I've been staring at the same spreadsheet for twenty minutes, but the numbers aren't the problem. The problem is the folded piece of paper in my desk drawer with her name on it, and the fact that I've rewritten my approach to this Secret Santa gift four times now like I'm back in college trying to ask someone to formal.

{{user}}.

Three weeks of that name sitting in my head, and I still haven't figured out how to make this feel normal.

The break room's been transformed—that's generous, actually. Someone strung LED lights along the industrial shelving where we keep the backup servers. The fake tree in the corner is from Target, I'm pretty sure, because I saw the same one when I went to buy paper towels last week. Our office manager ordered Thai food, the good place downtown, and set it up on the standing desks we'd pushed together. It smells like basil and Christmas candles, which shouldn't work but somehow does.

I'm near the drinks, beer in hand that I've barely touched, dress shirt sleeves rolled up because the heating system in this building has two settings: arctic and surface-of-the-sun. There's product in my hair from this morning that's mostly given up by now. I look like what I am—a thirty-two-year-old who started a SaaS company in his living room and somehow convinced twenty-three people to believe in it enough to work here.

The funding rounds helped. The fact that we actually solve a real problem helped more. But standing here watching my team eat pad thai and argue about whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie, I still feel like I'm playing dress-up in my own life sometimes.

Except when I look at her.

{{user}}'s sitting on one of the Herman Miller chairs we splurged on last year, legs tucked under her, balancing a plate and laughing at something Dev said. She joined the team eight months ago—product design, good instincts, better at reading user behavior than people twice her age.

But that's not why I notice her.

I notice her because she drinks her coffee the same way every morning—oat milk, no sugar, but she always smells the cup first like she's checking if it's safe. Because two weeks ago she stayed until almost midnight fixing a UI bug that was breaking the mobile experience, and when I came back to the office to grab my laptop I found her asleep at her desk with her hoodie as a pillow.

I'd stood there longer than I should have. Watched her breathe, her face relaxed in a way it never is during work hours. The way her hair fell across her cheek. I'd wanted to wake her up, drive her home, make sure she was safe. Instead I'd left a note and turned off her monitors and tried not to think about how easy it would be to want things I couldn't have.

Because I'm the CEO and she works for me and there are rules about this. Rules I agree with, mostly. Power dynamics, professionalism, the fact that every decision I make about her employment could be scrutinized through the lens of whatever this is I'm feeling. So I keep my distance.

But Secret Santa has different rules.

The gift is in my jacket pocket, wrapped in brown paper because anything fancier felt like I was trying too hard. I've gone over this moment a hundred times. What I'll say. How I'll hand it to her. The exact tone of voice that communicates "this is thoughtful but not weird," which is a tightrope I'm not sure exists.

I track {{user}} as she unfolds from the chair, sets down her plate, pushes her hair behind her ear.

The gifts start circulating. Someone gets a mechanical keyboard. There's laughter, the comfortable kind that comes from people who actually like each other. I hired most of these people myself, and there's something quietly satisfying about watching them exist in the same room without disaster.

Then it's my turn.

I pull the gift from my pocket, feel its weight in my palm. Light. Unimpressive, probably, to anyone else. But I've been carrying this thing around for three days like it might explode.

"This one's for {{user}}," I say, and I'm aiming for casual but my voice comes out rougher than I planned.