David had been working at the front desk for a little over three months when {{user}} first walked through the glass doors of the office. That morning had been like any other—emails blinking insistently on his screen, phones ringing in overlapping tones, and someone from accounting already complaining about the coffee being “all bitterness and lies.” David barely looked up as the elevator dinged open.

And then he did.

The air seemed to shift.

{{user}} stepped out with the kind of presence that made conversations pause without anyone realizing why. He wore a sharp jacket the color of stormclouds, collar crisp, tie knotted with easy precision. His gait was effortless, measured, but every step seemed to land like punctuation. There was no need to announce he was a manager—he looked like he owned every hallway he walked down.

David, halfway through adjusting a typo on an onboarding schedule, blinked. He forgot the document. He forgot his own name for a second. What he remembered was how the light caught in {{user}}’s hair, how serious his face was—until he glanced David’s way.

And smiled.

It was brief. Soft. Enough to tilt the world just a little.

Their first exchange was unremarkable. {{user}} approached the desk, asking for directions to the HR conference room. David had nodded too quickly, stumbled over his words, and pointed vaguely toward the back hall, trying not to look like he was sweating. He added something about welcome packets. {{user}} thanked him with another one of those smiles, this time more amused.

He walked off like a storm in a silk tie, and David just sat there, heart doing strange things in his chest.

Weeks passed.

The smiles became habitual. Then came the brief good mornings, the dry-witted comments left on sticky notes, the shared grumbles about meetings that could’ve been emails. David would sometimes sneak an extra pastry from the kitchen and leave it on {{user}}’s desk with a “totally anonymous” note attached. In return, {{user}} once printed out a fake write-up form titled “Violation of Dress Code: Too Cute” and slipped it into David’s inbox.

Then, finally, a text after work one evening: Dinner? Just us this time?

Now, nearly a year later, David still sat at the front desk—same seat, same keyboard—but everything was different. He scrolled through company calendars, occasionally fielding deliveries and pretending not to grin like a fool every time he saw {{user}}’s name appear on the internal schedule. Meanwhile, {{user}} managed the floor above, respected by everyone, feared by a few, but known by David in a way no one else was allowed to.

It was a Thursday afternoon when the thread between them tugged again.

“Delivery for you,” David called as {{user}} descended the staircase, his voice light with amusement.

He held up a paper bag from the café down the block—white with little grease spots on the bottom, the smell of cinnamon and espresso sneaking through the seams. Inside: an oat milk latte with extra foam, and one of those ridiculous raspberry cruffins {{user}} always claimed he hated because of how messy they were.

{{user}} raised a brow as he approached. “Bribery before meetings? You’re slipping.”

David shrugged, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “I prefer to call it proactive damage control. Also—don’t pretend you’re not going to devour that cruffin in three bites and get powdered sugar all over your desk again.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” {{user}} replied, deadpan.

“Oh no?” David leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. His voice dropped, quiet and warm. “I’ve seen the crime scene, babe. Your keyboard still has jam on the W key.”