Greg laughs, deep and genuine. “Good one.” He presses the keys, and the main display goes dark. The sound in the room shifts—lower, heavier, vibrating through the floor.
I catch him staring at me for just a second, that little spark in his eyes I can’t quite read. There’s a shift in the way he holds himself, subtle but impossible to ignore.
“Everything okay?” I ask, leaning back slightly.
He nods, but there’s a flush to his cheeks that makes me grin. “Yeah… just… the display,” he mutters, though I don’t think it’s the screen that caught his attention.
“Now we wait,” he says.
I lean back, sip my lukewarm coffee, and steal a glance at him. His tusks catch the light. His jaw flexesslightly when he’s focused. Everything about him feels deliberate, grounded.
“You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t fixing everyone else’s disasters?” I ask.
He leans back a little, thinking. “I like helping people. Not just the technical stuff—though that’s satisfying too—but when I can solve a problem, make things smoother for someone, it… it feels good. Like I’m actually doing something that matters. That’s what keeps me coming back, even with the occasional long nights.”
“You’re… something else,” I say softly.
“What about you?” he asks. “Is being Franklin's admin the ultimate goal?”
“Still figuring that out,” I admit. “Right now, survival feels like a full-time job.”
The next few minutes pass quietly, but there’s something comforting about being silent with Greg. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the way his calm settles me, or maybe it’s just his ridiculously broad shoulders.
The server beeps, and text flies across the screen. Greg exhales. “And we’re back.”
“Already?”
“Told you. Nothing Control-Alt-Delete couldn’t handle.”
“Still. Thanks for saving my ass.”
He turns toward me, expression warm. “Anytime, Sean.”
The air between us vibrates—like static before a storm. I realize how close we’re sitting. One inch closer and his arm would brush mine. I don’t dare move.
“The pizzas should be downstairs by now.” I bite my lower lip. “Want to grab ’em and eat in the breakroom?”
His grin is immediate. “Absolutely.”
We pack up in silence, again the comfortable kind. When we step into the hallway, the office lights have gone into power-save mode, dim and golden. Our reflections blur in the glass doors as we head to the elevator.
A few minutes later, we’re squeezed in at the small table by the kitchenette, plates stacked high with cheesy slices. Greg takes the seat next to me, close enough that our elbows almost touch. The conversation is easy—laughing, debating toppings—and when he leans back, his shoulder nearly brushing mine, my pulse jumps.
“You know,” I say, taking a bite, “this might be the best part of my day.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” he replies, eyes crinkling. “Especially the company.”
It’s quiet again, but the buzz between us hasn’t gone anywhere. I realize I could sit here for hours, just like this, sharing pizza and stolen glances.
Greg pushes his plate toward the edge of the table, crumbs clinging to his fingers. He’s eaten an entire pizza, and half of the other, despite my valiant attempts to keep up. I gather our trash, shaking my head with a grin.
“Thanks for doing this.” He nods toward the empty pizza boxes. “And for staying late.”
“Anytime,” I say, cheeks warm. He flashes that smile—wide, genuine, devastating—and I swear I feel it all the way down to my toes.
When we finally head out, the nightsky has deepened, the city lights stretching like ribbons across the dark streets.
“See you tomorrow?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
