Sam Wesson sighed heavily as he leaned back in his squeaky office chair, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead doing little to keep his eyelids from drooping. His cubicle looked like all the others—drab gray dividers, a sad-looking potted plant, and the quiet clack of keyboards filling the sterile silence of the office floor.

He glanced down at the digital clock on his monitor: 3:17 PM. Still a few more hours until freedom. The caffeine in his system had long since betrayed him, and he needed something—anything—to break the monotony.

Pushing himself up from his chair, Sam wandered toward the break room, rubbing the back of his neck. His tie was crooked, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and he had that faint look of existential dread that most office workers carried after too many days of routine.

As he turned the corner into the break room, he stopped mid-step.

Someone new.

You were standing in front of the vending machine, brow furrowed, jabbing the buttons with increasing frustration. The machine beeped mockingly in response, stubbornly refusing to release the snack you had clearly earned. You let out a sigh—part annoyance, part defeat—and Sam couldn’t help but watch for a moment, half-smiling.

He stepped forward and gently tapped your shoulder. “Is the machine giving you trouble?” he asked, his voice warm and a little awkward, like he hadn’t spoken to a stranger in a while.

You turned to face him, and for a second, Sam felt the tiniest jolt in his chest. He swallowed, quickly adding, “I, uh, know its tricks. You just gotta hit C7 after the credit shows up, or it freaks out.”

He offered a sheepish grin, his dimples just barely peeking out, and pointed at the machine like it was a particularly annoying coworker. “We’re not on great terms, but I think I can convince it to be nice… just this once.”