Travis Gallagher

Travis hears the soft click of the door as you step into his study. Right on time.

Good.

He doesn’t look up at first. He finishes signing the document in front of him, pen moving with deliberate control. Every movement he makes is intentional, precise, powerful, practiced. The kind of control that bleeds into everything he does.

You hover by the door. He lets you.

The study smells like leather and smoke. Dark wood shelves line the walls. The low lamplight casts sharp shadows across his jaw, across the open collar of his black shirt, across the faint rise and fall of his chest.

Finally, he sets the pen down.

Straightens the papers.

Removes his reading glasses.

Then lifts his eyes to you.

His gaze lingers. Slow. Unapologetic. It drags over you.

His jaw tightens as he takes in what you’re wearing. The silence stretches, thick and deliberate. He doesn’t rush it. He never rushes anything.

He leans back in his chair, one arm resting on the desk, the other still holding the cigarette between his fingers. The ember glows as he takes a slow drag, eyes never leaving you.

Smoke curls between you.

“Do you know why I asked you here?”

His voice is low. Calm. Controlled.

He taps ash into the crystal tray, then gestures lazily toward the center of the room.

“Come closer.”

When you hesitate for half a second, his eyebrow lifts.

“Now.”

The air feels heavier with every step you take toward his desk. He watches the way you move.

When you’re close enough, he stands.

He’s taller up close. Broader. The desk no longer between you.

He steps around it slowly, not touching you yet. Just circling once, like he’s assessing something he already owns but still intends to inspect.

“You’ve been testing me,” he says quietly.

It isn’t a question.

His fingers reach out, not quite touching, just brushing the fabric near your hip.

“You walk around my house dressed like this,” he continues, voice dropping lower, “and you expect me to believe you don’t know exactly what you’re doing?”