8. System Overload
SYSTEM OVERLOAD
SEAN
I’m a professional.
I remind myself of that approximately every fourteen seconds.
They didn’t go over this in business school.
When I woke up this morning, I thought maybe, possibly, the mortification from yesterday would’ve faded overnight. That I’d stop replaying the part where Greg called me his good boy in his low, warm voice that sounded way too sincere for what we were doing.
Spoiler: it hasn’t faded. It’s gotten worse.
I sit at my desk and stare at my monitor, willing my brain to focus on the inbox that’s multiplying faster than a litter of gremlins.
I’ve already reorganized my desktop folders twice, color-coded my tasks, and cleaned out my “downloads” folder like I’m trying to determine which screenshots spark joy.
Anything to keep my mind off Greg.
The sound of laughter from down the hall makes me freeze.
It’s his laugh—bright and easy, like sunshine piercing through clouds.
My pulse picks up like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
Which is ridiculous, because I’m literally just existing at my desk, wearing a shirt that was not strategically chosen to make my shoulders look decent.
“Morning, Sean,” Amara calls as she breezes past, holding a stack of folders like she’s on her way to conquer the world.
“Morning,” I say, aiming for casual but hitting somewhere closer to “nervous telemarketer.”
She pauses, glances at me, and raises an eyebrow. “You okay? You look… flushed.”
I tap my keyboard too fast. “It’s warm in here.” I tug at my collar. “Isn’t it?”
“It’s sixty-eight degrees.” She tilts her head. “And you’re right outside Franklin's office. There’s literally a draft.”
“Guess I’m hot-blooded.”
Her smile says Sure, Jan. Then she’s gone.
I blow out a breath. Okay. No big deal. Greg works in IT. I work in br for Franklin Frost, our fearless leader. Entirely different spheres. If I can hold it together and not break anything with a circuit board, there's no reason for him to show up again.
Rule #1: No crossing boundaries.
Rule #2: No thinking about his hands. Or his lips. Tusks. Stomach. Abs. Chest. Those pierced nipples.
Rule #3: Definitely no thinking about the way he—
“Hey, you got a minute?”
I nearly fall out of my chair.
Franklin stands at the edge of my desk, ice cubes clicking softly in the cup clenched in his enormous, fur-dusted hand. He’s already shed his suit jacket—probably from overheating—and looks like he’s powered through three meetings and a snowstorm before 9:00 a.m.
“Yeah! Sure!” I blurt, too fast, trying to hide my panic behind my monitor.
He chuckles. “You okay, Sean? You look like a kid caught sneaking cookies.”
“Totally fine. Just… busy.”
He leans against my desk, and the ambient temperature drops a few degrees. “Good to hear. I wanted to check in—how’s the new IT patch working out? Lance and Greg have been making the rounds, helping folks transition.”
The name hits me like a defibrillator paddle.
“Oh, uh, yep,” I manage. “All good. System’s great. Perfect. No complaints.”
Franklin grins. “Glad to hear it. Greg’s a good guy. Really helpful, right?”
I try to drink my coffee to hide my expression but immediately choke on it. The coughing fit that follows feels biblical.
Franklin frowns. “You sure you’re all right?”
I wave a hand, eyes watering. “Wrong pipe.”
“Sure. Happens to the best of us.” He straightens. “Anyway, glad Greg’s been helpful.”
Yeah, he was helpful alright. His strong hand helped my raging boner until I came harder than I have in… forever. In the server room. At work.
I make a noise that’s probably supposed to be agreement but sounds like I’ve swallowed my own tongue.
“Good talk,” Franklin says, clearly deciding I’m a lost cause. “Keep up the fine work, Rivers.”
The second he’s gone, I drop my head to my desk and groan.
So much for subtlety.
I try to focus on work, really I do, but my brain’s still frozen from last night. After the fifth reread of an email, I catch it—pubic engagement. Not public. Pubic. Great. Nothing screams professionalism like a Freudian typo.
Around noon, my printer starts clicking like it’s trying to communicate in Morse code. No, sir. I ignore it. I’m not taking the bait.
Then a low, familiar voice says, “Are you ignoring your printer, Sean?”
I look up, and there he is.
Greg.
Today he’s in a cream button-down that fits too well, sleeves pushed up to reveal those irresistible muscular forearms with a faint trace of dark hair catching the light. His work badge hangs lopsided, and his grin—gods help me—is too open, too kind.
“I’m just… giving it space,” I say.
He laughs, that same golden sound, and crouches beside the printer. “She’s a delicate machine. Needs a gentle touch.”
“Do you talk to all the printers like that?”
“Only the ones that pout.” He glances up at me, eyes glinting. “Yours seems especially moody.”
“I wonder why,” I mutter, but my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
He fixes the problem in seconds, because of course he does, and when he stands, there’s something in the way he looks at me—steady, searching.
“By the way,” he says, setting a handful of candies next to my keyboard. “Your ‘help ticket’ came with a reward. Customer satisfaction bonus.”
I stare at the candy and imagine them squirting in my mouth. The way I squirted all over my chest last night under his touch.
Every atom in my body tenses. “Greg, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” He shrugs, easy, but there’s warmth in his voice. “You deserve it.”
He leaves before I can think of a reply.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of flustered distraction. Every time I reach for my mouse, my eyes drift back to the Splatters. Every time someone walks by, I half expect it to be him again.
At some point, Amara appears at my desk with her lunch. She eyes the candy then me.
“Uh-huh,” she says slowly. “Someone definitely has an admirer.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing, eh? Greg doesn’t leave anyone else mounds of candy.
I’m lucky if I get one. And then usually it’s the pink ones.
Which you’d think are strawberry flavored but are actually watermelon.
” She shudders dramatically, plopping into the chair beside my desk.
“Artificial watermelon should be illegal. I’m drafting a grievance as we speak. ”
I stifle a snort. “It’s not like that. He’s just… friendly.”
“Friendly?” she repeats, eyebrows climbing. “Friendly is holding the elevator. This”—she gestures to the enormous pile of Splatters on my desk like it’s proof of something—“is courting behavior.”
“It’s not courting behavior,” I say, though the words feel weak even to my own ears.
Amara grins, sharklike. “Oh, so you’ve noticed?”
“I notice everything,” I mutter, trying—and failing—not to smile. “It’s my job.”
“Right. Observant. Professional. Definitely not blushing.”
“I’m not blushing.”
“Sure you’re not,” she says, tearing into her sandwich, wings twitching just enough to ruffle the papers on my desk.
“Anyway, if you do decide to thank him properly, maybe don’t do it in the break room.
br frowns on PDA, even if it’s with an IT guy who could probably hack the entire system blindfolded—and probably has. ”
I groan. “You’re insufferable.”
She grins, feathers fluffing smugly. “Please. I live for this kind of chaos.”
I groan and drop my forehead onto my keyboard. “Amara, I’m begging you—stop helping.”
“Never,” she says cheerfully and steals a green Splatter from the pile. She grins, taking another bite of her sandwich. “Just saying. He’s cute. You’re cute. I ship it.”
“Please never say ‘ship’ when referring to me again.”
She laughs, unbothered. “Fine. But maybe let yourself have a little fun? All work and no play makes employees… crabby.”
“I’m not crabby.”
“Sure, you’re not,” she says and laughs all the way down the hallway.
By five, the day is almost over, and I’ve survived without further humiliation. I’m packing up when I hear the quiet tread of shoes behind me. Large shoes.
“Hey,” Greg says, voice low.
I turn. He’s holding something in his hand—an entire bag of Splatters. And not the small kind people probably give out for Halloween. This one’s massive. Huge. The words Monster Sharing Size are sprawled across the front.
“Thought you might like to have some to take home,” he says, offering it to me.
It’s such a small gesture, but my throat tightens. “Yeah, I would. Thanks.”
He hesitates, but he’s watching me. “You’ve been avoiding me, Sean.”
It’s not an accusation, exactly. Just the truth laid bare.
I open my mouth then close it again. “I just… didn’t want things to be weird.”
“They don’t have to be.”
“I crossed a line,” I whisper. “At work.”
He takes a slow breath, steps closer—close enough that I can smell the faint hint of cinnamon and metal on his skin. “You didn’t cross it alone.”
I look up at him. His expression is soft but unwavering, and there’s something in his eyes that isn’t teasing or casual. It’s real.
“I enjoy fixing things,” he says quietly. “Computers. Printers. Maybe even the messes people make when they overthink everything.”
“Greg—”
“But I’m not here to fix you.” His voice drops lower. “You don’t need fixing, Sean. You just need someone who actually sees you.”
I look in his eyes, and for a split second, I can’t breathe. Because Greg truly sees me.
There’s nothing slick or practiced in his tone, no smirk or double meaning. Just steady, warm certainty.
I don’t know what I look like right now—probably dazed—but he smiles, and something inside me quietly clicks into place.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says finally, turning to go.
“Greg?”
He glances back.
“Thank you. For the candy.”
His smile softens. “It’s my pleasure.”
With a wink that melts my insides, he’s gone.
I’m left staring at the empty hallway, heart pounding, the weight of something new and undeniable thrumming under my skin.
No more pretending.
Whatever this is between us—it’s already happening.