🕯Hello Lovie🕯

» Look, I don't want to be rude, but your messages aren't funny to me. I don't like this mystery or thing you're doing. If you want to talk to me, just approach me

» Ah, I'm sorry.

» I really don't mean to scare you.

» You're not scaring me. It's just weird.

» Do you want a hint? Maybe it'll make you feel better.

» Or you could just tell me who you are. Or I could just submit a ticket to IT.

» You could.

» Do we work on the same floor?

» No. But I see you around.

» Do I pass you or do you pass me?

» Both.

That narrows it down to approximately two floors and far too many departments and teams. Time to put the elevator theory to the test.

» Have we talked before?

» I'll say this: you have a very lovely smile.

» Gotta run. Talk soon.

You stand up and go refill your water bottle at the station so you don't shatter your work laptop out of frustration.

—

A grimy July day drips into evening. A few teams, yours included, all banding together to descend en masse to a restaurant with a huge outdoor patio and cold-ass after-work drinks. You tentatively decline until Sasha bullies you into accepting. "Cinq à sept! Cinq à sept!"

Should socialize more rattling around your heat-dumb brain.

Sasha texting you before you guys lock up your computer for the night:

» maybe G will be out there amongst us woooohhhhh

That idea almost makes you decline again until she's parked her ass in front of your cube, firmly entrenched and not budging. "Let's goooo. One drink."

You walk together and your nerves twist in nauseated bundles under your skin as she yaps amiably the whole way. It's your first social outing with anyone other than her, so you quickly order a drink and stand with her, being gradually introduced to a wide variety of folks from accounting, HR, marketing, comms, and so on. When the sept part of cinq à sept passes, you lean over to her. "Do people usually get this drunk at these?" She laughs breezily. "Well. Depends on the group, but I think it's just this fuckin' weather. Oh, I think those guys are from IT. Hey," she elbows you. "Let's ask about your message."

Some people left after a drink or two — like you should've — and more continue to drift in. The IT guys are two tall men that don't look like IT men in the first place. Not that there's a look, but…there can be a look. You let your eyes land on them, taking them in: white with blue eyes and some trendy haircut, and Black with sweet eyes and a dentist's dream of a smile. Sasha needles you. "Let's go say hi, I'll introduce you."

"Sasha," you plead, but she taps her glass to yours and pulls you over.

"Hey! John, right?" She says, easy as anything, to the one with shaggy hair. She introduces you to them both, and they both smile warmly at you. "And sorry, you fixed my workstation last week but I'm totally blanking on your name."

"Kyle," the other guy says with a grin, and you all laugh over the mix of handshakes between the four of you.

"Kyle! Oh my god, right." She throws her head back dramatically. "You saved my fucking ass."

He laughs, taking a slow sip of his drink. "No trouble at all."

Sasha perks up. "I have a fun question for you both then!"

Fuuuuuuck.

"Excuse me, I gotta—" you say just as Sasha tries to grab your arm, but you cut yourself off, slipping away to the washroom before she can make a scene. You are not interested in what the IT team thinks of your fucking messages, and you're annoyed that she's making it a joke. Obviously if you cared enough, you'd have submitted a ticket already and gotten something resolved, but it's a new job and you don't want to make waves. Why couldn't she just let it lie between you both?

If you could get away with it, you'd stay parked in the washroom until IT left. Or just dip and run, but neither of these are viable solutions. Instead, you swipe away the gathered sweat from your neck and hands, pat your face with cold water, and try to make with a facade of confidence back to the group. You spot Sasha still with John and Kyle, so you beeline for another member of your team. Sit down in the safety of numbers, and order another drink.

A little while later, there's a hand that hovers slightly at your elbow. You turn to see Kyle having sit to your far left, where your back had been turned.

"Oh, hi," you say weakly. Sasha's off somewhere else now.

"Hey, just wanted to check if you're alright?"

Your eyebrows pinch together and you sip from your drink nervously. "Yeah? Why?"

"Ah, good. You just seemed bit out of sorts back there with your friend. Summat we said, or?"

You laugh, relieved. "No, no. It's all good." You have no idea if Sasha explained your issue. And you don't feel comfortable revealing it if she did decide to keep her mouth shut. "Just getting used to a big company with lots of people to meet. I guess I'm not used to the big get-togethers. My first one."

He smiles brightly, a lazy laugh coming out of him. "Ah, that's nice then. Bit of a shy one, eh?" His eyes crinkle nicely in the corners when he smiles like that. He looks like a man you would've admired in the men's sleepwear pages of the Sears catalogue; handsome and sweet. Doe-like eyes.

Your cheeks heat under his soft gaze. "Well, I don't know about that. Just getting used to it, is all. How long have you been here?"

He sucks his teeth a little, hems and haws. "Little over two years, I reckon? John headhunted me personally."

"Oh, nice."

"You got any plans this summer? Goin' on holiday?" He props an arm loosely along the back of the booth you're sat on, the relaxed cream linen shirt he's wearing pulled a bit snug over his arm muscles. The sun close to setting now, he seems to glow and gleam in front of you, while you just wilt and sweat. Some are just chosen ones.

You laugh. "I just started. Not taking any time off yet. I might just take off a Monday over a long weekend, maybe."

"Lovely." He smiles. Those're fun," he says, reaching his hand out and tapping his fingertip against your manicure, a reptilian pattern you'd tried last night.

"Oh, thank you." Another self-conscious laugh, the desire to pull your hand back.

"—arrick!" A boisterously loud voice calling over the patio, stopping most people's conversations as heads turn to the source: John, waving at the exit gate. "C'mon, mate, ah dinnae want tae get another ticket!"

Kyle's face breaks down into a seriously, mate? expression, turning back to you to smile ruefully. "Next time? You'll be here."

"Maybe!"

"Nah, you gotta promise that."

You laugh again, his voice carrying as he stands up, grabbing your hand. A couple people looking at you both.

"Sure, maybe I promise."

A smile as bright as the sun and just as intoxicating.

On the walk home to your car, Sasha gripping your arm tightly. "Dude."

"What?"

"Kyle's last name."

You stare at her. "I didn't hear it."

"John yelled it, you didn't hear it?"

"I dunno, kinda? Eric or something."

She laughs at you openly. "Garrick, dummy. G-guh-guh-garrrrrrick."

"No. I think it was Eric or Carrick maybe. I didn't hear a G."

She shrugs, clearly not believing you at all, hands up. "Oookay."

You wait as she waits for her bus, then you head through the secondary parking lot to your car in the next lot. Dozens of moths are swarming each floodlight, forming strange dark clouds that dissipate and reshape themselves.

A truck's headlights turn on in front of you, making you gasp and grab your bag. You squint above into the cab. See a tall shadow. You scurry your feet and hear a door open.

"Just me."

Elevator guy, unfurling his big body from the truck, and stepping down in his uniform and boots. Looks tired in the fluorescent lighting.

"Oh," you twist back, breathless and embarrassed for it. "Hey." The lack of his name gives you pause. "Just getting off now?"

He nods. "Walk you."

You wait as he shuts the engine off and palms the keys as he walks beside you across the swaths of grass and improvised footpaths between the lots.

"Where you comin' from?"

"Oh, the cinq à sept, down the road?" The realization hits you that maintenance and security and warehouse and all those other folks may not get invitations extended their way, and you bite your tongue in shame. "My team invited me last minute." A mollifying shrug offered like you too are on the outskirts.

"Never been," he says simply. You're not sure if you want to get to your car quicker or slower, feeling out of sorts and pulled apart. "They treatin' you nice?"

"Who, my team?"

"Yeah." No inflection, nothing to riddle out.

"Yeah, they're really nice." Wait. "How'd you know I'm new?"

He laughs shortly, not rude but not really kind either. "You got a look to you. Big eyes. Spooked."

You frown down, staring at the hem of your dress and sandals, not realizing people could smell the rookie off you that obviously. "Me? Or new people in general?"

"Don't know anyone else that's new."

You get to your car. Your keys are still in your bag. Sasha's dumb boldness takes root in you for as long as you can harness it.

"Can you tell me your name?"

His brows raise a little. "Simon."

"Full name. Please."

"Riley."

When you look deeply confused and start fidgeting with your keys, he looks around like he's missing something. "Y'alrigh'?"

"Yeah. I just…why'd that guy call you G?"

He looks just as confused as you do. "Who?"

Just gotta admit that I noted every single second of our encounter to replay later and know what a random man called you in a two-plus hour span.

"Your…friend from maintenance? He called you G. Through the speaker."

His expression settles immediately. "Dumb nickname the lads gave me." Even with the dim evening light, washed in deep tangerine twilight, there's colour high on his cheekbones. You stare at it dumbfounded. He is not the type of person — you thought — that would ever blush or seem uncomfortable.

"For what? I mean. What's the G stand for?"

"Ghost." He clears his throat loudly, and kicks your tire with his boot.

"Hey," you say lightly, waving your hands out at him. "That's my…those are my tires you're kicking!"

"Tire's nearly flat." He says, eyes flicking to you briefly.

You spin around to look. Sure enough. Dumb ass fucking piece of shit car. Dumb ass fucking piece of shit you.

"Get in." You do, obedient. Then watch as he gestures to you to wait, and jogs long-legged and slightly stiff, to his truck across the way. You watch in silence as his truck headlights come on. Veer out, across his own lot, then looping around until he's by yours.

"'kay, y'can wait in there if you're not gonna boil. Or y'can help me."

Neither of you speak about anything while he loosens the lug nuts, jacks your car up — not surprised he's got his own jack in his truck — then hauls the spare out of your trunk for you. You do helpful tasks like popping the trunk open. Handing him the occasional item. Staring at him. As you lose the dying bits of sun, holding your phone's flashlight out to see better, which he snorts at.

It's done by the time your roadside assistance would even be dispatching someone.

"Take it for a spin." He gestures, and you climb in, aware of the scent he's left behind — an old but mostly clean sweat — and drive around the parking lot, feeling like an idiot learning how to drive.

"Feels good?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Do you get out of the car? Shake his hand? Hug him? "How—no—can I pay you back, please?"

A solemn shake of his head. "Nah, don't be daft. Glad I was here."

"Me too." Again.

"Can I buy you a drink?" What if he doesn't drink? What if he'll take it as flirting? Do you want him to take it as flirting? What if he's married, or g—

"Alrigh'."

You take his number and don't offer yours in return. You suddenly feel very possessive of that scrap of agency left. "Well, thanks again. Simon."