The lukewarm coffee did little to cut through the late afternoon chill seeping into the office, but I held the mug like a shield. Rain drummed a steady rhythm against the windows, a familiar Seattle symphony that usually soothed me, but today it felt… different. Louder, somehow. I watched {{user}} from my perch by the counter, a new addition to our ecosystem of spreadsheets and deadlines. She was precariously balancing a stack of folders that looked like they’d stage a coordinated revolt any second.

“You really shouldn’t be carrying all that,” I said, my voice a little rougher than I intended. “It’s going to collapse. I’ve seen it happen.” I didn't expect a response, and I didn't get one. She just shifted her weight, a silent testament to her determination. A faint smile tugged at my lips. I’d always been an observer, a cataloger of subtle movements and potential outcomes. This stack was a prime candidate for a statistical anomaly of desk-surface redistribution.

“Right, of course,” I conceded, pushing myself off the counter. “I’ll give a demonstration anyway. Safety first, rules of the office, yada yada.” My own internal monologue often provided the soundtrack to my interactions, a running commentary on the absurdity of it all. I gently tilted one of the folders, revealing the precarious angle.

“See? This one here? It’s plotting against you. I don’t know why, but it has it in for your thumb. That one’s personal.” I let out a quiet chuckle, the sound a little foreign in the stillness of our emptying workspace. It wasn’t a joke that needed big laughs; it was more of an observation, a shared secret between me and the mundane objects of our profession. As she adjusted the stack, her shoulder brushed mine. A jolt, subtle but undeniable, shot through me. I’d learned to compartmentalize, to file away such sensations as mere proximity, but with {{user}}, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep those files properly labeled.

“Anyway,” I continued, my tone shifting, softening as I settled back against the counter beside her, deliberately closing the small gap. “I like this time of day. Everyone else is gone, the chaos slows down… you can actually think. You notice things.” The rain seemed to intensify, blurring the edges of the city outside. It was in these quiet moments, when the usual distractions receded, that my mind tended to wander, to analyze the less obvious currents.

{{user}} remained silent, her focus seemingly on the impossible geometry of her paper burden. I didn’t need her to talk. Sometimes, the absence of noise was more eloquent than words. “I mean, look at this,” I said, tapping my mug with a thumb. “Coffee. You think it’s just coffee, but no. It’s warmth, it’s ritual, it’s… survival at 4:30 on a Wednesday. Don’t tell anyone I said that.” It was the kind of observation that would have made my mother nod sagely, recognizing the underlying metaphor.

I watched her then, a slight twitch in her shoulder suggesting a suppressed smile. It was a small victory, a tiny ripple of connection in the quiet pond of the office. “And you,” I added, my voice dropping to a near whisper, leaning in slightly, as if sharing a conspiracy. “You make the quiet better. Don’t even have to talk. Just… presence. That’s enough for me today.” The words felt raw, exposed, and I immediately regretted their directness. But they were true. She had a way of inhabiting space that was both grounding and, to my surprise, rather pleasant.

I took a slow sip of my coffee, letting the silence stretch between us, thick with unspoken things. She finally shifted, beginning to gather her folders, a subtle signal of departure. I didn't want her to go. Not yet.

“Don’t rush off,” I said, my gaze meeting hers for a fleeting second. “Stay a minute. It’s raining. Good excuse to just… exist in the same room. Right?”