5. Reboot Required
REBOOT REQUIRED
SEAN
The Sunday brunch rush at the Gorgon’s Griddle always feels like a test of reflexes. Plates slide down the counter like comets. I dodge tails, horns, and stray fire-breath from a booth in the back. It’s Sunday, my last shift before Monday reality hits again, and my legs are jelly.
“Order up!” Carla bellows from the grill, tossing the plates on the counter with four of her eight arms.
“On it!” I balance two sizzling skillets with the two hands I’ve got and weave between tables, past a couple sharing a milkshake through twin straws. I drop the plates at a booth, flash a grin, and hustle back for the check.
Tips are decent, better than last weekend.
Rent, groceries, and the electric bill sit in my mental queue like overdue emails.
Then there’s Ashley. College bills come every quarter, and I should expect hers any day now.
Her old laptop finally gave out after four years of high school, and while the computer lab does the trick for now, I want her to have what the other students have.
I keep telling myself holding on to these weekend shifts is temporary—just until things even out.
By the time I punch out and head home, the city stirs low and familiar. Tomorrow means emails, calendars, spreadsheets, and trying not to drool over the hunky IT guy.
Monday morning hits like a pop quiz I didn’t know about.
The elevator lurches up to the executive floor, and I’m half-awake, coffee in hand, mentally prepping for another week of pretending to be competent. The doors open to the usual chorus of keyboards and copier beeps.
Amara waves a wing as she passes my desk. “Morning, Sean.”
I glance up. She squints slightly, probably taking in the dark circles under my eyes.
“Rough weekend?” she asks.
“Yeah… worked at The Griddle.”
She winces. “Oof. Long shift?”
“Always,” I reply. “Tips were good, though.”
“Glad to hear it.”
She gives me a quick smile before moving on, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive perfume and something else I can’t quite name—something typical. Easy. The kind of life where one job is enough.
I slide into my chair, set down my coffee, and power on the computer. The login screen blinks like it’s judging me. I type my password—slowly this time. Success. For about ten seconds. Then the entire screen freezes.
Of course.
Greg texted he’d fixed something, but I’m starting to think this computer has a personal vendetta against me. Then again, technology and I clearly don’t get along. Or maybe it’s just plotting to give me more face time with a certain handsome IT guy.
I try a few keys, click the mouse, even whisper a polite “please.” Nothing. My cursor is a hostage.
I shouldn’t, but part of me wonders—if I just happen to call in a help request, maybe a certain someone will show up. Not that I’d sabotage my workstation for attention. I’m not that desperate.
Yet.
A soft chime sounds, then the screen goes black. Perfect.
I’m halfway through composing a surrender text when a familiar voice rumbles behind me.
“Morning, Sean. Having technical difficulties?”
I jump. “Greg! Hi. Uh, yeah. It’s… being strange.”
He leans over my shoulder, close enough that I catch the faint scent of mint, cedar, and something metallic. His presence fills the space; my workstation suddenly feels two sizes smaller.
“Hmm.” His brow furrows. “Looks like the authentication server kicked you out mid-update. Did you do anything unusual before it froze?”
“Define unusual. I might’ve… clicked something,” I admit.
He gives me a sideways grin, tusks just visible. “Clicked something. Classic.”
“I swear I didn’t mean to break it.”
“Relax, you didn’t break it.”
His fingers fly across my keyboard—quick, practiced, sure. Watching him work makes my face warm. He mutters to himself, eyes narrowing as lines of code scroll by.
Objectively, he’s handsome. The kind of handsome that feels a little unfair. Broad shoulders, muscles testing the limits of his button-down, those thick glasses that shouldn’t be attractive but so are—especially with how they make his deep green eyes look even softer. It’s infuriating, really.
I get it. He's huge, and I’m… compact. Sturdy.
Built more for reliability than spectacle.
And on the rare occasions I’ve actually gone on a date—or let someone talk me into one—I’ve learned that some guys don’t mind that.
Some even like it. But sitting next to Greg, I can’t help feeling like a side character in someone else’s romance novel.
“There’s a ripple in the permissions chain,” he says finally. “I’ll have to run a patch after hours. It’s tied to the main server, and rebooting it now would knock the entire office offline.”
My stomach drops. I may not understand what that means, but it can’t be good. “Oh no. I made more work for you.”
Greg shrugs. “It happens. Gives me an excuse to stay late.”
“Lucky you.”
He glances down, that tusky grin taunting me. “You could always stay. Keep me company?”
My heart does a full system crash. “K-keep you company?”
“I mean, only if you want. Moral support while I babysit the reboot.”
“Right, moral support,” I echo, trying not to combust.
The day crawls by. Every time I glimpse him—passing in the hall, refilling his water bottle, smiling at someone as he magically fixes things—my brain trips. He’s polite and warm, like he actually enjoys helping people, and that’s dangerous information.
By five-thirty, most of the office clears out.
The faint clacking of keyboards gives way to the shuffle of coats, chatter about evening plans, and the ding of the elevator.
I’m finishing up an email when Franklin appears in his doorway, looking sharp in a charcoal suit, Magnus trailing beside him in a deep red shirt that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
“Sean,” Franklin says with that easy grin of his, “just wanted to thank you again for the great work so far. You’ve settled in quickly.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to fidget. “I'm still getting used to the software, but I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
Magnus, who is the definition of a sexy Minotaur CEO, smirks. “He’s being modest, Franklin. I heard the IT tickets have your name all over them, Sean.”
I flush. “Yeah, uh, Greg’s been patient.”
Franklin chuckles. “Patience is one of his better qualities. We’re off to a dinner with the Board, and, knowing Magnus, it’ll involve too much wine and very little business.”
Magnus winks. “The best kind of meeting.”
“Try to enjoy your evening,” Franklin says. “And don’t stay too late, all right?”
I promise I’ll head out soon, but as they disappear toward the elevator, I realize that’s a lie.
Amara pops by next, phone in hand. “You sticking around? Don’t tell me you’re staying late on purpose.”
“Someone has to make sure IT doesn’t burn the place down,” I joke.
She tilts her head, a sly grin forming. “Ooh, someone’s got a crush.”
“Go home, Amara.”
When she finally flits away, the quiet settles. I wander toward the server room under the guise of curiosity.
He’s there, sleeves rolled higher than usual, fabric stretched over his shoulders like it’s barely holding on.
The muscles in his forearms flex and shift as he types, veins catching the soft blue glow from his monitors.
His concentration is intense—brows drawn, jaw tight—and for a second, my breath hitches.
I tell myself I’m watching his technique, something IT-related I could maybe learn to help my lack of finesse with technology.
But really, I’m just staring at how calm he looks, even when the rest of us are scrambling to fix our own mistakes.
There’s something steady about Greg, something grounding.
Which, of course, makes me feel anything but.
“How’s it going?” I ask from the doorway.
“Almost ready to reboot,” he says without looking up. “You sure you want to hang around? It might take a while.”
“I caused the problem. Feels wrong to bail.”
He nods, approving. “Good ethics. Grab a chair.”
I sit beside him, pretending to follow the technical stuff while mostly admiring his hands. His fingers are… massive. Long. Thick. What it might feel like with them all over my…
“So,” I say after a minute, watching him type, “do IT guys ever, you know, leave on time? Or is that against your job description?”
He chuckles, low and warm. “We’re supposed to. Lance bolts at five sharp. He’s got a wife and kids. Brill… vanishes for a ‘spiritual server alignment’ ceremony. By the time I usually notice it’s late, it’s just me here.”
“Sounds about right,” I mutter.
“Work-life balance,” he says with a grin, “is… optional.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding thinking of how my entire life feels like survival.
That earns me a tusky grin, the kind that makes my chest feel too small for my heart.
A few minutes pass, the only sound is the quiet hum of the servers and Greg’s typing. My stomach growls, betraying me. I clear my throat. “Okay, question two. Do IT guys eat dinner? Or are you powered by pure efficiency?”
He glances over, mouth quirking. “Depends on the IT guy.”
“Right. Well, this admin is starving,” I say, pulling up a delivery app on my phone. “Fair warning: I order like I’m feeding a small village.”
He hesitates, a faint wrinkle forming between his brows. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I cut in. “But you’re saving the company from a catastrophic meltdown I may or may not have caused, so the least I can do is buy you something greasy and unwise.”
Greg’s expression softens. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I thumb through the options. “There’s a pizza place not too far—Ogre’s Oven?”
That earns me another of his sweet yet devastating smiles. “Oh, they’re my favorite. Greasy in the best possible way.”
“What if I get half ‘Mega Meat Mountain,’ half ‘Veggie Void.’ You know, for balance.”
“You’re on. Except, how about ordering a full pie of each?” He pats his firm stomach. “Cleaning up your chaos created a sizable appetite.”
“Perfect,” I say, thumbing the order. “They’re right around the corner from my side gig. Been meaning to check them out.”
He glances at me, eyes softening. “You work somewhere else?”
“Yeah. Gorgon’s Griddle. I actually used to work there full time, but there’s no health insurance, and it was murder on my feet. After I got hired here, I kept a few weekend shifts. Helps keep me busy… and keeps me from drowning in a mountain of debt.”
“Must be exhausting.”
“Sometimes. But bills don’t pay themselves.”
There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—concern, maybe. It hits me unexpectedly deep.
The monitor pings. Greg straightens. “Here we go.”
He types a command, glances at me, and grins. “Time for a little Control-Alt-Delete reboot magic.”
“Don’t you mean Control-Alt-Orc?”
Greg laughs, deep and genuine. “Good one.” He presses the keys, and the main display goes dark. The sound in the room shifts—lower, heavier, vibrating through the floor.
I catch him staring at me for just a second, that little spark in his eyes I can’t quite read. There’s a shift in the way he holds himself, subtle but impossible to ignore.
“Everything okay?” I ask, leaning back slightly.
He nods, but there’s a flush to his cheeks that makes me grin. “Yeah… just… the display,” he mutters, though I don’t think it’s the screen that caught his attention.
“Now we wait,” he says.
I lean back, sip my lukewarm coffee, and steal a glance at him. His tusks catch the light. His jaw flexes slightly when he’s focused. Everything about him feels deliberate, grounded.
“You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t fixing everyone else’s disasters?” I ask.
He leans back a little, thinking. “I like helping people. Not just the technical stuff—though that’s satisfying too—but when I can solve a problem, make things smoother for someone, it…
it feels good. Like I’m actually doing something that matters.
That’s what keeps me coming back, even with the occasional long nights. ”
“You’re… something else,” I say softly.
“What about you?” he asks. “Is being Franklin's admin the ultimate goal?”
“Still figuring that out,” I admit. “Right now, survival feels like a full-time job.”
The next few minutes pass quietly, but there’s something comforting about being silent with Greg. I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the way his calm settles me, or maybe it’s just his ridiculously broad shoulders.
The server beeps, and text flies across the screen. Greg exhales. “And we’re back.”
“Already?”
“Told you. Nothing Control-Alt-Delete couldn’t handle.”
“Still. Thanks for saving my ass.”
He turns toward me, expression warm. “Anytime, Sean.”
The air between us vibrates—like static before a storm. I realize how close we’re sitting. One inch closer and his arm would brush mine. I don’t dare move.
“The pizzas should be downstairs by now.” I bite my lower lip. “Want to grab ’em and eat in the breakroom?”
His grin is immediate. “Absolutely.”
We pack up in silence, again the comfortable kind. When we step into the hallway, the office lights have gone into power-save mode, dim and golden. Our reflections blur in the glass doors as we head to the elevator.
A few minutes later, we’re squeezed in at the small table by the kitchenette, plates stacked high with cheesy slices.
Greg takes the seat next to me, close enough that our elbows almost touch.
The conversation is easy—laughing, debating toppings—and when he leans back, his shoulder nearly brushing mine, my pulse jumps.
“You know,” I say, taking a bite, “this might be the best part of my day.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” he replies, eyes crinkling. “Especially the company.”
It’s quiet again, but the buzz between us hasn’t gone anywhere. I realize I could sit here for hours, just like this, sharing pizza and stolen glances.
Greg pushes his plate toward the edge of the table, crumbs clinging to his fingers. He’s eaten an entire pizza, and half of the other, despite my valiant attempts to keep up. I gather our trash, shaking my head with a grin.
“Thanks for doing this.” He nods toward the empty pizza boxes. “And for staying late.”
“Anytime,” I say, cheeks warm. He flashes that smile—wide, genuine, devastating—and I swear I feel it all the way down to my toes.
When we finally head out, the night sky has deepened, the city lights stretching like ribbons across the dark streets.
“See you tomorrow?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He stops, looks at me, with that gentle grin that lets his tusks really show. “You can count on it,” he says, and his shoulder brushes mine as he steps closer than necessary.
I swallow, smile back, and murmur, “Good… don’t stay up too late.”
“I’ll try not to,” he says, voice low, and it feels like he’s really talking to me—not just the guy who’s a walking tech disaster, but me.
My heart still pounds, skipping and stuttering in ways I can’t name, but I don’t care. Not tonight.
And maybe… just maybe, staying late wasn’t such a bad idea after all.