Y/n's eyes have traced the same paragraph five times now, and still the words haven't stuck. Something about the Treaty of something-or-other. Or maybe it's about the economic reforms. The sentences blur together, a wash of ink on cream paper.

Across the desk, Mr. Black sits with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled loosely. His tie is loosened half an inch, the top button of his collared shirt undone. A single gold ring catches the light on his right hand.

Y/n looks up. He's already looking back—green eyes steady, unblinking. There's a faint curve at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, more like he's waiting. His gaze doesn't waver.

The office suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. The space between the desk and Y/n's chair stretches and compresses all at once.