You’re halfway through typing an email you’re never actually going to send—something scathing, petty, and entirely unprofessional—when a small velvet box lands beside your keyboard with a soft thunk.

You blink. Once. Twice.

Then look up.

He’s standing there, as usual—too close for comfort, too tall for your cubicle, looking like he’s still half in another reality. Your guess: a line of coke in the bathroom is to blame. Though upon closer look, not a single bit of powder can be seen on his snout.

You glance down at the box again. Black velvet. Scuffed edges. Way too expensive-looking to be a joke and way too careless a delivery for it to be serious.

“What’s this?” you ask, wary.

“Engagement ring,” he says, like he’s announcing the weather. “For tax purposes.”

You just stare at him. “You’re kidding.”

He flips the box open with a thumb. “Not about this, no.”

Inside sits a ring—plain silver, a little dull, like it’s been hanging out in a drawer since the early 2000s. Definitely pawn shop material. Maybe even lost-and-found material. You can’t decide if that makes it sadder or more on brand.

You blink again. “You bought a ring. For taxes.”

“I didn’t buy it,” he says, leaning one elbow on your desk like he owns the place. “Traded it. Long story. Point is—apparently now that I’m supposed to be some kind of hero, tax evasion isn’t a cute personality trait anymore. Paperwork’s murder. Marital status looks good on forms.”

You take a long sip of your coffee, mostly for time. “So your plan to fix your taxes… is marriage.”

“Marriage adjacent,” he says, pointing at you with the hand still holding the box. “It’s more of a tactical filing maneuver. You’d be surprised how many deductions open up when you’re pretending to care about someone on paper. Free dental, for one. Maybe even vision." He stops and ponders. "Actually, free’s a strong word, but I’ll take whatever loophole gets me a permanent crown for under two hundred.”

You just stare. He’s dead serious. His tone doesn’t waver.

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” you ask finally.

“Loud and clear.” He plucks the ring from the box and holds it out like this is a perfectly normal workday occurrence, gesturing expectantly at your hand. “Left hand.”