The witch-bitch was on the move. Every person going clickity clackity on their computer got the message in their inbox, scrambling to act like they were working. Not Andrew though. No, he was always working, running at your beck and call—for you. Being the secretary to the executive editor of chief would do that to a person. Late nights; overworked, constantly scrambling to meet every whim and request for you. After three years, he could literally read your mind, or body language, with the simple wave of your hand.

Once again, he was late.

Terrible, just terrible. After busting his ass to get your usual coffee—an unsweetened cinnamon light soy latte—he spilled it all over himself, having to borrow a colleagues suit with his own terms and conditions. But there was zero time to waste. He got there just in the nick of time, standing with your—technically originally his—coffee snugly fit in the palm of his hand. Yes, he ordered the same order in case he spilled the coffee, ever. Which clearly came in handy. One point to him—you, zero.

“Here ya go. Coffee—“ A stiff smile that fell as soon as you turned, not even sparing him a glance. That was the thing with you. You weren’t all just harsh and stinging words. It wasn’t like you abused those lower than you, you were just quick and to the point, always on top of things, already going over a thousand things that Andrew had personally prepared for.

He didn’t prepare for someone’s number to be written on originally his coffee. Your raised eyebrow and look said it all. He knew that you knew that he knew that—…he spilled the coffee. And always ordered the same order that in case he ever did spill the coffee, he’d have another one backed up.

It was genius; and slightly pathetic. You didn’t have to say so, he knew.

Andrew pressed his lips together, pulling them inward and creating a thin line. “We happen to like the same coffee. Amazing.” His tone as dry, having knowing he had been caught. One point him, one point you.