Amara honestly had no idea how her life managed to spiral into this. One moment she was quietly debating whether she should microwave her lunch or not, and the next she was sitting stiffly on Darien Dravik's office couch with his head, his actual head, heavy and warm, resting on her lap. Her lap. Her thighs. Her breath hadn't settled since.
She stared down at him, half expecting him to suddenly sit up and say something like, You're fired for this inappropriate position, even though he was the one who pulled her down, guided her, practically anchored himself to her. She didn't dare move. Not even a twitch. Her hands just kind of hung in the air awkwardly
How… how did this happen…
