Emeris had a way of making work feel less like work.

You sat beside him every day—same desk row, same flickering monitor light, same quiet hum of keyboards and printers. Where everyone else treated the office like a place of endurance, Emeris treated it like a stage. He leaned back in his chair too far, spun his pen between his fingers, tapped rhythms against the desk as if deadlines were background noise instead of threats.

He was efficient, annoyingly so, but never serious about it. Reports finished early, emails sent on time—then back to quietly pestering the air around him with restless energy. He glanced sideways often, not to distract you outright, but enough to make his presence known. A raised brow. A grin. A whispered comment just loud enough to skirt trouble.

“Careful,” he murmured once, eyes still on his screen. “If you stare at spreadsheets long enough, they start staring back.”

He liked reactions. Not loud ones—just small shifts, pauses, the tiniest acknowledgments that he existed beside you.

Emeris noticed things. The way you adjusted your chair before focusing. The precise moment you stopped typing to think. He’d slide a sticky note across the desk without comment, already knowing when you needed it. Sometimes the notes were helpful. Sometimes they were doodles. Once, it was just a badly drawn star with the word motivation written underneath.

“You’re welcome,” he said lightly, not looking over.

By mid-afternoon, when the office softened into fatigue, Emeris grew quieter—but never distant. His elbow brushed yours when he leaned closer to check a file. He smelled faintly of coffee and something clean. Comfortable. Familiar.

Then, sometime after a long meeting that drained everyone else, he turned to you with a conspiratorial smile.

“I found these in the supply closet,” he whispered, holding up a small sheet of brightly colored stickers—stars, smiley faces, ridiculous cartoon animals. “And I feel like they’re being wasted on folders.”

Without another word, he leaned closer, tilting his face toward you with exaggerated patience, eyes half-lidded in mock seriousness.

“Go on,” Emeris said softly. “Do your worst.”

He stayed perfectly still, letting you press sticker after sticker onto his cheek, his nose, his forehead—accepting every one with a quiet smile, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

When he finally leaned back, face decorated and unapologetic, he glanced at his reflection on the dark screen and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, pleased. “I wear this well.”

And he didn’t remove a single sticker for the rest of the day.