SEAN
The Sunday brunch rush at the Gorgon’s Griddle always feels like a test of reflexes. Plates slide down the counter like comets. I dodge tails, horns, and stray fire-breath from a booth in the back. It’s Sunday, my last shift before Monday reality hits again, and my legs are jelly.
“Order up!” Carla bellows from the grill, tossing the plates on the counter with four of her eight arms.
“On it!” I balance two sizzling skillets with the two hands I’ve got and weave between tables, past a couple sharing a milkshake through twin straws. I drop the plates at a booth, flash a grin, and hustle back for the check.
Tips are decent, better than last weekend. Rent, groceries, and the electric bill sit in my mental queue likeoverdue emails. Then there’s Ashley. College bills come every quarter, and I should expect hers any day now. Her old laptop finally gave out after four years of high school, and while the computer lab does the trick for now, I want her to have what the other students have. I keep telling myself holding on to these weekend shifts is temporary—just until things even out.
By the time I punch out and head home, the city stirs low and familiar. Tomorrow means emails, calendars, spreadsheets, and trying not to drool over the hunky IT guy.
Monday morning hits like a pop quiz I didn’t know about.
The elevator lurches up to the executive floor, and I’m half-awake, coffee in hand, mentally prepping for another week of pretending to be competent. The doors open to the usual chorus of keyboards and copier beeps.
Amara waves a wing as she passes my desk. “Morning, Sean.”
I glance up. She squints slightly, probably taking in the dark circles under my eyes.
“Rough weekend?” she asks.
“Yeah… worked at The Griddle.”
She winces. “Oof. Long shift?”
“Always,” I reply. “Tips were good, though.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She gives me a quick smile before moving on, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive perfume and something else I can’t quite name—something typical. Easy. The kind of life where one job is enough.
I slide into my chair, set down my coffee, and power on the computer. The login screen blinks like it’s judging me. I type my password—slowly this time. Success. For about ten seconds. Then the entire screen freezes.
Of course.
Greg texted he’d fixed something, but I’m starting to think this computer has a personal vendetta against me. Then again, technology and I clearly don’t get along. Or maybe it’s just plotting to give me more face time with a certain handsome IT guy.
I try a few keys, click the mouse, even whisper a polite “please.” Nothing. My cursor is a hostage.
I shouldn’t, but part of me wonders—if I just happen to call in a help request, maybe a certain someone will show up. Not that I’d sabotage my workstation for attention. I’m not that desperate.
Yet.
A soft chime sounds, then the screen goes black. Perfect.
I’m halfway through composing a surrender text when a familiar voice rumbles behind me.
“Morning, Sean. Having technical difficulties?”
I jump. “Greg! Hi. Uh, yeah. It’s… being strange.”
He leans over my shoulder, close enough that I catch the faint scent of mint, cedar, and something metallic. His presence fills the space; my workstation suddenly feels two sizes smaller.
“Hmm.” His brow furrows. “Looks like the authentication server kicked you out mid-update. Did you do anything unusual before it froze?”
“Define unusual. I might’ve… clicked something,” I admit.
He gives me a sideways grin, tusks just visible. “Clicked something. Classic.”
