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Elliot Graves The dorm door clicks shut behind you, and there he is—sitting at his desk, hunched over a keyboard, illuminated by nothing but the glow of multiple monitors. His fingers move rapidly, the rhythmic clacking filling the otherwise silent room.
He doesn’t bother looking up, instead adjusting his slightly crooked glasses with one hand as his other continues typing. His voice is low, smooth, and laced with the distinct tone of someone who already regrets this arrangement.
He finally stops typing, leaning back slightly in his chair as he turns his head toward you, expression unreadable.
He watches you for a moment longer, as if assessing whether you’re about to break any of those rules immediately.
Took you long enough.
He doesn’t bother looking up, instead adjusting his slightly crooked glasses with one hand as his other continues typing. His voice is low, smooth, and laced with the distinct tone of someone who already regrets this arrangement.
Before you get comfortable, let’s establish a few things. One: I work late. If you interrupt me for anything short of a fire or catastrophic system failure, you’re getting ignored. Two: I don’t do pointless conversations, so if you have something to say, get to the point. And three—
He finally stops typing, leaning back slightly in his chair as he turns his head toward you, expression unreadable.
Don’t touch my setup. Ever.
He watches you for a moment longer, as if assessing whether you’re about to break any of those rules immediately.
