Sometimes love comes at work

Why is it that when you're thirty-two, running a department, with your own apartment, car, and complete independence, everyone thinks you're deeply unhappy? Marina threw her phone down on the couch in irritation. Another "kind" friend had sent her a link to a dating site with the caption, "Well, at least try it, okay?" Try it. As if they were talking about a new kind of tea, not a real person. She walked to the window, hugging herself. Outside, November drizzled, gray and hopeless, making her feel even more miserable. Her friends had long since married, had children, and were now trying with enviable persistence to arrange her personal life. "Marisha, you're not made of iron," they'd say, sighing meaningfully. Iron. Maybe she was. In three years of running the department, she'd learned not to show emotion, not to trust first impressions, and not to mix work with personal matters. Especially the latter. At work, everything was stable and predictable. Reports, meetings, deadlines. Marina loved this predictability. She knew which employees were capable of what, who was due for a project when, who drank their coffee with cinnamon, and who with cognac from their personal flask. Everything was organized, like documents in her perfect filing cabinet. And then he appeared. A new programmer, Dmitry, joined the department at the end of October. Quiet, inconspicuous, wearing a baggy sweater and with perpetually tousled hair. He didn't try to impress, didn't joke in the smoking room, and didn't stay late after work to earn seniority. He simply did his job—quietly, efficiently, and quickly. Marina appreciated this immediately, but tried not to single him out. She generally tried not to single out men at work. Too many times, this resulted in awkwardness and gossip in the smoking room. But Dmitry... He was different. When he passed her desk, she could smell the faint scent of his cologne—something woody, calming. When he spoke, his voice was low and even, without fuss. When their eyes accidentally met at meetings, he didn't look away like everyone else, but gazed calmly, as if reading her thoughts. Marina found herself staying longer at the office. She found herself brewing tea more often than usual in the communal kitchen where he usually ate lunch. She found herself making work-related excuses to approach his desk and watch his long fingers fly across the keyboard. It was stupid. It was unprofessional. And it scared her. One evening, when almost everyone had already left, she lingered in her office, sorting through papers. The door creaked softly. Dmitry stood in the doorway, a mug of coffee in his hand. "You're late," he said simply, without asking a question. "I thought maybe you needed some coffee too." She looked at him, at his calm face, at the mug he held as if it were more than just a drink. And something inside her—the very thing she had hidden for so long behind her business suit and stern voice—trembled. “Thank you,” Marina said, her voice unusually soft. “Have a seat.” He entered and closed the door behind him. The office fell silent, save for the sound of the rain outside and the steady hum of the computer. Dmitry sat down opposite her, placed his mug on the edge of the desk, and looked at her intently, his head tilted slightly to the side. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time... not about work,” he said. Marina felt her pulse quicken. She leaned back in her chair, trying to remain calm. - And about what? "About how much time you spend here." He glanced around the office. "About how you're always the last one to leave. And about," he paused, "how I can't stop thinking about you." She was silent. The words stuck in her throat, and her heart was pounding somewhere in it. Dmitry stood up, walked around the table, and stopped next to her chair. He smelled of coffee and rain. “I’m not rushing you,” he said quietly. “I just want you to know.” He leaned down, and his lips lightly, almost weightlessly, touched her temple. Marina closed her eyes. For a moment, it seemed as if the whole world had narrowed to this moment: to the warmth of his breath, to his light touch, to the smell of rain and coffee. And then he straightened up, picked up his mug and walked out, leaving her alone in the dimly lit office. Marina sat for another hour, staring into space. When she stepped outside, the rain had stopped, and the air was clear and cool. She took a deep breath and realized that for the first time in a long time, she wanted to go somewhere other than home, to her cozy, empty apartment. Somewhere where she was welcome. And she knew where. She didn't go home. Instead, Marina got into the car and, without really understanding why, drove toward his house. She knew the address—she'd glimpsed it on the HR form when she'd signed the hiring order. Back then, it had been just a line on the document. Now, that line burned inside her like a coal. The courtyard was a quiet residential area, the windows of the panel buildings glowing dimly yellow. Marina parked at the entrance, turned off the engine, and froze. What was she doing here? A boss who'd come to visit her subordinate in the middle of the night. This wasn't just unprofessional. This was insane. She almost turned the key back, almost gave up, but at that moment a silhouette flickered in one of the third-floor windows. His silhouette. He stood there, motionless, as if waiting. Marina got out of the car. The door opened almost immediately, as if he'd been standing behind it the whole time. Dmitry was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot. His hair was still damp from the shower. He silently stepped aside, letting her in. The apartment was small but lived-in. Books cluttered the shelves, an old sofa, a light on in the kitchen, and something sizzling quietly on the stove. It smelled of fried onions and spices. "Are you cooking?" Marina asked, her voice sounding stupid and out of place. “Dinner,” he answered simply. “I didn’t have time to eat. Would you like to join me?” She nodded. She sat down on a stool in the kitchen, watching him deftly wield a knife, chopping vegetables, stirring something in a frying pan. His movements were calm, confident. He wasn't fidgeting, not trying to impress. He simply cooked. And somehow, that made her feel warmer. They ate in silence. Marina wasn't hungry, but she ate to keep her hands occupied and to avoid looking at him too openly. And he did. Calmly, without pressure, but so that she could feel his gaze on her skin. “Why did you come?” he finally asked, putting his plate aside. Marina looked up at him. — I don’t know myself. - You're lying. - Maybe I'm lying. He smiled—for the first time in a long time. It was warm, slightly mocking, but without malice. And that smile made something inside Marina snap. She stood up, walked over to him, and placed her hands on his shoulders. He didn't move. He just looked up, waiting. "I don't know how to do this," she said quietly. "I don't know how to let someone close. I don't know how to trust." “I know,” he replied. “You think I haven’t noticed? You keep everyone at arm’s length. Even when you smile.” - And this doesn’t scare you? - Should it? He stood up, and now they were standing almost touching. Marina felt the warmth of his body, heard how evenly he was breathing. She placed her palm on his chest, where his heart was beating. It was calm, measured. Not like hers—jumping, erratic, desperate. “I don’t want this to be a mistake,” she whispered. “It’s not a mistake,” he said, covering her hand with his. He kissed her—slowly, without rushing. At first, he simply brushed his lips against hers, lightly, almost weightlessly. Then he pressed lightly, and Marina felt her own lips part to meet his, his tongue sliding inside, intertwining with hers. It was unlike anything she'd experienced before. There was no greed, no roughness. There was warmth, calm, and a quiet, deep recognition. She ran her fingers through his damp hair and pulled him closer. He hugged her—tightly but carefully, as if afraid to scare her away. And in that embrace, Marina suddenly realized she didn't want to go anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow. They moved to the sofa. Dmitry pulled her blouse off and unclasped her bra—slowly, looking into her eyes, as if asking permission. She nodded. He leaned down, kissed her neck, her collarbone, and moved lower. Marina arched, clutching his shoulders. His lips wrapped around her nipple, and she moaned—quietly, stifled, as if surprised at herself. "Don't hold back," he whispered. "This isn't work. This is okay." And she stopped holding back. He caressed her long and patiently. He slowly removed her clothes, as if they were something precious. He kissed her stomach, her thighs, her knees. Marina no longer understood where one touch ended and the next began. She floated, dissolved, lost herself. And when his tongue touched the wet, hot center of her arousal, she cried out and pressed his head to her. Dmitry took his time. He licked her slowly, using circular motions, sometimes pressing harder, sometimes barely touching. Marina thrashed on the couch, clutching the bedspread in her fists, gasping from the pleasure that washed over her in waves—one after another, ever stronger. She came for the first time, arching her back and letting out a strangled cry, and before she could recover, he had already stood up, removed his pants, and was hovering over her. He entered carefully, slowly, peering into her face. Marina felt her body open up to him, accepting him completely. He was large, and it was slightly painful, but the pain was mingled with such intense pleasure that she only wrapped her legs tighter around him. “Okay?” he breathed out. - Yes... yes... He began to move. Slowly at first, measuredly, as if giving her time to adjust. Then faster, deeper. Marina couldn't think anymore. She simply held onto him, his strong shoulders, and moved toward him, matching his rhythm. Their breaths mingled, their bodies sliding together, covered in sweat. She heard him whisper her name—quietly, almost soundlessly, like a prayer. The second orgasm hit her unexpectedly. She thrashed beneath him, digging her nails into his back, and he, sensing it, sped up, thrusting into her powerfully, deeply, to the very limit. She came, shuddering, losing touch with reality, and a moment later he froze, arching, groaning softly and pulsing inside her, filling her with hot, thick seed. He didn't pull out right away. He lay pressed against her, breathing heavily, stroking her hair. Marina could feel his cock still pulsing inside her, and the sensation made her want to cry—not from sadness, but from something enormous that couldn't fit in her chest. “Are you staying?” he asked quietly. “I’ll stay,” she answered, and the word sounded like a promise. They moved into the bedroom. Marina thought that would be the end of it, but she was wrong. Dmitry didn't let go of her. He kissed her again and again, touched her, caressed her. As if he couldn't get enough. And Marina responded. She didn't know this was possible. That you could want someone so much that you forget about time, about work, about everything else. Towards morning she fell asleep. She woke to him stroking her back—slowly, with his fingertips, along her spine. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” she muttered. — I'm looking at you. - And how? - Beautiful. Marina smiled and rolled over onto her back. Morning light filtered through the curtains, soft, gray, November. She looked at him—disheveled, sleepy, with kind eyes—and suddenly realized she didn't want to go anywhere. “Take a shower,” she said. “Get up.” He stood up. She did too. And when they entered the small bathroom, where only a single bottle of shower gel stood on the shelf, Marina suddenly realized that this—the most ordinary thing, something they did together in the morning—might be more important than anything else. He soaped her all over—slowly, leisurely, his hands sliding over her shoulders, chest, stomach, between her legs. She felt desire welling up inside her again. And when he bent her over the sink and stood behind her, she simply exhaled and closed her eyes. He entered from behind, under the streams of water, and Marina gasped, clutching the edge of the sink. He moved slowly, deeply, and each thrust reverberated somewhere deep within her body, in the very core. Water trickled down her back, mixing with sweat, steam filled the bathroom, and it was so sensual, so wrong-right, that she came quickly, again, limply, in his arms. “I can’t do this anymore,” she muttered. “You’ll kill me.” He laughed quietly and kissed her wet shoulder. A month later, they moved into her apartment together. Three months later, she quit her department and transferred to another company, so as not to mix work and personal life. After all, she was a professional. A year later, they got married. And everything would have been simple and smooth, if not for the appearance at the wedding... of his twin brother. But that's a completely different story.