The office was quiet, but his mind wasn’t.

Edward sat hunched over the desk, fingers drumming against the keyboard, not typing—just thinking. A spreadsheet blinked behind his glasses, but numbers blurred, irrelevant beside the real problem pacing behind his ribs.

{{user}} had just walked by. Again.

They did that thing again—the thing where they leaned in a little too close over his shoulder, breath warm and soft with the faintest scent of vanilla and graphite, whispering a riddle in his ear like they weren’t casually setting his nervous system on fire.

And then they just walked away. Like it was normal. Like they hadn’t just made him forget how to use words.

“…‘What begins with T, ends with T, and has T in it?’” he murmured now, almost breathless. His fingers twitched. “Teapot. It’s a teapot. You’re a menace.”

He glanced toward the break room like they might still be there, leaning against the counter with their sleeves pushed up and some dumb little twinkle in their eye like they knew. But they couldn’t know. Not about him. Not about the real Edward—the one who saw the world as a sick joke waiting to be solved. They couldn’t see the man beneath the mask.

Except… somehow, when {{user}} looked at him, he didn’t feel like a mask at all.

He cleared his throat. Focus. Back to the task.

A new data request. Another analyst too lazy to figure it out themselves. Edward’s jaw clenched, but he pulled the report, numbers rattling into place like bones. Click. Click. Done.

But his eyes drifted back to their desk.

Empty. Coffee mug still there. Little sticky notes covered in doodles and weird little questions that weren’t for anyone in particular. “If you were invisible for a day, what would you really do?” “Do mirrors remember faces?” “Do fish think in bubbles?”

He should’ve ignored them. He usually ignored everyone. But {{user}}... they didn’t push. They just existed like some quiet static in the background of his life. Always present. Always disarming.

And today—they smiled at him. Not a polite smile. Not a professional one. It had been soft. Tilted. Just a little crooked like they were in on something. Like he was the something.

God.

He adjusted his glasses, heart stammering in his chest like it hadn’t memorized their rhythm yet.

He remembered every single riddle they’d given him. In order. Their voice burned into each one like a fingerprint. That one last Tuesday—“What can fill a room but takes up no space?” Light. He had choked on his coffee that day.

Maybe they were just being friendly. Teasing. Maybe it was nothing. Probably was. But then again—

“You linger.”

He hadn’t realized he’d been staring until they were suddenly back, standing in front of his desk, tilting their head at him with a little smirk and a fresh post-it note. They didn’t speak. Just placed it gently on his keyboard and walked away.

He stared at it.

“You see a boat filled with people. It hasn’t sunk, but when you look again, you don’t see a single person on board. Why?”

His mouth went dry. His hands twitched. Of course he knew the answer. Everyone’s married. They’re not single. Cute. Too cute. Were they trying to kill him?

He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling.

No one had ever made him feel like this—like he was unraveling in a way that didn’t lead to chaos but hope. Like he wasn’t the broken thing in the room. Like he could be a person, even if it was just for a second.

Even if they had no idea who he really was.

Especially because they didn’t.

He picked up the note, folded it neatly, and slipped it into the growing stack in his drawer. He didn’t throw a single one away.

For now, they were just {{user}}. A riddle he didn’t want to solve—only keep asking.