Not amused, not cruel. Just… expectant. His eyes flick over you, assessing, and then he exhales something faintly derisive.
"Lying to your boss? Bad manners." His tone edges toward something haughty and unimpressed. He tilts his head slightly, almost lazy in his scrutiny. "Unwise."
Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. There’s no point denying it—not now, not when he has already unraveled your failed attempts at subtlety.
You swallow, then hesitantly speak. “I like looking at you.”
A beat of silence. His brows twitch, just barely—not a frown, not surprise, but something adjacent. Something shifts in his expression. Not irritation, not exactly—just… something.
You press forward, nerves fraying under the weight of his gaze. “You’re too intimidating to look at directly. But when you’re not… well—that is, when I think you aren’t watching…” You swallow. “You’re… fascinating.”
Silco doesn’t say anything, only holds still in the quiet that follows. And maybe, for a moment, he thinks he has misheard—because ‘fascination’ isn’t a word most people use when looking at him.
You shift slightly, gaze flickering lower. Then softer, shyly, barely above a whisper, you continue— “You’re… well…”
“Say it.” It’s not a command. Not exactly. But it’s firm and expectant.
Your pulse stammers. You look away, as if retreating will make him forget, make him drop it. He doesn't.
"I—" You exhale sharply. "It’s nothing."
He huffs. Not amused, nor cruel. Just waiting.
"You've already started." His tone is impossibly steady. "Might as well finish."
You shouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t give him anything to hold against you. But the silence stretches, pushing into the space between you, forcing the words closer to the surface. You’re suddenly glad for the dim lighting of the room, grateful he can’t see the redness that has flooded your cheeks.
“I—I think you’re… handsome.”
Silco hums. Not in amusement, not surprise—just consideration at the admission. Admittedly, he had expected something else. People often stare at him, but not like this. Not for that reason.
His gaze lingers for a beat longer than it should. Then, the smallest twitch of his lips—something unreadable. At last, he exhales. “Fine.”
You blink.
“You have permission.”
“To…?”
“To look.”
He says it so simply, as if stripping the tension from the act will make it less strange, less heavy. You don’t move at first, half-expecting him to take the words back, to tell you he had only been testing you, seeing how far you would push. But he doesn’t.
He looks back at you. Fully.
It’s not the same as before—not laced with quiet calculation or simmering impatience. He has given you permission, but the weight of it settles between you in a way neither of you expected.
Your gaze lifts, hesitant but steady, and meets his.
You test it, studying him now with purpose instead of stolen glances, waiting to see if it feels different. It does.
Suddenly, you notice everything—the sharp symmetry of the unscarred side of his face; smooth, striking, almost startling compared to the ruined half. The brutal ridges of scar tissue twisting over his cheekbone, down to his jaw, jagged like torn earth, uneven and merciless. You wonder, fleetingly, if they still hurt. If they burn on bad days, a reminder of whatever, or whoever, carved them into him.
But then, there are things you hadn’t noticed before. Like the color of his good eye—seafoam, almost too soft for one so dangerous. It should clash with the severity of him, but it doesn’t. It only makes him more difficult to turn away from.
Your pulse is louder now, thrumming against your skin. And then you notice something else.
The faint smudging at the edge of his temple, the areas where his usual application of makeup has faded throughout the day, revealing his scars in harsher relief. The traces of effort to make them less ugly, less distracting—but now, stripped of their softened edges, they are more bare. More real.
And he hasn’t bothered to fix it. You wonder if he notices. If he even cares.
The way his throat bobs as he swallows, slow and deliberate, makes you think maybe he does. The faint twitch in his corrupted eye, an involuntary flicker, brief but undeniable, makes you think maybe he is too aware of how closely you’re looking.
For a man built on danger, there is something startling about the way he holds himself now—rigid, unreadable, but with something flickering beneath the surface. Almost—nervous.
You hadn’t thought a man like Silco was capable of being nervous. The realization presses against your ribs, warm and uncertain.
But he doesn’t look away, and neither do you. Because he is finally letting you see him—fully, without the shroud of intimidation or authority dampening the edges.
You study him, taking in the details you had only glimpsed at before. In the quiet, a thought curls itself into your ribs—
‘Does he like looking at me, too?’
The possibility is unsettling in a way you hadn’t prepared for.
Maybe it’s the way he holds your gaze, unwavering yet unreadable, like there is something unspoken lingering beneath his quiet allowance.
Maybe it’s the way his gaze hasn’t strayed.
Or maybe it’s the way he hasn’t told you to stop. Not yet. Not at all.
The silence between you changes.
Neither of you are moving—not consciously. And yet, something is happening. The space between you is now charged, yet still delicate.
Your awareness of him sharpens, not just in your mind but in your body—like your very breath is attuned to his. And then—you lean in.
You’re not alone. He moves too. Not intentionally. But he doesn’t stop, and neither do you.
The moment unfolds like gravity itself is tipping you toward him, leaving you breathless in its quiet insistence.
Your gaze flickers lower. His lips—they are closer now, enough for you to see details you hadn’t before. The way the scar at the corner pulls just slightly, disrupting the symmetry. The tension in his jaw—like he isn’t sure if he should let this happen.
Your pulse climbs. Closer. Almost.
And then—a noise. A sharp shuffle of movement outside the office. Reality collides into you.
Silco reacts first. The presence that had been drawing you closer had vanished. The moment is severed, like a thread suddenly snapped.
Before you can process it, before you can even breathe, he moves. Not just shifting back, but leaving entirely.
He abruptly turns away, walking toward the large window behind his desk with precise, controlled steps. His hands clasped behind his back, a practiced movement—one you recognize immediately as he reasserts control.
His silhouette cuts against the greenish hue of the Undercity dusk filtering through the glass. He doesn’t acknowledge what almost happened.
The tension lingers in the air, thick and unresolved, but he makes no move to address it. Instead, when he finally speaks, his voice is even and careful—just firm enough to leave no room for discussion.
"It’s late." He exhales slowly, measured. "You should go home for the day."
Gone is the flickering vulnerability. He turns slightly, shoulders squared, breath leveled. Whatever almost happened—he won’t let it happen again.
You absorb the sharp shift in atmosphere, the careful reconstruction of the barrier he had almost let slip. You straighten too quickly, trying to force your hands to still, masking the way your pulse trembles beneath the surface. You don’t protest. You don’t ask what this meant.
You just move, collecting yourself with too much precision, like if you don’t— if you hesitate—you might shatter what little dignity you have left.
Your fingers feel too rigid when you reach for the door. As you pull it open, you wonder— fleetingly, stupidly —if this is it. If you’ve just walked yourself out of a job, if what nearly happened has ruined whatever fragile balance existed between you.
You are seconds from latching the door shut behind you when his voice cuts through the silence. "Tomorrow."
The word is quiet. Firm. Not weighted with emotion. You turn back to him. "Sir?"
A beat of silence. “I’ll see you tomorrow."
He still doesn’t turn. Still keeps his gaze locked on the window, hands clasped behind him, posture unreadable. You nod, despite knowing he can’t see it.
Then you leave, stepping through the doorway knowing that whatever had almost happened was now locked behind the heavy wooden door.
Until tomorrow, anyway.