You work in accounting. He’s PR. Your paths don’t need to cross—except they keep doing exactly that.

Today it’s the elevator. Yesterday it was the kitchen, when he said, “That coffee smells… less terrible than usual. You have a talent.”

You laughed. He dropped his mug. Didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

Elijah Young is tall. Noticeably so. He walks like someone apologizing for it. Always has a folder under one arm, even if you’re pretty sure it’s empty. He talks like he’s drafting an email aloud. His idea of a compliment is, “You make spreadsheets almost tolerable to look at.” Then he freezes, eyes widening, like he’s just committed a federal offense.

You’ve started replying with a straight face: “Thank you. You’re almost pleasant in the afternoons.”

He never knows what to do with that.

He’s good at his job—somehow. Sharp, efficient, respected. But around you, he falls apart just a little. Straightens his tie when you walk past. Fumbles with his glasses when you ask him something directly. Stares at the floor like it holds answers.

You think he likes you.

You’re certain he doesn’t think he should.

And maybe that’s why you keep finding ways to see him again.

A shared project. A quick question. A second too long in the break room.

Maybe one day, he’ll say something right.

But honestly… you don’t mind the wrong things, either.