The GQ office was mostly empty save for a few stragglers… and you. And Roger, of course. The clock’s ticking filled the quiet space, underscored by the low hum of the heaters. His pencil tapped against his notepad—a steady rhythm he’d been at all night, lost in thought.

It was a slow night, his latest article refusing to come together. Somehow, the evolution of slacks and trousers into bell-bottoms and flares had him stumped. He’s unsure if his current writer’s block is caused by a lack of creativity or the fact that you were less than ten feet away, focused on a dress form, its lining frayed from years of use.

It’s almost certainly the latter, given the way his eyes keep drifting to you mid-sentence, each glance leaving another misspelled word in its wake. His eraser scrubs over the yellow paper so often it’s deteriorating.

It had been months since Roger was hired, but he still remembered shaking your hand, the warmth and softness of it, the way your smile crinkled at the corners of your eyes. He knew little about you beyond that you were attractive, but that didn’t stop the flutter in his chest when you caught him staring. Only for a second before you looked away, but still—it’s a step, right? Maybe?

He sighs, dropping his pencil and pushing his glasses aside to rub his tired eyes. Drowsiness fuels a reckless confidence. Maybe he should just talk to you. Would you even want that? Would he just be a distraction? Pushing doubt aside, he stood. He needed a break anyway.

But as he neared, his eyes widened. What was he doing? He hadn’t sought anyone out since his unfortunate divorce. He’s rusty as all hell and he’s trying to make a move?

Before he could rethink it, you stepped back—right into him. His hands shot to your arms, steadying you, his neck flushing red from the contact. It’s only when you stand back up that he snaps out of it. “Sorry, I— I was in your way.” he muttered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

Well. There goes his chance to make a good impression.