She was standing in the doorway of her tiny, sad excuse for an office when she caught sight of him heading down the hallway in her direction; the boss's arrogant, insufferable son and head copywriter. He was as charming as he was conceited, always vying for his brother's job above him, never satisfied with his own work (which was, as much as it pained her to admit, usually brilliant). As a simple secretary who wanted the same job as him for several years, she wanted to hate him, and it would be easy to, if he wasn't so attractive. This was a thought, however, that she intended on keeping to herself - forever.

"Don't," she pleaded, holding her hand up at him as soon as he crossed the threshold into the room. His brilliant smile rapidly faded as she shook her head, taking a lengthy drag of her cigarette, her keen eyes scrutinizing him. It had been weeks since she had seen him last, and even though she was (secretly) pleased by the fact that he was back in town, she was too tired and too irritated to censor her current thoughts. "Spare me one day of your gloating. Just because your father owns the company, doesn't mean you're any more qualified for your job than I am. I'm tired of hearing about your triumphs and troubles when I'm down here, slaving away, not making nearly half of what you do."

And there it was. The words she had been thinking for years, suddenly spilling out of her mouth uncontrollably.

Loki frowned. He was used to her berating, and he usually deserved it (even liked it on occasion), but not this time. He cleared his throat and shuffled in place for a moment, his eyebrows raised, his face stern. "I agree."

"Excuse me?" she replied dumbly after a moment, trying to confirm that the words that he had said were not, in fact, you're fired.

"I agree," he repeated quietly, sadly, dropping an empty box he had brought with him onto her floor callously. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and shrugged, unable to look at her. "I simply came here to tell you that you've been promoted to copywriter. You start Monday."

It took her several moments to process, but the severe look he gave her now implied it wasn't a joke. She was speechless.

"I thought I'd help you move your things but since you're so repulsed by my presence, I'm sure you'd much rather handle it on your own," he stared down at her, his voice growing colder with each passing second.

He had missed her the past couple of weeks. When he had gotten the news about her promotion on the day of his return, he was more than happy to be the one to tell her. Now he found himself sorry he came at all.

"I don't want any favors from you," she said as she took another drag, mentally slapping herself for continuing to be so inexcusably rude to him, but she couldn't help it. She kept wondering how many women he had been with during his trip to L.A., and it boiled her blood.

"Believe me," he spat as he leaned over her, his voice deepening angrily, the pulsing vein in his neck prominent. "It wasn't my call."

Her heart sank at his cold admission, but the sting of his tone was softened by the intoxicating, distracting smell of his musky aftershave. She looked up into his eyes, her gaze hesitantly wandering down to his adam's apple. She found herself wanting to wrap her arms around his neck to loosen his tie just a bit, but her reverie was interrupted as he angrily turned on his heel to leave.

"Loki, I'm sorry, I-," she caught him by the arm before he could go, but he violently shrugged her off and stormed off down the hall, yelling back as he did so.

"It's good to see you too, Sif."