They fight for control.
Limbs tangle as he slams her against the cold wooden desk, tongues flicking in a never ending dance. Her hands grab his hair; his arms encircle her waist, his whole body pushing against her. She gasps as he bites her lower lip. She spins him round, sits him down on the table top, pulls him closer in, a hand moving down his back, grabbing his belt to bring him closer to her –
"Stop it."
The quiet words take her by surprise. His face is so close to her that their noses touch slightly. His eyes lock onto hers, burning fiercely. She is acutely aware of one of her legs in between his, wound around his ankle. She has to lean forward to keep contact.
"Stop what, Roy?" she asks, out of breath, pushing her blonde fringe out of her eyes where it has fallen from its grip.
"Stop trying to take control."
That was not what she was expecting.
"I wasn't – "
Roy stands up, forcing Riza to move backwards. Slowly, unperceptively, his arm moves upwards, and he brushes her fringe aside with his index finger.
"Riza," he sighs, "the door is locked. Nobody can come in. We have the whole office to ourselves. So what," he whispers in her ear, his cool breath sending a shiver through her, as it always does, "is your rush?"
He takes both her hands in his, and kisses each fingertip delicately.
"Let go, Riza. For once, just let it go."
She cannot help it; she tenses up. He moves away from her. He is annoyed, she knows it. He is disappointed. They are always disappointed with her.
"What?" he asks.
And just like that, a tear falls from her eyes. Roy's steely gaze snaps, breaks away, melts like the ice on the ground outside.
Riza tries to stop her tears. She is too old to cry. She was always too old to cry.