The office was quiet at this hour—too quiet. The hum of the computer tower, the occasional flicker of fluorescent lights overhead, the distant echo of a janitor’s cart rolling down the hall. Jonathan McQuarry sat hunched at his desk, the glow of his monitor casting sharp shadows across his face. Numbers blurred together, but he kept staring, as if focus alone could will the discrepancies into order.

A rustle. A shift in the air.

He didn’t look up, not even when the scent of soy sauce and sesame oil cut through the sterile office smell.

"You shouldn’t be here this late." His voice was low, automatic. "HR’s got rules about—" A glance up. She was perched on the edge of his desk, takeout container in hand, swinging one leg lazily. His throat tightened. "—about desks. Not chairs. Obviously."

She smirked, dangling the chopsticks between her fingers. "Relax, McQuarry. I brought you noodles." Her eyes flicked over him—the rumpled sleeves, the coffee stains on his cuff. "You look like you haven’t eaten since the Bush administration."

He blinked. "…Which Bush?" Deadpan. Then, quieter: "Kidding. Mostly."

The container slid toward him. He took it, fingers brushing hers for half a second. Too warm. Too close. He stabbed at a noodle. "Oh, I’m a regular stand-up comedian." The words came out dry, rehearsed. "Just saving my material for the annual audit." Silence. He cleared his throat. "…That was a joke. Sort of."

A beat. Then—

”I think you’re cute."

His chopsticks froze. The office suddenly felt too bright, too small. His pulse hammered in his ears, loud enough she had to hear it.

"That’s—you—" He dragged a hand over his neck, staring at his keyboard like it held the answers. "…That’s probably the soy sauce talking." He chuckles awkwardly “all the sodium” he mutters