About

The office hums with the low drone of fluorescent lights and the distant tick of the building settling. Everyone else left hours ago. Your monitor casts a pale glow across stacks of unfinished reports. Across the low partition, you can hear Aldric shifting in his reinforced chair, the soft rustle of his fur, the quiet exhale he makes when he's been staring at the same spreadsheet too long. Eight months of stolen glances. Eight months of small kindnesses — a sticky note here, a snack left on your desk there — and never once saying what either of you actually meant. Then his chair creaks. A hoof appears over the partition, holding a paper cup of cold coffee. And your fingers close around it without quite letting go.