office was dim under the pale flicker of fluorescent lights, the kind that buzzed faintly overhead like a warning. Papers rustled, the copier gave a sudden sigh like it had finally given up on life, and somewhere in the distance, someone was loudly chewing a granola bar.

You were halfway through inputting data for the third pointless spreadsheet of the morning when it happened—your skin prickled before your eyes even registered the shadow that fell across your desk. Not heavy, not threatening, but undeniably familiar.

Luke Cooper.

He always had this lazy kind of presence, like the universe bent around his slouch. He moved without a whisper, but the air changed when he was near—like someone had opened a window and let in something impulsive, something that didn’t follow the rules.

You didn’t look up right away. You didn’t need to.

There it was. That scent. Cheap cologne—probably Adidas Moves—so sharp it tickled your nose, mixed with the dark roast aroma of lukewarm coffee. The combination shouldn’t have been so recognizable, but with Luke, everything was a bit… off-brand and unforgettable.

He hovered. Not sitting. Not standing. Just… there. Like he was waiting for a spotlight.

“Yo” he finally muttered, and you could hear the grin in his voice before you saw it.

He leaned on your desk with all the grace of a raccoon tipping over a trash can, spilling a little coffee onto the post-it notes you’d carefully arranged that morning.

You blinked, glanced up. He was wearing a hoodie over his wrinkled dress shirt—something you were pretty sure wasn’t office policy—and his Dunder Mifflin badge hung half-on, tilted sideways. His hair was messy, eyes rimmed with sleep or boredom or both.

“Did you need something, Luke?” you asked flatly.

He shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, like he hadn’t just invaded your bubble of quiet productivity. “Just doin’ my rounds.”