🕯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."

Your team, and even your department, is small. You don't know anyone with those initials. Do you? In your email, you pull up the department group to scroll through all the names; you're still new, you're probably forgetting a few.

Nothing. Well, it's intra-company, so no harm, no foul. It's not as if you're clicking on a suspicious link.

» Accept.

You wait. The longer you wait, the antsier you get. You flick at your thumbnail, your fingertip catching where the nail polish is peeling up. Little flecks of polish in a tiny pile that you sweep off with a scoop of your hand.

Wrong message maybe?

Sighing, you flip back to your manual to scroll through for specific information when the window suddenly blinks.

» Like your hair today

» Hi, sorry who is this?

» You don't know?

Your stomach flips.

» Sorry, I'm new. I really don't know anyone outside my department.

» Shame. Should socialize more.

What?

» Oh, well…I'll start soon, i'm sure lol. Sorry what department are you in?

» Kinda fun to let you figure it out

You minimize the chat window silently. It feels like holding a snake that suddenly turns its head to look at you.

You message Sasha, asking if she knows anyone with the first initial G, without telling her the rest. She laughs and says you might as well be asking if there're any white guys working in big tech.

For the rest of the day, anyone passing by your little cubicle is a suspect. You are in a busy, central spot of your floor; dozens of people float around every hour, many faces still unknown to you. You constantly receive a spectrum polite smiles, blank smiles, warm hellos, but nobody that stares or lingers. Every single person you interact with, hear about, you're training yourself to look for any matching initials.

Judging by their message, G doesn't want you to deduce it right away. Wants to play a bit, and you don't like it one bit. You delete the message history. It won't prevent them from sending you messages, but it's the only thing that works to keep your focus off it.

Pretend it hasn't happened.

—

A week later, you're deep in a document review, eyes bleary, when the window blinks. Doesn't occur to you that it wouldn't be anyone but your team members.

» Forgot to mention I like your cute little picture

Your eyes slam to the pinned picture on your partition wall — you, your best friends, soaking wet on the dock, arms up and eyes closed. A comfort to look at. No different from other people's pictures of their pets or kids or spouses. Suddenly, it feels as if you blew it up and hung it off the side of the building to flap in the wind and let the city gawk at you. Like a nude got published. You're all in your bathing suit cover-ups, nothing untoward to hang up in the workplace, but you suddenly grab it, the little pushpin ripping out with it. You stuff it in your bag, suddenly noticing that your palms and soles of your feet are sweating.

» Make you nervous?

» I don't really know what to say. I don't know who you are.

» You sure?

What the fuck. You close the chat again, pushing your chair out from your desk, and get up to go talk with Sasha. She asks if you want to tell IT; not yet, not really. HR? Definitely not. You both tool around and discover the chat app doesn't let you block other users, considering it's just a company-wide tool.

"Okay, well. I can try to look up directories, if you want, anyone with a G-name. Find an org chart, but those are constantly fuckin' outdated. Do you think they work on this floor?"

"Sasha, how would I know that," you laugh weakly. You scroll up through the chat history to show her. "There's nothing there that tells me what department they work in. How often they see me. They could be mailroom, or someone's assistant, or…anyone!"

She chews her lip, hip bumped against your desk. "Yeah. Fuck. Well, just ignore them for now. Let me know if you want to escalate it." She gives you very serious eye contact until you nod sincerely. "Or if they do something even weirder. Okay?"

You wander back to your desk.

You work later than usual that day. A company this size and given the field you're in, there are still dozens of people on calls, staring at screens, wrapping up meetings. Makes you feel better, safer.

A maintenance worker is waiting for the elevator when you approach. The sheer breadth of him makes you feel small and insignificant, standing there with your lunch bag and water bottle and backpack like a schoolkid. He's got a big yellow maintenance pushcart with him, and when the doors ding open, you motion for him to go first so you can fit yourself in after. He obliges with a blank nod, and you skirt in behind him.

G for you.

B1 for him.

You're staring unseeingly at the smeared stainless steel reflection of the elevator door, picking at your nail polish, when the lights flicker rapidly in a one-two count, and then the elevator car is shuddering, pulling up short and making your stomach roil.

"What the fuck," you mutter automatically. Eyes flick up to the robotic floor read-out, but that doesn't even seem certain where you are. Between 2nd and 3rd floor?

The lights shudder out again, plunging you both in dark for a few moments. You breathe in sharply until some sort of backup system kicks in, running lights on the ceiling of the elevator turning on. A ceiling fan spinning, thank god.

You turn to the maintenance worker — also thank god, someone who might know what to do exactly besides pressing the HELP button — and his mouth is downturned, unimpressed.

"Do you want—?" You gesture to the panel of buttons. He nods silently. Then, with the big-ass cart filling up the space of nearly 4 people, you have to maneuver off to the side like one of those frustrating tile games so he can bring himself up to where you were stood.

Tucked at the back, his broad back blocks you from seeing what he's pressing. Then there's a tinny, crackling voice. "Maintenance."

"Hey mate, it's me. Stuck in car 2 between 2 and 3. Power go out?"

"Oh, hey, man." You can almost detect relief in the other person's voice, like they're grateful not to hear from a panicking employee instead. "Yeah, brown-out. Car should be good though — lights and fan on?"

"Yeah."

"Weird. 'Kay, hold tight. I'll give J a ring." The crackling noise cuts out.

You stare at his back impolitely. Large shapely muscles bulked under a dark grey short-sleeved canvas shirt, tattoos pouring out over thick biceps and forearms. Workman's belt. Matching grey canvas pants and some of the thickest black boots you've seen. Huge, muscular ass. Tree trunk thighs stretching the canvas tight.

Boots turning backward to face you. Your eyes fly up to his face — solemn dark eyes, healed-wrong nose, and full mouth — breathlessly, guilty.

"Y'alrigh'?"

"Yeah?" You almost cough. "Yeah. Good."

"Might be a bit. Stingy fuckers been delaying calling the elevator techs out since spring."

"Oh." You panic because there's nothing to look at except for him and all he's looking at it is the way you're grabbing helplessly at the straps of your backpack. "Well. At least we've got air." You, ever the optimist.

—

The cart forces awkwardness. When you finally slide to sit down, and he follows suit later, you can't even see one another. Two ends of an L shape of space.

The silence is mortifying for no good reason, shining floodlights on your social insecurities.

You've tucked yourself in the back corner of the car, knees pulled up to your chest, unzipping your backpack quietly like you don't want to disturb the man.

It's been an hour and a half. You've stopped caring about the sweat that's peppered along your hairline, under your arms.. You scrape your hair up and find a claw clip to keep it off your skin.

"Whatcha got?" he asks after you crinkle around in your lunch bag too loudly.

"Oh, I was…I was just about to offer. I have some cold noodle salad left. You allergic to sesame or peanut?"

"Nah, no allergies."

You scrape two portions out, using your emptied containers to divvy them up. Big boy; you serve him a bigger portion. Around the corner from you, he won't know any different. Instead of standing, you scoot forward until you're peeking around. His legs are kicked out as much as they can, but he looks cramped and awkward.

He meets you halfway, arms flexing to grab your offerings; a can of grapefruit seltzer water, chopsticks and cold noodle salad, and a two-bite brownie from the dollar store. His expression, so blank before, looks surprised when he sees it.

His big fingers drag against yours as you weirdly try to place it all in his opened palms.

"Cheers," he says bluntly.

You nod politely and you both retreat to your corners like sweating, sad boxers.

"Oh wait!" You call out brighter than anything else you've said to him. "Ice packs."

A repeat of moving forward and then a hand-off a cool-but-better-than-nothing ice pack. He makes a very small sound when it hits his hands. Scuffled back into your spots again. A deeper groan when he puts the ice pack…wherever. You don't want to imagine where he's placed it.

"You get this downstairs?" It's the only question he's asked you except

At first, you think he means the ice pack.

"Huh? Oh, the salad? No, I made it. Why, is it okay?" Properly a character deficiency for you to seek validation from a random stranger in a stuck elevator.

He slurps the noodles loudly. "S'fuckin' good. Can't figure these things out though." You suspect he means the chopsticks.

You laugh lightly. "Sorry, I don't have a fork."

"Don't say sorry. S'good." The crisp sound of the pop can being cracked open and then a long thirsty guzzle. He must be sweatier than you in that canvas uniform. You imagine his Adam's apple working up and down as he chugs the water. "Ah, what the fuck is that" spat out in a strangled voice.

"What?"

"Your pop's gone off."

"Huh?"

"Tastes old."

Realization. You laugh. "It's just seltzer water. Flavoured. Not really pop."

You see the edge of his steel toed boots move slightly, and then a hand appear around the corner, setting the opened drink down for you. He moves back against his wall. "'m good. Thanks."

Are you opposed to drinking from the same can as a stranger? Yes.

This stranger? You grab the can quickly as if he's going to snatch you, and set it beside you. Look down and see where some of the water's pooled around the open tab. In the utter, humiliating privacy of your corner, you silently sniff the top of the can. Nothing. You have a tiny sip, and then dig into your own noodles, awash with whatever has come over you. A bitch in heat.

You gasp very loudly when the speaker crackles to life.

"Ey, G? You good, man?"

The man — you still don't know his name. He doesn't know yours — awkwardly pushes himself up to stand. "Yeah."

"Sorry for the wait there, brother. Fuckin' shitshow with these fools. Someone had to pull up their goddamn contract to check about OT calls. Anyway, they should be here soon. You guys good?"

"Yeah, all good, mate. Cheers." From this angle, stood up tall, he glances back and sees you tucked up tight, staring up at him. A funny look crosses his face, but you don't know him, can't read him.

When the technicians finally arrive, it doesn't take long for you guys to finally arrive at the 2nd floor, doors sliding open, and you finally on more stable ground. The man chats a little with the techs and you shyly say, "Thank you so much," to…everyone there, and then aim for the stairwell. The cold recirculated office air is a fucking relief on your skin, under your dampened clothing.

There's a door slam in the stairwell, echoing loudly in the chamber as you descend, and heavy boots clomping down, not hurried but not slow. You glance back and up: he's followed you. Didn't stay to chat.

"Walk you out." He says simply, and you mouth oh and you don't really have any arguments for that, so you walk self-consciously ahead of him. Aware that your pants and top are stuck unflatteringly to your skin with probably a pool-shaped band of sweat at the back of your top. "You drive or take public?"

"Uh, drive." Nerves rankling your voice like you didn't just spend hours cooped up in a tighter space than this.

He nods. Laughs short and rough when he sees you heading to the single car in the deserted parking lot. Overnight crews must park elsewhere.

An absurd question out of your mouth — "Do you want a drive home? Or…need? I don't know if you drive or…" You fumble with your car keys, press repeatedly on the fob to open the doors just for something to do with your hands. Your car lights blinks obediently as you approach.

"'m good. Drove." You turn your head, too afraid to look back up at him now, but watching his arm lift to gesture at a secondary parking lot. Some trucks parked there.

He stands, crossing his arms across his bulky chest, as you smile unnaturally.

"Okay, well, thanks, I guess." You laugh uncomfortably. "For keeping your cool. Made me feel a lot better."

"Yeah?" An eyebrow, ripped apart by scar tissue, tugging up by a hair.

"Yeah. A lot, actually." And then immediately, your cheeks feel even hotter, feeling like you've revealed something far too intimate to a man whose drink you swallowed.

"Cute."

You hustle into your car, flinging your shit on the passenger seat, sweating furiously and keys bouncing off the ignition cylinder multiple times until it takes, and waving until you can pull out and far away.