Sean rolls his chair over and, by gods, brushes his shoulder on mine.
There’s a pause, and the quiet fans of the servers fade. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears, and I notice him glancing at my monitor, pretending to careabout the lines of code scrolling past. I can tell he’s watching me just as much as I’m watching him. It’s dizzying.
Finally, I clear my throat. “Actually, I have to stay late again tonight. Monthly server maintenance.” Now, could I do this remotely? Typically do. But the idea of spending more time with him is too tempting. “You… you want to stay again?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. “Pizza’s on me this time. Unless you wanted something else. Chinese? Thai? Mexican?”
His eyes light up, and I swear I see him almost smile wider than I thought physically possible. His round cheeks look almost pink, and my stomach better stop flipping if I’m going to smash some pizza with him.
“You’re dangerously persuasive,” he teases, but the answer is clear before he even speaks. “And I think pizza might be our thing.”
Our thing. My heart pounds hard enough the pens in my shirt pocket clack together.
After most everyone’s cleared out for the night, he’s back with a tentative smile. We talk about our days, Sean perched on the edge of the chair, the pizzas I had delivered in hand, sharing stories, laughing at small office misadventures. The murmur of machines scores every glance, and every little nudge of conversation feels like static just waiting for a spark.
I imagine the rest of the night stretching ahead, hours with Sean here, laughing, talking, sharing small moments like this, and I have to remind myself to blink. To breathe.To act like a competent IT professional instead of a love-struck mess.
When it’s almost eight and the reboot’s finished, Sean slowly stands.
“I should probably head out,” he says, like he’s testing the words.
He drifts toward the door as if he’s about to bolt, but I can’t let that happen. Not yet. The thought of him leaving feels overwhelming.
“Wait,” I say softly, stepping forward. “Stay. I—” I gesture toward the room, unsure what to say to keep him close.
He hesitates then nods, the slightest hint of a smile. “Okay.”
I pull the door closed, the muffled noises of the nighttime custodial staff fading into nothing. The air feels warmer, smaller, tighter. Sean leans against the wall, and I can’t stop staring. He may be a lot smaller than me, but his presence fills the room, and every small movement—the brush of his sleeve, the tilt of his head—sends electricity up my spine.
“Better?” I ask, voice low, trying to mask the tremor in my chest.
He grins, eyes sparkling. “Much.”
Before I can think too much, he grabs my shirt, tugs me down, and presses a quick, almost punctuated kiss to my lips. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough to make my toes curl. My pulse rockets, and I swear having his lips on mine makes my mouth tingle like I’ve just eaten a zillion Splatters at once.
Pulling back slightly, he grins again, cheeks pink. “Good thinking with the door.”
I can only nod, smiling wide, heart pounding. Tonight, nothing else matters except the quiet, the closeness, and Sean.
7
HANDS-ON SUPPORT
GREG
Sean doesn’t leave.
For a second, I think he might—he glances at the door, then me, lips still damp from the kiss that just happened—and then I do something reckless. I reach around him and lock the door.
The handle clicks, sealing us inside the steady thrum of the server room. It’s not romantic, not really—fluorescent lights, whirring fans, the faint smell of dust and ozone—but somehow, it feels like the safest place in the world. A bubble where reality can’t quite reach us.
Sean turns back to me. “Greg?—”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out low, unsteady. “Yeah, I know.”
But I don’t stop.
He’s standing there with his shirt slightly askew, his golden hair mussed from running a hand through it, and his expression—gods—his expression is something between wonder and disbelief. I can’t tell if he’s about to apologize or kiss me again. So I wait and say a little prayer it’s the latter.
And then he closes the distance himself.
