Mornings at Labyrinth Solutions are exactly the kind of chaos that makes me smile—the full tusk-bearing grin my mom adores. Trolls grumble over coffee, gorgons mutter about blunders, centaurs hoof down the hallways, and the two-legged, soft-skinned crowd flows around them like water. It’s noisy, messy, unpredictable… and I love every bit of it. There’s a rhythm here, a kind of organized pandemonium that feels like home.
Phil has a propensity for being testy and growls at a printer in the corner of the breakroom like it owes him money, and I can’t help chuckling.
“Paper jam again?” I ask, grabbing my coffee and heading over.
“It’s possessed,” Phil grumbles, glaring down at theprinter like he’s about to arm wrestle it. “I fed it paper, toner, and my last shred of patience.”
I crouch down beside the offending machine, pressing a few buttons. “Have you tried turning it off and back on?”
He snorts. “You always say that like it’s magic.”
“Because it is magic,” I say, popping open the tray and fishing out a crumpled sheet. “Ancient IT secret—turn it off, wait three seconds, whisper sweet nothings, turn it back on.”
Phil crosses his arms. “You’re seducing the printer now?”
“Hey, respect the process.” I press the power button, give the machine a gentle pat, and whisper loud enough for Phil to hear. “You’re doing great, champ.”
The machine hums, whirs, and spits out a clean, perfect page.
Phil grunts, taking it from the tray. “Show-off.”
I grin and stand, brushing toner dust from my hands. “What can I say? Machines like me. Must be my winning personality and smile.”
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “soft-hearted fool,” but I catch the faintest twitch of a grin before he turns away.
I take a sip of my coffee, feeling that small pulse of satisfaction that comes every time something—or someone—stops growling for five seconds. Fixing stuff, smoothing rough edges, it’s kind of my thing. Might not change the world, but hey, every printer saved is a tiny victory.
“Happy Monday to my favorite IT guy!” Jamie plops himself onto the counter like gravity’s a suggestion and hands me a coffee. His tie is crooked, his grin even more so, but I suppose when you’re shacking up with the CEO, that happens. “Greg, did you know brunch is the most important meal of the weekend?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I thought that was breakfast.”
“No, no,” he says, waving a hand dramatically. “That’s where folks go wrong. Breakfast is for amateurs. Brunch is for people who make bad choices on Saturday nights and want to feel like they still have their lives together by Sunday afternoon.”
Phil groans into his mug. “I regret listening already.”
Behind Jamie, Jack drifts in—literally, wings brushing the doorframe as he ducks through. He’s holding two coffees, one of which he hands to Jamie without looking.
“Did you tell him how you insulted my avocado toast?” Jack asks, his voice low and smooth like honey with a touch of smoke.
Jamie clutches his chest in mock outrage. “Insulted? No! I was educating Greg about your violent culinary methods. You smashed that poor avocado like it bullied you in high school.”
Jack gives a slow blink. “You called me a menace to brunch.”
“I said agent of chaos,” Jamie corrects, taking a smug sip of his coffee. “Totally different vibe.”
Jack’s wings twitch, just the faintest flutter that says he’s amused even if he won’t admit it.
I grin into my mug. They’re ridiculous together, inthat way folks are when they’ve found the right kind of nonsense to share. Watching them bicker feels like getting a front-row seat to caffeinated hope.
“You’re lucky he didn’t fly off and drop you from a height for that one,” I say.
“Oh, I threatened to,” Jack says.
“That’s how I know he loves me.” Jamie bumps his shoulder against Jack, and I can’t help but smile at their camaraderie.
Jack hums, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “You say that like it’s a good thing.”
Phil shakes his head, muttering, “You guys are weird.”
