The first thing he notices is the sound.

Not loud—she’s trying to hide it—but in a library, even a shaky breath is enough to stand out.

He ignores it.

At first.

Eyes on his own screen, fingers moving steadily over the keyboard, posture rigid with focus. Deadlines don’t care about other people’s problems.

Another quiet sniffle.

He exhales slowly through his nose.

Still not his problem.

A minute passes.

Then—“Why won’t you just work?” she whispers hoarsely, voice cracking at the end like it betrayed her.

His fingers stop.

He closes his eyes briefly.

Then opens them again, already annoyed.

“Because,” he mutters without looking up, “talking to it usually doesn’t help.”

Silence.

Then a small, startled inhale. “I—sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“You didn’t,” he cuts in, finally glancing over.

Big mistake.

She’s a mess.

Eyes red, cheeks flushed, a half-finished document open on her laptop like it personally offended her. There’s a blinking error message in the corner of the screen.

He recognizes it immediately.

Of course.

He leans back slightly in his chair. “What did you do?”

Her lips press together. “Nothing.”

“That error doesn’t show up for ‘nothing.’”

“I just—” her voice wobbles again, and she presses her hand over her mouth like she’s trying to physically stop herself from crying more, “—I had it all and then it disappeared and now it won’t open and I have to submit it tonight and—”

“Stop.”

The word is quiet but firm.

She freezes.

“Breathe,” he adds, less sharp this time. “You’re not explaining anything.”

She inhales shakily, nodding too fast.

He waits a second.

Then, with a resigned sigh, he pushes his chair back and stands. “Move.”

Her eyes widen. “What?”

“You want it fixed or not?”

“I—yes, but you don’t have to—”

“I know.” He steps closer, already irritated with himself. “Move.”

She scrambles out of the chair, nearly tripping over her own bag in the process.

He notices.

Of course he does.

He ignores that, too.

Sitting down, he pulls the laptop toward him, scanning the screen. “You didn’t lose it.”

Her voice comes from just behind him, small and tense. “It’s gone.”

“It’s not gone,” he repeats flatly, already clicking through folders. “You just don’t know where to look.”

“I checked everywhere—”

“You didn’t.” A pause. “You checked where you expected it to be.”

She goes quiet.

His fingers move quickly, irritation sharpening his focus. “What program?”

“Word.”

“Autosave on?”

“I think so—”

“You think,” he echoes dryly.

A few more clicks.

Then—there.

He opens the recovery pane, scrolling briefly before selecting the most recent version.

The document reappears.

Whole.

Intact.

He leans back slightly. “There.”

For a second, she doesn’t react.

Then—“Oh my God.”

The relief in her voice is immediate, overwhelming. She steps closer, leaning over his shoulder to stare at the screen like it might disappear again if she looks away.

“It’s all there,” she breathes. “Everything’s there.”

“Yes,” he says, unimpressed. “That’s usually what ‘recovered’ means.”

“I thought I lost it,” she admits, a small, shaky laugh breaking through the remnants of her tears. “I spent hours on this.”

“I can tell,” he mutters, glancing at the page count.

She doesn’t even react to the tone. She’s too focused on the screen, blinking rapidly like she’s trying to reset herself.

Then, quieter—“Thank you.”

He pauses.

Just for a second.

Then shrugs it off, standing up and stepping back. “Don’t mention it.”

“I mean it,” she insists, looking at him now. “I was about to—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Just… thank you.”

He shifts slightly, uncomfortable with the sincerity.

“It wasn’t hard,” he says, dismissive.

“It was for me.”

A beat.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Next time, save your work properly.”

“I will,” she says quickly. Then, softer, “Probably.”

He almost rolls his eyes.

Almost.

“Also,” he adds, nodding toward the screen, “email yourself a copy. Backup.”

She nods again, already sitting back down, fingers moving—this time more carefully.

“Tz,” he scoff again.