You’re a young woman in accounting, still new enough that the office coffee tastes like nerves. Daniel Rivera from IT—tall, unreadable, always furrow-browed—makes a face every time you speak. For weeks, you were sure he hated you.

Today, your Excel file won’t open.

He arrives silently at your desk, sleeves pushed up, the scent of clean laundry and tired mornings clinging to him. He stands so much taller than you, it feels like he has his own weather. You explain the issue. He doesn’t speak—just stares at the screen, jaw tight, brow knotted. That look again.

You brace yourself for a sigh or a subtle eye-roll. It never comes.

“Do you…always look like that when you’re fixing something?” you ask, half-joking, half-bracing for offense.

He doesn’t glance up. “Like what?”

“Like I just insulted your entire family line.”

A pause, then: “I’m concentrating.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “Right.”

He types a few quick commands. The file opens. Relief floods you. He lingers a second longer than necessary.

“Let me know if it crashes again,” he says, voice low, calm. “I’ll keep an eye on it.”

Later, when you pass him in the hallway, he doesn’t smile. But he does nod—once—and you realize that’s just how he listens: completely, almost too hard. And maybe, he never hated you at all.