Author's note: No idea where this came from but hope you like it!
Niles usually handled the laundry for which Fran was incredibly thankful. Laundry was far from her favorite chore. In fact, before she had moved in with the Sheffields she had never even used fabric softener. However, he was out of town so she was naturally picking up some of the slack. She opened the dryer to fold and put away the last batch Niles had thrown in before he left. That's when she noticed something out of place.
Maxwell's shirt.
Not just any shirt.
The white one that he liked to wear without a jacket. The one that was tailored so close to his body, it was practically a love letter to his abs. The one that framed his shoulders like a dream and had probably seen more boardroom battles than she had seen blind dates.
"Oh, well hello, Mr. Sheffield's button-down." She ran her manicured fingers across the fabric.
He never washed these at home. He dry cleaned. Religiously. Like his soul depended on starch and steam. But somehow, this one had slipped past his high-society defenses. It was folded into the towels. White, crisp even in its wrinkled state. Probably Italian. Definitely expensive.
She held it up to her face, inhaled the faintest trace of his cologne, still lingering despite the spin cycle. That scent—earthy, with a hint of guilt and unresolved sexual tension.
That's when the idea hit her.
"Well, aren't you a dangerous little idea," She said into the fabric, eyes gleaming with mischief.
The next night she went out with Val but as soon as she came home she had a plan.
Wear the shirt.
Tease him.
Blame the alcohol she had tonight if it backfires.
Perfect.
She wasn't really drunk. Well, maybe a little buzzed. But not enough to not know what she was doing and not enough to miss the opportunity that practically threw itself into the laundry basket. Plus, she knew they were home for the night alone.
Fran descended the stairs wearing nothing but the shirt and a confidence cut with chaos. The hem hit high on her thighs. The collar hung open enough to make a priest sweat. One button was artfully undone too far. She looked like a dream someone might wake up guilty about.
She found him in the kitchen with a glass of scotch and his signature brand of overthinking.
His back was to her but when he heard the click of her heels on the floor he turned.
Froze.
Stared.
His eyes did that thing—scanned her top to bottom, then locked in at the midpoint like his brain couldn't decide whether to be appalled or aroused. Spoiler: it was both.
"Miss Fine! That's my shirt," he said, voice rougher than usual.
"Mmhmm." She poured a glass of water. "I figured since I help keep this house running, I've earned a few perks of employment." And then walked toward him, barefoot, legs bare, hair messy from dancing.
"You've been drinking," He muttered as a statement, not a question, as if that might explain her behavior—or excuse his reaction.
She smirked. "Just enough to lower my inhibitions, not my standards." She winked.
He swallowed. She heard it. Loud and guilty.
Fran leaned on the counter next to him, close enough for the heat between them to rise. "I bet you've imagined this."
His jaw tensed. "Miss Fine..."
Oh yeah, she had him right where she wanted him, saying things she only ever thought to say in her head because she knew she had an out if things went south. "The shirt," She whispered. "Me. In it. Nothing underneath but maybe a little sass and a lot of bad ideas."
He groaned. Low. Involuntary.
"Oh, Mr. Sheffield," She sighed, pressing her palms to the countertop. "If looks could undress, I'd be out of this shirt already."
"You're playing a dangerous game..."
"I like games. Especially when I win."
"Fran—" Oh? Her first name. She liked hearing him say that.
"Relax," She said, suddenly softer. "You don't have to do anything."
She leaned in closer, her lips brushing his ear, her voice nothing but honey and heat.
"But if you do want to do something about it—" Her lips grazed his cheek, just barely "—you've got until I finish this glass of water to decide."
And with that, she turned on her heels, hips swaying with infuriating confidence, and walked out of the kitchen—bare legs, Maxwell's shirt, and all.
He stared after her, torn between nobility and need, heart pounding against years of restraint.
Upstairs, Fran sipped her water and smirked.
Let him sweat for once.
Maxwell stood in the kitchen like a man sucker-punched by a dream.
Fran.
In his shirt.
Nothing underneath but temptation and tequila confidence.
And she had the audacity to leave the decision to him.
He dragged a hand through his hair and exhaled hard. He was a man of restraint, of rules. He didn't cross lines. He didn't sleep with his employees. He didn't get lured by red lipstick and bare thighs and…
Maxwell stood at the bottom of the staircase for a full three minutes, trying to convince himself that the mature, responsible thing to do was absolutely nothing. She had been out with Val earlier. Maybe she really was drunk. Maybe she wouldn't remember any of this in the morning. But was that his chance to finally… no he was a gentleman… he couldn't take advantage of her like that. No matter how enticing it was…
But maturity didn't stand a chance against the image of Fran—barefoot, flushed from wine and laughter, wrapped in his shirt like a walking temptation with curly hair and too many opinions.
So he went upstairs.
With every step, he rehearsed the speech in his head:
"Miss Fine, we need boundaries."
"Miss Fine, what you did was inappropriate."
"Miss Fine, you can't just parade around the house wearing my clothes like some sexy fever dream."
None of it sounded convincing and that last one, well he'd never say it quite like that.
Fran sat on the edge of her bed, glass empty, pulse still elevated from the game she'd just played.
She had been so sure of herself ten minutes ago. But now? Now her heart was hammering with the what-if of it all. What if she pushed too far? What if he didn't come?
She glanced at the door.
Waited.
And then—
A knock. Low. Firm.
She bit her lip. "Come in."
The door creaked open.
He stepped in—and nearly lost his ability to speak.
Fran sat on the edge of her bed, one knee tucked beneath her, the shirt falling off one shoulder like it had been designed to seduce a Shakespearean gentleman. Her makeup was smudged, her lipstick faded, but somehow that made it worse. She looked real. Tangible. Touchable.
"Mr. Sheffield," She said with a lazy smile, "couldn't stay away?"
He cleared his throat, trying to maintain what little control he had. "Fran, I—I came to talk."
She arched a brow. "Uh-oh. My name and the stammer. This must be serious."
"It is." He forced himself to look anywhere but at her thighs. "We need to... we need to establish boundaries."
"Mmm," She hummed, tilting her head. "Like a dress code?"
He shot her a look. "Miss Fine..."
"What? I was cold. Your shirt was warm. And aesthetically, it really works for me."
It did work for her and he hated how much it worked for him because of that. He exhaled through his nose, pacing, "This isn't a game." He had also mentioned that downstairs but he played too even though he'd never admit it.
She stood now, slowly. The shirt shifted again. He groaned internally.
"I know it's not a game," She said softly, stepping closer. "But it feels like we've been playing one for years. And I'm tired of pretending it doesn't mean anything." He could tell by her voice now that she was definitely at least a little tipsy. He had heard that tone before.
He turned to her, eyes flashing. "It does. I mean, you do mean something to me, but I'm your —"
She was in front of him now. Too close. Not touching. But that damn shirt brushed against his hand when she shifted. He was so distracted he completely missed the word boss. Fitting because that's not who he felt like in this particular situation. She was the boss. "That's exactly why I can't—why we can't—"
"You came up here to draw a line," She said gently. "And look at you. You're practically standing on it."
His voice dropped to a dangerous low. "Because when I see you like this, I forget every single reason I've told myself why I shouldn't want you."
She swallowed hard. "Then forget them."
Maxwell's restraint cracked—not shattered—but cracked.
He reached up, cupped her face, and brushed his thumb across her cheek. She leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut. He wanted to kiss her so bad but knew if he did he wouldn't be able to stop himself from taking things further— losing control.
She smiled. "Control's overrated, y'know," She replied, practically reading his damn mind. She read him like a book. She knew him too well. That's the moment they both realized she had some kind of control over him. There was a power struggle here and she was inching closer and closer to winning with each day.
He leaned in—close enough to feel the heat of her breath, her scent, her skin, her want to undo him.
And then, with a groan torn from the deepest pit of his restraint, he kissed her forehead.
"I need to go," He breathed.
"You sure?"
"No," He said, backing away, "but if I stay, I'm not only not setting a boundary—I'm erasing one."
And with that, he turned.
Left.
Again.
And this time, Fran didn't smile.
Because they were both burning—and neither of them knew how long it would be before the fire won.
The next morning, Fran came walking into the dining room in one of her signature robes, her hair up in a deliberately careless bun. It was just the two of them yet again.
Maxwell looked up from the paper, already on his second cup of coffee, looking like he hadn't slept a wink. His tie was crooked. His collar wrinkled. At first, he didn't even know what to say. That's how off he was.
"Morning," She said, voice of all sunshine and ignorance.
His brow lifted. "Morning."
She grabbed the pot of coffee that sat on the table and poured herself some too. Sipped. Let the silence build between them until it nearly hummed.
Was she not going to bring it up? Did he want her to? No, it was better this way.
"You look like you barely slept, anything exciting happen last night with anyone?" She asked.
He froze. "No, I was up late working…"
"Oh, I thought maybe you had a hot date…" She mentioned casually as if they hadn't had the encounter they had the night before.
Was he right? Did she truly not remember? He contemplated leaving it alone but then had to know.
"You… don't remember?"
She blinked innocently. "Was I supposed to?"
He stared. Hard. Trying to read her but she was such a damn good actress - part of her charm.
"Miss Fine. You wore my shirt. You came into the kitchen. You practically—" Where was he going with this? He didn't even know.
She gasped, eyes wide. "Wait, did I strip for you?"
Maxwell nearly choked on his coffee. "No!"
"Did I dance?"
"Miss Fine—"
"Did I recite Hamlet in a seductive whisper? Because I have been practicing my Ophelia."
Maxwell ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Why are you like this?"
She laughed but then really played it up.
"Ugh I have such an awful headache," She said, feigning a hangover. "So, what did I do in your shirt? In the kitchen? How did I find your shirt?" She faked confusion.
She wanted to make him finish the sentence.
"Oh, nevermind," He looked down at his paper, ignoring her once again.
He wanted to play like that? He still didn't want to address what was between them? Okay, she could play right back.
She giggled. Set her coffee down. Walked up behind him, bent down to whisper in his ear. He barely turned but her robe shifted. His shirt. She still had it on. He saw a peek of it right before she murmured, "Of course, I remember…"
Before he could even register her words, she left, leaving him to replay what happened on repeat through his head all day while he contemplated what in the bloody hell he was going to do about it.
Although he didn't like it, right now, he knew his answer still had to be nothing— he couldn't handle the implications of anything other than that.
But the power had shifted and he knew.