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“Just bring him the food and walk away,” Miles mumbled to himself, stumbling past Fiona’s wide office window, ducking so she wouldn’t see his yellow windbreaker.
It’s not as though he was doing anything wrong, he’s brought Hunter- no! Mr Everett, lunch every day for the past week now, he’s an assistant! He’s allowed to do that!
It doesn’t matter that Kate started the idea, or that Mr. Everette saw through the charade, he didn’t fire Miles, luckily, though he did pin Miles to the desk and threaten him with a fork to the neck (and then Kate finding them in that threatening position), but Miles’s Savta always said any relationship-platonic or otherwise, was bound to have bumps in the road. Miles just had to keep his head on straight and soon he’d be able to get his doctorate.
“It’s so easy, you won’t even have time to think about kissing him.” Miles promised himself, hitting the shiny elevator button to the seventeenth floor and counting backwards from 100 in his head to stop himself from getting claustrophobic. The day these things finally have a malfunction, he’s going to lose his shit. Thank G-d for Everett Industries consistent building maintenance, Hunter took that sort of thing very seriously. It made sense, considering someone attempted to drug the CEO on Miles’s first day last week.
He’s just glad he’s not trapped in here, that would really make him panic.
“He won’t even think about you kissing him because he’ll be too busy eating this-“ Miles briefly opens the cardboard contraption for a sniff test, “rosemary and thyme filet mignon, vitelotte, and antipasto salad…” he hums at it, remembering to thank Kira, his best friend, for making the meal. She was in school for culinary arts, so she almost always had an extra few meals lying around to give to friends or in this case, Miles’s CEO, who he was kind-of-sort-of trying to bribe into not firing him but also-kinda-just-wanted to be friendly with him. Or to like… apologize. For everything.
Miles knows he messes things up a lot. He can’t think about it for long or he gets self depricating. The only reason he got this raise and higher management position is because Fiona knew Kate was trying to swindle for the job and likes to have the last laugh. Fiona is a bit of a masochist, Miles is realizing.
The elevator dings, interrupting the silence. Miles steps out, breathing deeply, the open air soothing any wayward nerves that have pummeled their way to the surface. His shoes squeak against the marble floors as he passes the vase of pansies by the door and opens the hooked handle.
Hunter Everett is standing before his wall to floor window, white button-up shirt hanging off the ten thousand dollar lamp, arms crossed. The scar on his side is still visible, mostly healed, Miles helped take the stitches out a few days ago. His hands go numb as he watches the expanse of Hunter’s back as he tilts his head to the left, looking up at the heavy clouds outside.
Miles takes a breath to announce his presence, but then Hunter moves his arms absently behind his back in a basic bicep stretch. He has great form. Miles thinks. Entirely from a doctoral standpoint, of course. Mr. Everette seems to be in great health, it’s almost surprising, Miles rarely ever sees someone in such good shape. It was… nice. Miles didn’t know any other word to describe the strange feeling it elicited within him.
Hunter’s back is nicely toned. He’s more tan than Miles too, there was a tanning bed somewhere in this huge expanse of a corporate building, Miles just hasn’t been able to figure out where during his off time listening to Fiona rant about useless lesbians (Kate) and when she’s going to get Mr Everett to sign off on her adding more potted plants to the building’s layout.
There was much to explore, is what he’s getting at. Never a dull moment.
Man, even Mr. Everett’s pants were high quality, they looked like something expensive, maybe linen? Hunter seemed the type. It hugged his legs nicely…
What
“What did I say about knocking?” Hunter’s deep voice booms, both calm and oddly pissed.
Miles flinches, almost dropping the food. His face heats up, palms sweaty and hands shaky.
“Shit, warn a guy.” Miles chastised, setting the box on Hunter’s millennial grey desk.
Hunter glared at him in response. He doesn’t put his shirt on, miles looks up at the ceiling.
“I don’t eat lunch.” He says, not touching the food.
“Maybe you should start, Fiona said you work out,” Miles said, already trying to backwards walk out of the room before Hunter lost his temper. “Your muscles are looking awfully small today. Don’t you want to look good for your birthday party next week? Kate is planning it, you know. Wouldn’t want to disappoint her.” Miles tries. He hates bringing Kate up with Hunter, but he knows it’s necessary to somewhat plant the seed, for his own safety at least. It makes his blood boil uncomfortably every time, though he wasn’t sure why.
Hunter rolls his eyes, grabbing the lunch and shoving it into the tiny plastic trashcan at his feet.
“Be on your way. Shoo.” Hunter waves his hand dismissively.
Miles trips down the hall, slamming the door with too much force, hands in his pockets and shoulders up to his ears,
“I’m not gay, I’m not gay, I’m not gay.”