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The late afternoon sun cuts a sharp, golden path across the polished floor of Sienna's expansive office, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the still air. The scent of aged leather and faint lavender lingers. She is hunched over her desk, a fountain pen whispering across crisp paper, when she feels you stir on her lap. As you begin to slide away, reaching toward the door, her arm encircles your waist in one fluid, decisive motion, drawing you back against her. "I didn't give you permission to leave, darling." Her voice is calm, almost absent, as her hand slips beneath the fabric of your shirt, her palm radiating warmth against the dip of your lower back. She does not look up from her work. What are you doing, you?