Chapter One
I’m three sips into a vending-machine coffee that tastes like burnt regret when Anil drops into the chair next to mine, sleeves rolled exactly to mid-forearm, expression calm as ever. I grin involuntarily through the next horrible sip.
It’s 11:17 p.m. on a Wednesday. Again.
The office is mostly dark, just the low hum of servers and the occasional flicker of a dying fluorescent. Everyone, well everyone sane, went home hours ago. We’re the stupidly-dedicated holdouts -- me, Anil, and the artisanal bathroom grout campaign that has been slowly murdering my will to live for three straight weeks.
He balances a stack of quarters on the back of his hand without looking, casually glancing up at me instead -- like he’s hoping I’m impressed. “Your turn to lose,” he says, voice low, even, like he’s announcing a software update.
I snort. “Dream on. I’ve been practicing.”
Okay, that was a lie. I’ve been staring at the same mood board for forty minutes, pretending I’m not cataloguing every vein on those forearms. Two months ago I declared a self-imposed dating hiatus after my last situationship tried to mansplain kerning to me. Two months ago that felt sensible. Tonight it feels like self-sabotage of the highest order.
Anil flicks another quarter onto the stack. It stays. Of course it stays.
I try to match him, manage five quarters, and immediately send them skittering across the industrial carpet like drunken hail.
He doesn’t gloat. Just tilts his head, deadpan. “Tragic. Pay up.”
The forfeit tonight: loser gives the winner a two-minute shoulder rub. Blame the account manager who started this tradition to “boost morale.” Blame me for never backing down from a stupid bet.
I stand, roll my chair behind him. “Fine. But no complaining when my magic hands ruin you for all future massages.”
His mouth twitches -- almost a smile. “Noted.”
I place my hands on his shoulders. Firm. Warm. The kind of warm that seeps straight through his shirt and into my palms like it belongs there.
My brain, traitor that it is, immediately launches a highlight reel: those same hands pinning mine above my head, that same steady voice telling me exactly how good I feel, the way he’d watch me fall apart like it’s the most fascinating bug he’s ever fixed.
I dig my thumbs in a little harder than strictly professional.
He exhales -- quiet, controlled -- and leans back the tiniest fraction. Enough that I feel it. Enough that my pulse stutters.
Two minutes. I count every second like a bomb tech.
When the timer on my phone finally dings, I step away fast, like the chair’s suddenly radioactive.
“Your turn to buy the next round of terrible coffee,” I say, voice mostly steady.
He stands, stretches -- slow, deliberate -- and meets my eyes for half a beat longer than usual. “Deal.”
I watch him walk toward the break room, then drop back into my chair and open the grout mood board again. The file I was working on earlier had crashed spectacularly at 10:42 p.m. -- classic InDesign tantrum, layers corrupted, links broken. I’d sworn loud enough to echo.
Anil had glanced over, wordless, taken my laptop, and disappeared for twelve minutes.
Now he’s back, sliding the machine across the desk to me, screen glowing with every layer intact, every asset relinked, masterpiece restored.
I stare at it, then at him. “How did you even -- ”
He shrugs, mild as ever. “It is a truth universally acknowledged,” he murmurs, “that a designer in possession of an unsaved masterpiece must be in want of someone who backs up religiously.”
Then he starts to turn away.
I lean back in my chair, cross my arms, and hit him with it before he can escape.
“At least I didn’t spend sixty grand on a computer science degree just to end up doing the same job as the art school dropout who can’t balance quarters on her hand.”
His step falters for half a second. He glances back, mouth doing that almost-smile thing that should be illegal in workplace settings.
“Touché,” he says, voice low, amused.
Then he walks away for real.
I sit there, frozen, heat crawling up my neck.
He did not just Mr. Darcy me about cloud storage.
That’s the thing about Anil. He doesn’t perform. He doesn’t flirt with volume or flashy gestures. He just… notices. Remembers. Quotes Austen at midnight like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I’ve dated guys who could keep a conversation going for hours -- witty, charming, the whole package. Guys who were decent in bed, even great on a good night. But none of them ever felt like the full set: someone who could match me word for word, laugh at my sarcasm without missing a beat, and still make my skin buzz with the promise that he’d be just as deliberate and devastating between the sheets.
Anil gives off that quiet certainty -- like he’d be all of it. Good talk. Good company. Good everything else.
Maybe that’s why he’s never pushed. He’s noticed I shut down every casual flirt, every half-hearted advance from clients or coworkers. He’s too observant not to have realized I’m done with hookups. So he’s waited -- patient, careful -- for a real signal.
And somehow that makes every loud, flashy guy I’ve dated before feel like background noise.
Which means I am well and truly screwed -- because if he can quote Austen at me deadpan at midnight and then take my best shot without flinching, my two-month celibacy streak doesn’t stand a chance.
My brain is already rewriting the supply-room fantasy in higher resolution.
This is going to be a problem.
A big, forearm-flexing, deadpan-delivering, toe-curling problem.
And I have the feeling it’s only going to get worse.
