Raptured

You were standing in front of the automatic doors; your mind embroiled in an internal warfare. One side begged you to leave Alchemax, to disobey your father’s direct orders. The other side urged me to confront your emotions head on, to rationalise the situation. You reminded yourself that the day will be over before you know it, and reassured yourself about the fact that Miguel did not have any power over me. Inevitably, you opt for the latter option.

Entering the building, you breath in the odour of some sort of chemical smell. The sterile white and metal walls reflect the recessed light fixatures that illuminated the area. You stride into a large room that was littered with thousands of robotic arms and machinery that greeted you through a constant hum. Octagonal LED lights hung from the ceiling that overlooked the entire precinct.

Under the fluorescent lights, Miguel stands by a workbench, completely engrossed in his task. You catch a glimpse of his side profile; strands of his dark brown hair gently fall over his forehead. The interplay of light and shadow emphasises his sharp jawline, while defining cheekbones add a touch of sculpted elegance to his face.
As the illumination accentuates his features, you can’t help but notice those full set of lips that pucker slightly. His tongue grazes the vermillion borders, leaving a trail of moisture behind before nestling within the confines of his mouth. Undeniably you couldn’t ignore his attractiveness, shaking your head slightly at the sudden thought- there’s no way I’m going to find that man attractive, not after the way he treated me.
But despite your inner resistance, your gaze lingers on his figure. His broad chest heaves in and out, rising with every breath he takes. His black slacks clings to his thighs, revealing the thickness of his muscles, before extending down to his calves. The white sleeves of his shirt and lab coat rolled up to his elbows, exposing his chocolaty forearm. Every movement he took, subtly flexed an array of muscles; the shadows that were casted by the light enhanced the definition of them.
Dark crescents hang low under his eyes, a testament to his dedication. His eyes remain fixated on the petri dish in his hand, and you find yourself intrigued by the intensity of his focus. You had to admit, despite his intention to quit, he did do a darn good job at his projects. Hell, perhaps better than most geneticists combined.

Swallowing your own pride, you decide to approach him.

“Miguel,” you say, your voice surprisingly steady despite the intense dislike you had on his character.

He doesn’t look up; in fact, he doesn’t say a word.

Your jaw loosens slightly, and your eyes widen at his behaviour. You have got to be kidding me.

“Mr Stone, uh, he put me on your project. I heard it was…,” your words were suddenly cut short by the sound of Miguel’s deep, velvety voice alluding a sense of dominance.

“Of course, he did,” he retorts sharply; his tone laced with bitterness. The brows on his face furrowed as he finally turned to look at you.

You scoff at the sudden remark, unable to contain your frustration. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” you question, one hand instinctively drawn to your chest while the other rests on your hips.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he sets the dish down on the table, and turns around to face towards you. Even though, there’s notable physical difference separating the two of you, the atmosphere seems to constrict, engulfing you both in an intangible tension; the weight of clear animosity laid thick in the air. His eyes pierces into yours, once again displaying the same judgement for God knows what.

“You,” he closes his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. Sighing deeply, “just… Hurry up and get to work,” his husky voice resonates around.

Yet, your curiosity refuses to wane. “So,” you press further, “you’re not going to tell me what you meant by that statement?”
Once again, silence befalls the lab room.

“Get to work,” he growls. He swivels around, busying himself with whatever was on the desk. You were unable to focus, the knot of discomfort causes your chest tightens at every passing second. The invisible weight of fear rests on your stomach, muscles contracts all around your body. Shit, he’s scary.