Caleb stood in front of Jane.
His hand slowly pulled a phone from the pocket of his janitor uniform—cheap, worn-out, but clean.
Jane raised a brow. "You're filming me?"
Caleb didn't answer immediately. He turned on the camera, lifted the phone to chest-level—right at Jane's chest—and hit record.
"Documentation," he said flatly.
"Of what?" Jane crossed her arms, but didn't bother covering herself. "You think this is viral-worthy?"
Caleb shook his head slowly. "Agency policy. Proof that work is being done according to hygiene standards. All surfaces must be included."
His gaze lowered. Briefly.
To her neckline.
To the shadow of a bra peeking through her blouse.
To curves too full for a corporate office.
Caleb's breathing shifted.
Just a little. Heavier. But not sloppy.
His hand trembled.
Jane squinted. "…Are you shaking?"
Caleb stayed calm. But the tension in his forearm was tight—like coiled wire.
"AC's too cold," he lied. "I'll start from the top."
