2. Sunshine in the Server Room
SUNSHINE IN THE SERVER ROOM
GREG
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 the printer 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, in that 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.”
“Thank you,” Jamie says proudly. “We try.”
The whole exchange makes me chuckle—loud, bright, unbothered. The kind that warms your chest and lingers, even after they’ve wandered off bickering about toast again.
I notice Amara gliding past the breakroom window, her feathers glinting like obsidian under the fluorescent lights.
She’s got a new face with her. He has blond hair in a swoop that reminds me of Kael Veyr, my favorite sci-fi video game hero.
Shirt tucked in, pants pressed, shoes pristine, and a tie with some unusual design I’ve never seen.
He’s short—even for a human—but with a little belly that looks soft, warm, and dare I say, cuddly.
My breath catches. I glance around. No one’s noticed me staring. Good. Professionalism intact.
He’s moving carefully, like he thinks he doesn’t belong here, and my giant green heart decides that’s adorable.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding toward them.
Jamie cranes his neck. “Ooh, he’s a new arrival, for sure. He’s got that first-day, please-don’t-fire-me energy.”
“Amara’s probably showing him the ropes,” I say.
Jamie grins. “Think he’ll last?”
“Hard to say,” I admit, watching the guy glance nervously at a centaur squeezing through a doorway. “He’s got the look of someone who’s never seen a Minotaur before breakfast.”
“But that’s when they’re the most fun,” Jamie says with a smirk. “Bet he’ll loosen up once he settles in… or meets the right employee.”
Jack cocks his head. “And by the right employee you mean…”
“Exactly.” Jamie nods.
I roll my eyes, but my smile lingers. That little curve of hair catches the light again as he turns his head, and something about it makes my chest feel… weirdly warm.
I shake it off and turn back to my coffee. “Maybe,” I say, pretending it’s casual. “Let’s just hope he survives Amara’s forms.”
I take a deep breath, letting the warmth of the mug anchor me. Don’t overthink it, Greg. Just another new hire. Just another handsome guy with wide eyes and a smile that does inconvenient things to my heart rate.
Focus. I’m Greg Orsin. IT Department. Helpful, cheerful, Labyrinth Solutions nerd extraordinaire.
I’ve got my routine to keep me grounded—coffee first, server check second, existential longing firmly on mute.
“Well, have a good one,” I say with a small wave.
The guys nod and return to their Monday morning coffee clutch.
On the way to the server room, I pass the two other IT guys—Lance, a human powered entirely by energy drinks, and Brill, a phantom who insists on hovering two inches above his chair “for ergonomic reasons.” Our department of three is on the small side for such a big company, but we manage to whack all the moles.
“Morning,” I say.
“Morning,” Lance mumbles into his silver can of pick-me-up.
Brill flickers once in acknowledgment, screen light glinting through his translucent form. He’s already deep in a diagnostic that looks more like spellwork than code. I keep going, drawn toward the familiar hum and cool air of the server room—my unofficial cave.
My desk is covered with four monitors, three large PCs rest on the floor, and there’s a laptop for good measure—and portability.
The scent of canned compressed air and old pizza hits me like a wall, comforting and familiar.
I scan my tickets. Nothing yet. Jackpot.
I grab my cart, stocked with cables, keyboards, tools, duct tape, and, of course, a jar of Splatters.
You never know when a little sugar diplomacy will save the day.
Rolling down the executive floor hall, I nod to Charlie, a centaur juggling three monitors and a coffee cup.
“Good morning!” I boom. He glances at me like I’m an intrusive Pegasus.
Fine. Not everyone’s thrilled it’s Monday.
I pass Gertie, a gorgon, adjusting her glasses, as her snakes hiss their displeasure.
Magnus Trainor, the CEO, clomps by, tail swishing. Normal Monday morning chaos.
And then I see him again.
The blond new guy, glaring at his monitor with searing blue eyes like it betrayed him. Perfect. Just the right amount of frustration to make my morning interesting.
“Crash it already?” I ask, kneeling beside him. His chair creaks as he shifts. He freezes. Oh, good. The newbie is startled already. Poor guy.
He stammers about not touching anything, and, gods, could he be any more adorable? I know not everyone’s used to a giant green IT guy in glasses helping, but if the computer isn’t behaving, it’s up to me to wrangle it into submission.
“Name’s Greg.” I point to my badge, and he simply stares at it. And keeps staring.
After what feels like an eternity, he shakes his head and replies. “Sean Rivers. I’m… Mr. Frost’s new assistant.”
“First week?” I ask, trying to make conversation and let him know I’m not a threat.
He nods. “Yeah. First day.”
“Ah. That explains the fear-sweat.”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t worry. Happens to everyone. Well, the new folks mostly.
Smells like ambition,” I say, grinning. He raises an eyebrow.
Probably thinking I’m mocking him. Not mocking—just…
honest. And amused. He’s got these freckles, just a few, on his cheeks, close to his eyes, and he smells of charcoal with a tinge of ripeness.
The scent scurries up my nostrils, down my torso, sending a jolt through me.
Red screen. Cartoon demon wagging a finger. Classic Labyrinth.
Fixing it is easy. Watching Sean flail is fun. Watching him grumble while I fix it? Pure gold.
I pull up the terminal window and type a few lines of code, unlocking the desktop.
Sean exhales, relief written all over his cheeks.
I can’t help the grin tugging at my tusks.
“There we go,” I say lightly. “See? Not so scary.” He shoots me a tentative grin, and I swear, that little curve of his lips on his pale face just makes my day.
I’m always happy to make a cute employee smile.