He crouches again, his shoulders brushing the underside of the desk as he works. “You type like you’re mad at it.”
“I am mad at it.”
He chuckles. “Be gentle. These machines have feelings too.”
“I’ll send chocolate and flowers.”
He laughs, loud and genuine, a sound that makes my stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way. When he’s done, he straightens, towering over my chair, and hands me the keyboard.
“Fixed,” he says simply.
I test a few keys. Perfect.
“You’re some kind of wizard,” I mutter.
He tilts his head. “No wizardry. That’s Hugh in Sales. My magic’s just metal and patience.”
“Patience,” I echo. “Right.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you’re patient with computers. People, though?”
“Only the ones who pretend not to like me.” He pauses, nose wrinkling like he’s deciding how much to reveal. “And… I can sort of feel when something’s wrong. Or about to go wrong. Comes with the tusks. And caring.”
I freeze. Greg smiles, slow and knowing, and I have to look away before I say something stupid.
“Anyway,” I manage, clearing my throat. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he says. “Really.”
And for a beat too long, we just… look at each other. His big green eyes, magnified by thick lenses, lock on me, lips curling around tusks. The office melts away—the monitors, the chatter—leaving only him, and the thought that maybe Amara’s teasing was justified. And maybe being a tech disaster has its benefits.
Then my phone buzzes, and the spell breaks.
“My sister. Calling from college. I should take this.”
He gives a small nod and rolls his cart away, leaving me with a fixed keyboard, a racing pulse, and absolutely no idea what to do with either.
It’s not until after work, walking home in the drizzle, that I finally admit it to myself.
The week’s been easier because of Greg. He’s notjust fixing things; he’s showing up. Quietly, instinctively, like he knows when I’m about to lose it.
And yeah, maybe that shouldn’t make my heart do a silly flutter every time I think about it. Maybe I shouldn’t replay that tusky grin in my head like a favorite song. But I do.
I shove my hands in my pockets and laugh under my breath.
“Why does the IT guy have to be the one employee I actually look forward to seeing?”
There’s no answer, of course. Just the sounds of the city, the reflection of streetlights in puddles, and the faint memory of his voice sayinganytime—like he means it.
And somehow, that’s enough to make me look forward to Monday.
When I get home, I kick off my shoes, drop my bag, and collapse onto the couch. The apartment breathes with its usual nothingness. No glowing monitors, no coworkers, no sexy IT guys materializing with squirting candy and rescue tools.
I tell myself I like it that way. Peace and quiet. Control.
But after the week I’ve had, the silence feels… empty.
