You looked like a problem in that vintage university sweatshirt, specifically the kind of problem I’ve spent ten years trying to solve.
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**FROM: Gabriel Vance (gvance@venture-peak.com)**
**TO: Maya Sterling (msterling@venture-peak.com)**
**DATE: October 12, 10:14 AM**
**SUBJECT: RE: Homecoming Recruiting Trip - Final Itinerary**
Maya,
I’ve reviewed the itinerary. Three days in Boulder? I know the VP wants us to 'reconnect with our roots' to find the next batch of analysts, but let’s be honest: we’re just going there to watch twenty-two-year-olds with high metabolisms drink better beer than we did while we try to convince them that 80-hour work weeks at Venture Peak are 'character building.'
Also, the hotel booking? The Millennium? I haven't stepped foot in that lobby since Junior Prom. If I see a kid in a rented tuxedo, I’m quitting on the spot.
I’ll have the recruitment brochures printed by Wednesday. See you at DIA at 6:00 AM on Friday. Try not to be too cheerful. It’s too early for your brand of morning-person energy.
Best,
Gabe
***
**FROM: Maya Sterling (msterling@venture-peak.com)**
**TO: Gabriel Vance (gvance@venture-peak.com)**
**DATE: October 12, 11:05 AM**
**SUBJECT: RE: RE: Homecoming Recruiting Trip - Final Itinerary**
Gabe,
You’re just grumpy because the last time we were at CU together, you were still wearing those hemp necklaces and trying to convince everyone you were going to join the Peace Corps. Now you’re a corporate shark in a tailored blazer who worries about his 401k. The irony is delicious, and I intend to savor every second of it.
And don’t worry about the Millennium. I upgraded us to the St. Julien. If we’re going to be professional vultures circling the alma mater, we might as well have a decent spa and a view of the Flatirons.
Also, I’m bringing my vintage '09 homecoming sweatshirt. It still fits. Can you say the same for your rugby jerseys?
See you at the gate. Don't forget the brochures.
M.
***
**INTERNAL SLACK CHANNEL: #recruitment-boulder (Private: gvance, msterling)**
**DATE: October 16, 4:45 PM**
**gvance:** I am currently standing in the middle of the UMC. It smells like patchouli, desperation, and overpriced textbooks. Why did we think this was a good idea?
**msterling:** Because you’re the one who told the board we needed 'disruptive young minds' and I’m the one who has to make sure you don’t scare them off with your cynical old-man face.
**gvance:** I’m 33, Maya. I’m not an old man.
**msterling:** You’re wearing a tie at a career fair on a Friday afternoon in Boulder. To these kids, you’re basically a fossil. Lose the tie. Open the top button. Look like someone they actually want to work for, not someone who’s going to audit their soul.
**gvance:** Better?
**msterling:** [Image Attached: A blurry photo of Gabe from across the room, hand on his neck, top button undone, looking annoyed but objectively handsome.]
**msterling:** Slightly better. But you look like you need a drink. Meet me at The Sink in twenty minutes? I’m done with these resumes. If I read one more 'highly motivated self-starter' intro, I’m going to walk into the creek.
**gvance:** The Sink? Really? It’s going to be packed with alumni who still think they can do keg stands.
**msterling:** Exactly. We’ll blend in. Or we’ll stand in the corner and judge them. Your choice.
***
**SMS THREAD: Gabe & Maya**
**DATE: October 16, 11:22 PM**
**Gabe:** Did you make it back to the hotel?
**Maya:** Barely. I forgot how steep that hill is when you’ve had three IPAs and a shot of something that tasted like gasoline.
**Gabe:** That was 'The Buffalo.' It’s tradition. And you’re the one who insisted we toast to the '08 championship that didn't happen.
**Maya:** Details, details. You looked good tonight, Gabe.
**Gabe:** It’s the lighting at The Sink. It’s designed to make everyone look like they’re still twenty.
**Maya:** No, it wasn't the lighting. It was the way you looked at me when that frat guy tried to hit on me. You looked like you wanted to throw him through the window.
**Gabe:** He was a child, Maya. He called you 'ma’am.' I was doing him a favor by not letting him finish that sentence.
**Maya:** 'Ma'am.' I’m going to go drown myself in the hotel bathtub now.
**Gabe:** Don’t do that. You’re not a 'ma'am.' You’re the VP of Operations who currently has a smear of pizza sauce on her left cheek.
**Maya:** You noticed that? And you didn't tell me?
**Gabe:** I thought it was a bold choice. Very 'disruptive.'
**Maya:** I hate you. Goodnight.
**Gabe:** Goodnight, Maya.
***
**FROM: Gabriel Vance (gvance@venture-peak.com)**
**TO: Maya Sterling (msterling@venture-peak.com)**
**DATE: October 17, 1:15 AM**
**SUBJECT: (No Subject)**
(Draft saved, not sent)
You have no idea how hard it was not to reach across that sticky table and wipe that sauce off your face with my thumb. Not because I cared about the pizza, but because I wanted an excuse to touch your skin. You’ve been my boss, then my peer, then my friend for six years, and tonight, seeing you back in this town, it felt like the last decade never happened. You still have that same laugh—the one that starts in your chest and makes your shoulders shake.
I’m three doors down from you in room 412. I can hear the wind hitting the glass and all I can think about is the way your hair smelled like woodsmoke and expensive perfume tonight. We shouldn't be doing this. We work together. We’re 'professionals.'
But I’m lying here staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’re actually asleep, or if you’re thinking about the way I looked at you, too.
***
**SMS THREAD: Gabe & Maya**
**DATE: October 17, 9:30 AM**
**Maya:** Breakfast in the lobby in 15? We have the alumni brunch at 11.
**Gabe:** I’m already here. I’ve had three coffees. I am vibrating.
**Maya:** See you in a bit. Wear the blue shirt. It matches your eyes when you’re caffeinated and grumpy.
***
**INTERNAL SLACK CHANNEL: #recruitment-boulder (Private: gvance, msterling)**
**DATE: October 17, 3:15 PM**
**msterling:** If I have to listen to one more donor talk about the 'glory days' of the Big 12, I’m going to scream.
**gvance:** Look to your left. The guy in the lime green polo? That’s my old O-Chem professor. He once gave me a C- because I forgot to label a benzene ring. I’m currently making eye contact with him and drinking a very expensive scotch he can’t afford. This is my peak, Maya. It’s all downhill from here.
**msterling:** You’re so petty. I love it.
**gvance:** You love it?
**msterling:** I love the pettiness. Obviously. Keep up.
**gvance:** Right. Obviously.
**msterling:** Meet me by the fountain in ten minutes. I’m ditching this. There’s a bonfire on the quad tonight and then some 'secret' party at the old co-op. Apparently, I still have contacts.
**gvance:** We are too old for a co-op party. There will be shoes made of tires and communal bowls of hummus.
**msterling:** Don’t be a coward, Vance. Live a little. Or do I have to make it a direct order from your superior?
**gvance:** Using the corporate hierarchy to get me to a hippie party. Bold move, Sterling.
***
**SMS THREAD: Gabe & Maya**
**DATE: October 17, 11:45 PM**
**Gabe:** Where are you? The music just got exponentially worse and I’m pretty sure someone just offered me a weed gummy shaped like a mascot.
**Maya:** I’m out back. By the old stone wall. Near the creek. It’s quiet here.
**Gabe:** On my way.
***
**SHARED GOOGLE DOC: "The Weekend Report" (Shared with msterling@venture-peak.com)**
**DATE: October 18, 2:10 AM**
**AUTHOR: Gabriel Vance**
I’m writing this because I know if I say it to your face tomorrow morning in the rental car, I’ll choke on the words. Or you’ll laugh. Or we’ll both pretend it didn't happen because that’s what we do. We’re the 'dream team.' We hit our KPIs. We don't cross lines.
But tonight, when I found you by the creek, the air was so cold I could see your breath. You were sitting on that stone wall, the same one where we used to sit during finals week ten years ago, and you had your hands tucked into the sleeves of that oversized sweatshirt. You looked like the girl I knew before we both got titles and salaries and layers of armor.
When I sat down next to you, I told myself I’d keep my hands to myself. But then you looked at me and said, "Gabe, do you ever feel like we’re just playing dress-up?"
You didn't wait for an answer. You just leaned your head on my shoulder. Your hair was cold, smelling like the night air and that bonfire. I could feel the heat of your body through my jacket, and the silence between us wasn't professional anymore. It was heavy. It was the kind of silence that happens right before a storm breaks.
I turned my head, just an inch, and my lips brushed your temple. You didn't pull away. You shifted, turning toward me, and your eyes were so dark in the moonlight they looked like ink. I remember thinking: *I’m going to lose my job. I’m going to ruin the best friendship I have. I’m going to regret this.*
And then you put your hand on the back of my neck. Your fingers were freezing, but they sent a shock straight down my spine. You pulled me down, and when our mouths finally hit, it wasn't a 'first kiss.' It was an explosion. It was ten years of 'what-ifs' and 'almosts' crashing into the present.
You tasted like that cheap beer and expensive lipstick. You were frantic, pulling at my collar, and I was just as bad, my hands finding your waist, pulling you off that wall and flush against me. The way you moaned into my mouth—it was a small, broken sound, like you’d been holding it in for a decade.
I’m back in my room now. 412. I can still feel the ghost of your hands on me. My skin is buzzing. I can’t stop thinking about what happened when we got back to the hotel.
I’m going to write it down. Every bit of it. Because I need you to know exactly what you did to me.
***
**REVISION TO "The Weekend Report"**
**DATE: October 18, 2:45 AM**
**AUTHOR: Gabriel Vance**
We didn't even make it past the door of your room. You were digging in your bag for your key, your breath coming in these short, jagged hitches, and I was hovering over you, my shadow swallowing yours against the hallway carpet. You finally pulled out that ridiculous keychain—the one with the brass carabiner and the tiny plastic mountain—and your hands were shaking so hard you dropped it.
When we both leaned down to grab it, our heads knocked, and we both laughed, but it was a breathless, desperate sound. I grabbed the keys, but I didn't hand them back. I pushed you against the door. The wood was solid behind you, and you looked up at me with this look of absolute, terrifying hunger.
"Open the door, Gabe," you whispered.
I swiped the card, the light turned green, and I practically shoved us inside. The door hadn't even clicked shut before I had my hands under that vintage sweatshirt. Your skin was so warm compared to the mountain air outside. I slid my palms up your ribs, feeling the way you arched into me, your breasts heavy and soft against my chest.
You were fumbling with my belt, your movements hurried and clumsy in a way that made my blood boil. I helped you, ripping the leather through the loops, kicking my shoes off without looking. When I pulled your sweatshirt over your head, your hair went wild, static-charged and beautiful. You were wearing this black lace bra that looked nothing like the 'Maya Sterling' I see in boardrooms. It was delicate, thin, and your nipples were already peaking through the mesh, dark and hard from the chill or the friction—I didn't care which.
I backed you up until your calves hit the edge of the bed. You fell back, pulling me with you, and the mattress groaned under us. I was between your legs in a second, my knees digging into the duvet. I leaned down and bit your shoulder—not hard, but enough to leave a mark, enough to hear you gasp.
"Gabe," you breathed, your voice reaching a pitch I’d never heard. "Please."
I didn't give you 'please.' I gave you everything. I unclipped that bra and tossed it somewhere toward the window. Your breasts were perfect—pale, with those wide, sensitive areolas that reacted to every touch. I took one into my mouth, my tongue swirling around the tip before I sucked it deep. You cried out, your fingers locking in my hair, pulling me closer, begging for more pressure.
I moved lower, my hands sliding down to the waistband of your jeans. They were tight—those vintage Levi's you’re so proud of—and I had to work to get them over your hips. You were lifting yourself for me, your breath coming in shallow pants. When I finally got them off, you were just in those tiny black silk thongs.
You were already slick. I could smell you—that musky, sweet scent that belongs only to you. I slid a finger under the silk, finding the center of you, and you nearly jumped off the bed. You were so wet, Maya. Drenched. I stroked you once, twice, and you were already shaking.
"Not yet," I muttered against your stomach.
I used my teeth to pull the silk down your legs. Then I spread you open. You were beautiful—pink and glistening in the dim light from the streetlamps outside. I didn't hesitate. I buried my face in you.
The taste of you was sharp and clean, and the way you reacted—the way your thighs clamped around my ears, the way your hips started that rhythmic, desperate bucking—it drove me insane. I used my tongue to find your clit, flicking it with a steady, punishing rhythm until you were sobbing my name. You weren't the VP of Operations anymore. You were just a woman coming apart under my mouth.
I felt your muscles start to contract, that internal flutter that happens right before the peak. I didn't stop. I went harder, my fingers sliding inside you to feel the way you squeezed around me. You screamed into the pillow, your whole body stiffening before you collapsed into the sheets, shivering and spent.
But I wasn't done. Not even close.
I stripped off my boxers, my cock heavy and aching, throbbing with a heartbeat of its own. I stood over you for a second, just watching you breathe, watching the way your chest rose and fell. You reached out, your hand wrapping around me, and the heat of your palm nearly ended me right there.
"Inside," you whispered, your eyes glassy. "I want you inside."
I moved back between your knees. I guided myself to you, the head of my cock brushing against your wetness. You were so tight, even after coming, that I had to move slowly. I pushed in an inch, then two, and you let out a long, low moan that vibrated through my own bones.
"God, Gabe. You're so big."
"You're so small," I rasped, leaning down to kiss you, my tongue mimicking the motion of my hips.
I buried myself in you with one long, slow thrust. The fit was perfect. It felt like coming home. I stayed there for a moment, bottomed out against you, feeling your walls pulse around me. Then I started to move.
It wasn't the polite, cautious sex of two people who work together. It was primal. It was the sound of skin hitting skin, the rhythmic thud of the headboard against the wall, the messy, wet sound of us sliding together. I gripped your hips, my thumbs digging into your hipbones, and I drove into you with everything I had.
You met me stroke for stroke, your legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper. Every time I hit your cervix, you made this little 'oh' sound that made me want to break something. I was watching you—I wouldn't let you close your eyes. I wanted to see you when it happened.
I felt the pressure building in my gut, that tightening behind my navel. I picked up the pace, my thrusts becoming shorter, harder. You were right there with me, your face flushed, your breath coming in ragged sobs.
"Gabe, Gabe, Gabe—"
"Look at me," I commanded.
You opened your eyes, and in that second, we both broke. You clamped around me, your internal muscles milking me, and I lost it. I poured myself into you, my body jolting with the force of it, my forehead dropping to yours as we both tried to remember how to breathe.
We stayed like that for a long time. Tangled. Wet. Silent.
Then you reached out, found your keychain on the nightstand where I’d tossed it, and started spinning it around your finger.
"So," you said, your voice raspy and ruined. "About those KPIs for Q4..."
I laughed so hard I almost fell off the bed.
***
**COMMENT ON "The Weekend Report"**
**DATE: October 18, 8:14 AM**
**FROM: Maya Sterling**
Gabriel,
I just read this in the hotel lobby while drinking a green smoothie and trying to look like a serious professional. I am currently blushing so hard the barista asked if I had a fever.
You forgot a few details.
You forgot the part where, after that first round, you turned me over and pressed me face-down into the pillows. You forgot the way you held my wrists together behind my back with one hand while you used the other to guide yourself back into me from behind.
I can still feel the weight of you on my back. I can still feel the way you bit the nape of my neck when you came the second time—a hard, possessive mark that I’m currently hiding with a very strategic scarf.
You also forgot the part where I told you I’ve wanted to do that since the Christmas party in 2019.
I’m sitting in the rental car now. You’re five minutes late. Get down here. We have a flight to catch, and I have a very long list of things I want to do to you in the back of an Uber when we get to Denver.
Also, give me my keychain back. I saw you slip it into your pocket this morning.
***
**SMS THREAD: Gabe & Maya**
**DATE: October 18, 10:45 AM (At the Gate)**
**Gabe:** I’m keeping the keychain. As collateral.
**Maya:** Collateral for what?
**Gabe:** For the fact that we’re going to have to explain to HR why we’re both filing 'conflict of interest' forms on Monday morning.
**Maya:** Only if we make it to Monday. I’m looking at you across the terminal right now, and you’re doing that thing with your jaw. The thing you do when you’re thinking about something dirty.
**Gabe:** I’m thinking about the fact that the St. Julien has very thick walls, but the airplane bathroom definitely does not.
**Maya:** Gabe. No.
**Gabe:** Maya. Yes.
**Maya:** ...See you at the back of the plane. Give me two minutes after the seatbelt sign goes off.
***
**FROM: Maya Sterling (msterling@venture-peak.com)**
**TO: Gabriel Vance (gvance@venture-peak.com)**
**DATE: October 20, 9:00 AM**
**SUBJECT: RE: Recruitment Follow-up**
Gabe,
I’ve attached the list of candidates we liked from the Boulder trip. Please reach out to the top three and schedule initial screenings for next week.
On a personal note, the 'item' you left at my apartment last night—the blue tie—is currently hanging on my bedpost. I suggest you come retrieve it tonight. Bring dinner. And those handcuffs you mentioned in the taxi.
Let’s keep the Q4 projections on my desk by EOD.
Best,
Maya Sterling
VP of Operations, Venture Peak
***
**FROM: Gabriel Vance (gvance@venture-peak.com)**
**TO: Maya Sterling (msterling@venture-peak.com)**
**DATE: October 20, 9:15 AM**
**SUBJECT: RE: RE: Recruitment Follow-up**
Maya,
Candidates are being handled. Projections will be on your desk by 4:00 PM.
As for the tie, I think I’ll leave it there. It serves as a nice reminder of what happens when we 'reconnect with our roots.'
I’ll see you at 7:00. I’m bringing Thai food and the handcuffs. Don't be late. I’d hate to have to discipline my superior for a lack of punctuality.
Regards,
Gabe
***
**INTERNAL SLACK CHANNEL: #general**
**DATE: October 20, 11:30 AM**
**HR_Rob:** Hey @gvance and @msterling, great work on the Boulder trip! The VP is thrilled with the candidate pool. Just a reminder to submit your expense reports by Friday. Also, did someone lose a keychain in the conference room? It has a little brass carabiner and a plastic mountain on it.
**gvance:** That’s mine, Rob. I’ll come get it.
**msterling:** Actually, Rob, I’ll grab it. Gabe has a lot on his plate today.
**gvance:** [Emoji: Smirking Face]
**msterling:** [Emoji: Fire]
***
**PRIVATE SLACK: gvance to msterling**
**DATE: October 20, 11:32 AM**
**gvance:** You’re going to grab it, huh?
**msterling:** It’s my keychain, Vance. I believe the 'collateral' period has ended. If you want a souvenir, you’ll have to earn a new one tonight.
**gvance:** Is that a challenge?
**msterling:** It’s a performance review. Prepare accordingly.
**gvance:** I’ve never failed a review in my life, Sterling. I don’t plan on starting now. I’m thinking about the way you looked in the light of the bonfire, but I’m also thinking about the way you looked this morning in your power suit, barking orders at the interns. I don't know which one I want to unravel more.
**msterling:** Why choose?
**gvance:** Good point. See you at 7:00.
***
**SHARED GOOGLE DOC: "The Weekend Report" (Updated)**
**DATE: October 21, 1:45 AM**
**AUTHOR: Maya Sterling**
You want to talk about unraveling?
Let’s talk about tonight. Let’s talk about how you walked into my kitchen, dropped the takeout on the counter, and didn't even say hello before you had me pressed against the refrigerator.
You still had your coat on. I was still in my heels. The cold air from the hallway was still clinging to you, but your mouth was hot—blistering. You didn't wait for the bedroom. You didn't even wait for the handcuffs.
You lifted me up, my legs instinctively hooking around your waist, and the magnetic letters on the fridge scattered everywhere as my back hit the door. I could hear them clattering to the floor—A, M, R, L—but I couldn't care less. All I could feel was you. Your hands were under my skirt in seconds, ripping my tights like they were tissue paper.
"Gabe," I moaned, my head hitting the freezer door. "The food..."
"The food can wait," you growled into my neck.
You didn't use a condom that first time. You just unzipped, guided yourself into me, and drove home. I wasn't prepared for the sheer size of you, the way you filled me up until I felt like I was going to split. It was a different kind of intensity than the hotel. This was home. This was ours.
You pounded into me, the fridge humming and rattling behind us, and every time you hit me, my heels kicked against the small of your back. I reached for the top of the fridge, my fingers searching for purchase, knocking over a stack of mail and a vase of dried flowers. I didn't care. I wanted the friction. I wanted the noise.
I could see my reflection in the stainless steel across the room—the way my head was thrown back, the way your shoulders were bunched, the way your hands were white-knuckled on my thighs. You looked possessed. You looked like you wanted to consume me.
When you finished, you didn't let me down. You held me there, your face buried in my chest, both of us shaking so hard I thought the fridge door would come off its hinges.
Then you looked at me, your eyes dark and wild, and said, "Now, where are those handcuffs?"
I think I’m going to like this 'workplace collaboration' after all.
***
**COMMENT ON "The Weekend Report"**
**DATE: October 21, 2:15 AM**
**FROM: Gabriel Vance**
Maya,
I’m lying in your bed right now, watching you sleep. You’re curled up on your side, the sheets tangled around your legs, and the light from the streetlamp is hitting that mark I left on your shoulder.
I keep thinking about the fact that I almost didn't go on this trip. I almost told the VP I was too busy. I almost missed the chance to see you back in the place where we started.
The air in Boulder tastes like crisp apples and expensive tuition, but the air in this room tastes like you. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
I’m going to delete this doc in the morning. We don't need a paper trail for HR to find. We have the real thing now.
But before I do, I just want you to know: I’m never giving that keychain back. It’s a trophy. It’s a reminder of the night I stopped being your colleague and started being the man who’s going to spend the rest of the year—and hopefully much longer—finding every single way to make you scream like you did tonight.
See you at the office, VP Sterling. I’ll be the one in the blue tie. The one you’re going to have to take off me in the elevator.
Love,
Gabe
