Author's Note: This story is going to be loosely based around the song, "I think He knows" by so this one is for any Swifties who also enjoy 90s sitcoms. For the rest of you, here's your hint to listen to the song. Will be multiple chapters. I'm also taking fic requests. Anything to get them into spicy convos or situations… PM me or leave feedback. Don't own the characters.

Fran was initially just sneaking down to grab some water but when she saw Mr. Sheffield, still up at this hour, light peeking into the hallway from his office door, she decided to check on him.

She peeked in. There he was.

Maxwell Sheffield, in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to suggest a long day and a relaxed mood. He had that script in one hand—the one he'd been poring over all week—but he wasn't reading it with that broody producer scowl she'd gotten used to.

No, he was smiling. And not just any smile.

That boyish, can't-help-it, dimples-on-display grin. He's got that boyish look that I like in a man, she thought. But he was also manly and strong like he could throw her up against a wall if he so pleased and hopefully one day he did. The perfect mix.

Fran leaned her shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching quietly. He chuckled at something on the page, unaware of her. His brow furrowed a little, like he was imagining a scene come to life. Lips moving as if rehearsing dialogue.

She didn't know what was written on that paper, but she'd never been more jealous of 120 pages of Courier font in her life.

"You always this charming when no one's watching?" She called out finally, smirking. What? A little late night flirting never hurt anyone…she thought.

Maxwell looked up, startled, and then—there it was again—that infuriatingly disarming smile.

"Miss Fine…" He acknowledged, sitting up a little straighter. "Didn't see you there." As soon as he looked at her, his eyes traveled down her body. Her outfit may or may not have been why she thought she'd pay him a little visit in the first place…

She took a few slow steps into the room. "You were busy. Making eyes at your script. It's okay, I'm not the jealous type." She joked playfully.

He arched a brow. "Somehow, I find that very hard to believe."

"Okay, maybe just a little jealous," she admitted, hopping up onto his desk, eyes flicking to the script. "What's got you so giddy? Some saucy new ingénue? Scandalous affair in Act II?"

Maxwell looked back down at the script like he'd momentarily forgotten he was holding it. "It's promising. Has potential."

"So do a lot of things," She said, her voice lower now, teasing. "Doesn't mean you do anything about them..."

He glanced at her—really looked at her—and something in his expression shifted. Softer. Warmer. But still guarded, like always.

There was a beat of silence.

He knew.

She knew he knew.

He knew she knew he knew.

But he wouldn't say it.

Wouldn't give her that one thing she wanted more than a designer shoe sale with no line and free champagne.

"Did you need anything, Miss Fine?" He inquired, wondering what he owed this late-night vision in lace and satin.

Fran took her time answering, letting the moment stretch. Her robe—barely a robe, more of a whisper of fabric—clung to her curves like it was painted on, the hem grazing high on her thigh. Her hair was loosely pinned up, soft curls falling around her face, and her skin had that warm, moonlit glow that made her look like trouble.

Maxwell swallowed. Hard. Lord help me…

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe, let alone speak. Her appearance was…the kind of thing that turned intelligent, grown men into stammering schoolboys. And she knew it. Of course, she knew it. That was the most dangerous part.

"I was just getting something to drink," she said, almost innocently. But then I saw your light on and thought… maybe I'm not the only one who can't sleep..."

Maxwell tried not to stare. Tried. Failed. The way the dress dipped just enough at her chest to make him question every good intention he'd ever had. Then, he remembered something that wasn't adding up…

"You went to bed hours ago, you still can't sleep?" He asked. As soon as the words escaped his lips, he regretted it.

"Who says I went upstairs to sleep?" She said, her voice purposefully sultry and slightly amused. She was trying to get to him.

There it was again—that look. Playful. Bold. But there was something else flickering behind her eyes too. Curiosity. Maybe even hope that she would win this war they had going on.

Maxwell exhaled slowly, resting the script on his desk. "Miss Fine…"

"What? I was reading… among other things…"

He knew what she was insinuating as soon as the words came out of her mouth. He had seen the kind of books that lay by her bedside… and thoughts about what this woman was doing just a few minutes before coming downstairs and who she was thinking about while doing it swirled in his head…

Once again, he sighed in frustration, "Miss Fine…"

"Max," she mimicked, leaning in just a bit, close enough for him to catch the soft scent of her perfume. He couldn't think of any other time he had ever heard her say his name except that one night, right after her light had gone off, right after she had been seen with one of those books… He heard her calling his name behind closed doors… He thought about it ever since although he tried to push it out of his head…

"So what's the script about?" She inquired, interrupting his thoughts.

He breathed a sigh of relief at a lighter topic and filled her in.

"Does that mean that's your next production?"

"Absolutely. It might be a risk but it's a risk worth taking. At least, I think it is…"

"You know, for someone who talks so much about taking risks on stage, you're awfully careful in real life…"

He was convinced she was baiting him, just waiting for the right time to turn the conversation back to the unspoken reason she was really in here…

He met her gaze and then looked away. "You usually are too," He replied. Clearly not tonight as she sat in his office looking ravishing…he thought.

Fran's smirk softened into something more genuine as she realized he was catching on — figures — after all he was a smart man. "Maybe I'm tired of playing it safe."

That hung between them, heavier than anything on the page he'd been reading.

He had half a mind to throw her down on top of the script he was just reading and put an end to all of this built-up tension but he wasn't ready. He knew she was. He wanted her so bad. Who wouldn't?

He often thought of how he didn't even deserve her - her kindness, how she had picked up the broken pieces of his family, and how she wanted him, despite his own brokenness. That's why despite his jealousy, he didn't stop her from dating. How could he? She wasn't his after all… Should she still be there when he was ready so be it but he knew he couldn't have her all to himself unless he was ready to commit and somehow he still wasn't ready for that step. Other things, sure. But he knew what he needed to do if they indulged in those other things. He just couldn't risk losing her…

"Well, uh…. Sometimes playing it safe is all in the timing. There are times to play it safe and times to not…" He tried his best to explain but really was just trying to reel the conversation back in.

She could tell he wasn't ready. But she also didn't know if he ever would be. She was a little disappointed but not surprised. The man had a lot of restraint. Who could resist a beautiful brunette sitting cross-legged in lace? She didn't push through.

"I know, I know…" She shimmied off his desk, as she caught him sneaking a peek to see if she'd end up flashing other body parts in the process.

"Well, I was just checking on you. I'm grabbing some water and getting back to bed. Don't work too hard tonight. You know what they say…" She paused at the door, glancing over her shoulder with a wicked glint in her eye. "All work and no play makes Mr. Sheffield… tense…"

His mouth opened like he had a witty retort locked and loaded—but nothing came out. Just a slightly strangled sound and another stolen glance at her legs as she deliberately swayed her hips a little extra on the way out the door.

She gave him one last smile—half flirty, half exasperated—before she disappeared around the corner, leaving a faint trail of perfume and mayhem in her wake.

Maxwell stared at the empty doorway, then looked down at his script. The pages were still there, but they were definitely less interesting now.

He muttered to himself with a groan, "God help me…" Not even the faintest smile could hide the fact that she was the script he wanted to read next. When the timing was right, of course.

As Fran poured herself a glass of water, she wondered what she would have to do to move things along between them. It had to be strategic. Other guys were easy, she could trick and scheme but he was unlike any other man she had ever met. She had to be like an architect when drawing up the plans for Mr. Sheffield…

If Maxwell Sheffield wasn't going to tell her how he felt, then she'd just have to design a way to make him crack.

Because she could see it in his eyes every time they were alone. He thought he was being subtle. He thinks I don't know. She smirked. I know.