"What about the sandwich Steve left in his desk drawer this morning?" Thraka asks, with entirely too much interest for someone who just attempted to consume computer hardware.
"Steve doesn't work at this desk," I say, my voice taking on the practiced patience of someone explaining to a toddler why we don't put forks in electrical outlets.
"He could work at this desk," Thraka counters, gesturing expansively at the cubicle space as if he's offering to share his newly conquered territory. "There is room for two warriors."
"He won't work at this desk," I say flatly, pinching the bridge of my nose where a headache is beginning to bloom like a particularly aggressive weed.
"Because I defeated him in combat," Thraka concludes with unmistakable satisfaction, nodding as if this perfectly logical chain of reasoning has led us to the only sensible conclusion.
"Because this is your assigned workspace and Steve has his own workspace where he will hopefully recover from his psychological trauma without filing a hostile work environment complaint."
I pull the rolling chair from the neighboring empty cubicle, positioning it beside Thraka's desk so I can walk him throughbasic computer operations without having to stand for the next hour.
My feet already hurt. These stilettos are weapons, beautiful weapons, but they extract a price in blood and blisters.
I sit.
Immediately aware of how close this puts us.
The cubicle walls create a strange intimacy, blocking out the rest of the office, narrowing the world down to this small square of carpet and cheap furniture and one very large orc who radiates body heat like a furnace set to maximum.
It's distracting.
He's distracting.
Not in any way I have time or desire to examine, but the facts are undeniable. He's warm. He smells like something I can't quite identify, woodsmoke and leather and something earthier, wilder, completely at odds with the fluorescent lighting and recycled air.
I pull up Excel on his computer, forcing my attention to the screen and away from the uncomfortable awareness prickling along my skin.
"This," I explain, "is a spreadsheet. You'll use it to track conflicts, parties involved, resolution methods, and outcomes. Each row is a case. Each column is a data point."
Thraka leans closer to examine the screen.
His shoulder brushes mine.
The contact is brief, accidental, but it sends a jolt of something through my nervous system that my brain categorizes as surprise and my body categorizes as several other things I refuse to acknowledge.
"The boxes are very small," he observes.
"They're cells. You can resize them."
"Why are they imprisoned?"
"They're not—" I stop. Regroup. "It's called a cell because it's a single unit of data. Not because it's locked up."
"Your language is confusing."
"Your existence is confusing, and yet here we are, making it work."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.
I show him how to navigate the spreadsheet, click and drag, basic data entry, and he watches with intensity that suggests he's either genuinely interested or planning how to weaponize Excel.
Both possibilities seem equally likely.
"Try typing something," I say, gesturing to the keyboard.
He positions his hands carefully this time, awareness of his own strength evident in the slow, deliberate way he presses each key.
