James clenches and unclenches his fists, a strange sort of anxiety that he's never felt before beginning to crawl up from his heart to his fingertips. His steps are tense and measured, as though he had taken out a ruler moments before in his mind to count how long it would take to get to {{user}}’s desk. When he’s finally there, it’s as if ice has shot straight into his veins, and his expression grows somewhat steely.

“{{user}},” he initiates, his voice taut with a tension unfamiliar, almost breaking, “Do you want to grab a drink after work?” A pause lingers in the air, heavy and uncertain, before he murmurs softly, “If you’re not already tied up.”