3. Error 404 Boundaries Not Found
SEAN
Tuesday morning starts the way Monday did: with me swearing at my computer.
The network login screen blinks like it’s mocking me. I type my password again, slower this time, just to prove I can be civilized. Nothing. The loading wheel spins. My patience spins with it.
“Of course,” I mutter, leaning back in my chair.
Before I can even think about calling for help, Franklin strolls by my desk, iced coffee in hand, with a cool, reassuring smile.
“Morning, Sean,” he says. “Happy second day. I have to tell you. My inbox and calendar have never been more tidy. You’re doing great.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, and somehow his simple acknowledgment makes the growing inbox of emails on my screen feel a little less threatening.
I’m two seconds away from opening a ticket when a familiar rumble comes from behind me.
“Morning, Sean.”
Greg. The IT guy with the calm voice, enormous hands, and ridiculously kind eyes. I haven’t even lifted my phone, and yet, here he is.
I turn in my chair. “Are you spying on me or something?”
He grins, that wide, toothy grin that shows off his tusks just enough to make my stomach do something strange. “Your network status light turned red. I’ve got a dashboard for that.”
“Of course you do,” I say.
He chuckles and crouches beside my desk, the floor creaking under his weight. The scent of citrus cleaner and cedar hits me like a low-voltage shock. He reaches past me to the back of the tower, and I get a close-up view of his beefy bicep.
“Loose cable,” he murmurs, plugging something back in. The monitor flickers along with my chest. “There we go.”
I open my mouth to thank him, but he’s already smiling like he knew it would work. “Try now.”
The login screen accepts my password instantly.
“…You have some kind of sixth sense, you know that?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Just intuition.”
And then he’s gone, rolling his cart down the hall, leaving behind a faint scent of freshness and a handful of candies on my desk.
By Wednesday, it’s a pattern.
Technology misbehaves, I think about calling IT, and Greg appears. Printer jam? He’s there. Software update that freezes halfway through? There before I can even restart. My desktop lags, and suddenly a large hand is reaching over my shoulder, tapping a key combination I didn’t know existed.
It’s… convenient. And unnerving.
Amara notices. Of course she does.
“Settling in okay?” she asks, leaning over my desk, a mischievous tilt to her head.
“Yup. Great,” I say, lying through my teeth.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums. “Seems you’ve got an admirer.”
I freeze mid-keystroke. “I do not.”
Her grin widens. “Uh-huh.” She taps her talons on the top of my monitor. “Anyway, Franklin mentioned he’s pleased with your progress so far, by the way. He said he’s impressed you’ve gotten the new workflow down already.”
Franklin—the boss. Pleased. That should be good. It is good. But somehow, it’s not the part of the news that has my stomach doing flips.
“Mm,” I mutter, nodding. Internally, I can’t stop thinking about Greg’s grin, the way he shows up before I even ask for help, the toothy smirk that makes me question every boundary I know I should set to keep this job.
“And,” she continues, leaning closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “I think your admirer might be enjoying the little grumbles you make when things go wrong.”
I snort. “I do not grumble.”
“Right. Totally not,” she says, eyes sparkling with amusement. “But he seems to like it anyway.”
And just like that, I’m blushing, trying to act professional, and completely aware that maybe—just maybe—the one employee I don’t expect to look forward to seeing is the one I can’t stop thinking about.
I don’t look up from my monitor. “If you’re talking about Greg, he’s just doing his job.”
She hums. “Doing it very thoroughly, if you ask me. I swear I saw him fix your mouse pad yesterday.”
“It was peeling.”
Amara laughs. “I’m just saying, you could do worse. Those shoulders? Whew.”
“Stop.” I rub my temple. “He’s… nice, okay? And helpful. That’s it.”
Greg chooses that exact moment to appear, carrying a jar of Splatters and a look of mild confusion at the scene he’s walked into.
“Did I interrupt something?”
Amara beams. “Nope! Just singing your praises.”
He sets the candies on my desk. “Then I’ll take that as a good sign.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she says and winks at me before vanishing toward her office.
Greg watches her go then glances at me. “She shouldn’t tease you like that.”
I blink. “She’s just making small talk.”
“Still,” he says. His brow furrows, that subtle frown that makes him look like a very concerned mountain. “You don’t owe anyone a reaction.”
Something in my chest loosens. “Thanks.”
He smiles again—so open, so unbothered—and I hate that it makes my throat feel tight.
On Thursday morning, I find a Post-it on my monitor.
Firewall’s being dramatic again. Thought I’d get ahead of it. —G.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. He must’ve come by early. No one else in this office uses pink Post-its with tiny doodles of cartoon servers and draws smiley faces in the corner.
Sure enough, when my computer boots up, everything runs smooth as glass.
Amara strolls by and catches me smiling at the note. “Are you two texting yet or still communicating through office supplies?”
“Do you ever work?” I ask.
“Not when romance is happening within a hundred-foot radius.”
“There’s no romance.”
“Uh-huh.”
I crumple the note and toss it in the bin. Ten minutes later, I fish it back out and stick it in my wallet. For safekeeping.
By Friday, I’ve given up pretending Greg’s appearances are random. He’s like laundry day—inevitable. And somehow, I’ve stopped minding.
My final straw comes when my keyboard starts typing the letter “q” over and over like it’s possessed. Before I can even stand, Greg materializes at my desk.
“Q key again?” he asks, already reaching for his toolkit.
I stare at him. “How did you—”
“You have the look,” he says.
“What look?”
“The I’m-about-to-throw-this-thing-out-a-window look.”
“Accurate.”
He crouches again, his shoulders brushing the underside of the desk as he works. “You type like you’re mad at it.”
“I am mad at it.”
He chuckles. “Be gentle. These machines have feelings too.”
“I’ll send chocolate and flowers.”
He laughs, loud and genuine, a sound that makes my stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way. When he’s done, he straightens, towering over my chair, and hands me the keyboard.
“Fixed,” he says simply.
I test a few keys. Perfect.
“You’re some kind of wizard,” I mutter.
He tilts his head. “No wizardry. That’s Hugh in Sales. My magic’s just metal and patience.”
“Patience,” I echo. “Right.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“I believe you’re patient with computers. People, though?”
“Only the ones who pretend not to like me.” He pauses, nose wrinkling like he’s deciding how much to reveal. “And… I can sort of feel when something’s wrong. Or about to go wrong. Comes with the tusks. And caring.”
I freeze. Greg smiles, slow and knowing, and I have to look away before I say something stupid.
“Anyway,” I manage, clearing my throat. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he says. “Really.”
And for a beat too long, we just… look at each other.
His big green eyes, magnified by thick lenses, lock on me, lips curling around tusks.
The office melts away—the monitors, the chatter—leaving only him, and the thought that maybe Amara’s teasing was justified.
And maybe being a tech disaster has its benefits.
Then my phone buzzes, and the spell breaks.
“My sister. Calling from college. I should take this.”
He gives a small nod and rolls his cart away, leaving me with a fixed keyboard, a racing pulse, and absolutely no idea what to do with either.
It’s not until after work, walking home in the drizzle, that I finally admit it to myself.
The week’s been easier because of Greg. He’s not just fixing things; he’s showing up. Quietly, instinctively, like he knows when I’m about to lose it.
And yeah, maybe that shouldn’t make my heart do a silly flutter every time I think about it. Maybe I shouldn’t replay that tusky grin in my head like a favorite song. But I do.
I shove my hands in my pockets and laugh under my breath.
“Why does the IT guy have to be the one employee I actually look forward to seeing?”
There’s no answer, of course. Just the sounds of the city, the reflection of streetlights in puddles, and the faint memory of his voice saying anytime—like he means it.
And somehow, that’s enough to make me look forward to Monday.
When I get home, I kick off my shoes, drop my bag, and collapse onto the couch. The apartment breathes with its usual nothingness. No glowing monitors, no coworkers, no sexy IT guys materializing with squirting candy and rescue tools.
I tell myself I like it that way. Peace and quiet. Control.
But after the week I’ve had, the silence feels… empty.
I reach for my phone, meaning to check messages, and freeze. There’s a new text from an unknown number.
Unknown: Hey. The firewall was acting up after you left. I think it misses you. I’ve wrangled it into submission. You’re all set for Monday. This is Greg by the way. From work. The IT guy.
A shiver goes down my spine, and I quickly add his name to my contacts.
Sean: How did you get my number?
Bouncing dots appear, and then:
Greg: Just good ears.
More dots.
Greg: Plus all employees provide their cell phones as part of the company emergency management policy. It was one of the bazillion forms you filled out.
I stare at the screen, the same mix of irritation and warmth bubbling up. Of course it’s him. Of course he’d find a way to fix something before I even asked.
I should be annoyed. I should draw a boundary, or at least pretend I don’t like that he’s thinking about me outside of work hours.
Instead, I reply.
Sean: You really need a hobby.
Another pause. More dots as my chest flutters.
Greg: I’ve got one.
Sean: Oh yeah?
Greg: Making sure you’re okay.
I drop the phone on my chest and cover my face with both hands. My pulse won’t slow down, and there’s this traitorous smile overtaking my face.
“Gods,” I mutter to the empty room. “I am so screwed.”
The phone buzzes once more.
Greg: See you Monday, Sean. Sleep well.
I never sleep well. But tonight, I do drift off with a fuzzy, warm feeling.