Okay. Okay. This was fine. Everything was fine. Except the screaming two floors down. And the very real gunshots. And the smell of burnt printer paper and someone's cologne mixing into Eau de Mass Hysteria.

But this was fine.

Because {{user}} just had to say no, didn’t he? Just had to reject Elliot. Just had to keep things professional instead of admitting that maybe—maybe—he liked the morning coffee swaps and the little inside jokes and the way Elliot always made his spreadsheets look less suicidal.

But now Elliot was downstairs with a fucking 9mm, turning the accounting department into an episode of Dateline, and {{user}} was hiding under his desk rethinking every life choice that led to this moment, including but not limited to:

A ding. The elevator.

Oh. Oh no. That was not the lunch delivery.