By mid-afternoon, the office always felt like it was slumping, like the walls were sick of numbers. The fluorescent lights buzzed, faint and irritating, like trapped flies. Screens glared too bright, burning my eyes. Someone’s instant soup sat forgotten on the kitchenette counter, lid half-off, steam long gone. The copy machine blinked “READY” in the corner, smug in its idleness. That was our routine: eight hours melting into the same dull rhythm.
Khalil slid into it like he was born for it. He’d stride in every morning with that same eager cheer—“Goodz morningz, Thomas, best boss!” he’d say, his sly smirk softened by a warm nod. By one, when we were all scarfing lunch at our desks, he’d be by the window, sandwich wrapped in a paper towel, scrolling his phone and muttering Arabic to the glass. He worked hard—too hard sometimes, triple-checking figures, asking questions he definitely knew the answers to, just to get my nod. When someone’s computer froze, he was on it before they could blink. “I fixz, yeah? For you, boss, no problemz!” Everyone liked him. They thought I did too. And I did. Probably more than I should’ve.
Our chats were small, nothing deep, but they felt warm, like they anchored the day.
“Seez that claim from Rowland & Co.?” I’d ask, half-lost in a spreadsheet.
“Yesez, strange one,” he’d say, leaning closer, eyes bright. “They putz wrong number in form, but I catch it, boss. You teach me goodz.”
“Good catch.”
He’d beam, almost bowing. “I watch detailz, boss. Like you alwayz say.”
I liked how he said it, like he was handing me a gift. His accent, that careful precision—it felt like every word was for me. Everything about him seemed deliberate: the way he folded his sleeves just so, or wiped dust off his monitor with his shirt, flashing a sliver of skin before tugging it down quick. Those moments lingered in my head too long.
Most folks cleared out by four. I’d stay till five, sometimes later. Khalil did too. “Too much workz, boss,” he’d say when I told him to go. “Gotta finizh for you todayz, yeah?” That “boss” hit me every time, warm and earnest, like he meant it more than anything. It warmed me in ways it shouldn’t have.
Around three-thirty, the office got this thick, quiet vibe. Hallway chatter faded, sunlight spilled through the blinds in dusty gold streaks. Khalil’s typing would slow, his chair creaking as he leaned back, stretching with a yawn, hand rubbing his shaved scalp. Everyone zoned out then, but something about him unwinding like that always caught me. Like a spark snapping.
He’d stand suddenly. “I goz bathroom, two minutez, yeah, boss?” Always that line, same eager tone, like he needed my okay to make it normal.
“Sure,” I’d say. “Take your time.”
I tried not to watch him go, but my eyes didn’t listen. The way his jeans hung a little loose, the quiet confidence in his walk, the round and manly shape of his butt. The bathroom door would click shut, faint but sharp. The air felt heavier, like the whole place was waiting.
I told myself I was imagining things, being dumb. People take bathroom breaks. Guys stretch their legs. But when he came back, something was different—a slight flush on his face, a softer smile, like he’d let something go. He’d open a drawer, shuffle papers, whistle half a tune. Once, he even shot me a grin. “All goodz, boss.”
One day, I couldn’t help it. “You good? You look… lighter.”
He laughed, leaning toward me. “Maybe coffee workz now, no? Or maybe you make dayz better, boss.”
“Maybe,” I said, grinning back, my face warmer than it should’ve been.
Our talks stayed in those safe little loops. It let me stay close without saying what was really on my mind.
Another day, I stared at the rain streaking the window. “Too quietz lately,” I said, borrowing his phrasing.
He looked up this time, eager. “Quietz good, boss. Mean no problemz. You keep thingz so smoothz here.”
“You don’t miss the noise?”
He shrugged, smiling. “Noise come backz when people startz to buy again. Till then—peace. You make it nice, boss.”
I nodded, but I liked the quiet for my own reasons. In the silence, I could hear him breathe, those small, real sounds that made him feel so close.
Sometimes he’d linger by my desk on his way out, glancing at my screen or the calendar pinned above it. “You alwayz here late, boss. Best worker, yeah? Don’t you havez better thingz?”
I smirked. “What, like a life?”
He chuckled, eyes bright. “Yesez, but you best boss. Make office worth it.”
“I like the quiet,” I said.
“Me tooz, boss.” His eyes caught mine for a second, warm and quick, then slid away.
The next day, he vanished again—four o’clock, almost quitting time. I didn’t even try to work, just sat there, cursor blinking, listening for his steps. They faded down the hall, the door clicking behind him. One minute. Three. Five. The spreadsheet blurred.
I thought about how he always came back calmer, like he’d reset. I thought about that one time in the bathroom—the smell, the proof—and how it could still be true. My pulse ticked up, but I didn’t move.
He came back eventually, drying his hands on a paper towel, the sharp scent of office soap trailing him. His eyes were softer, almost dreamy. He sat down, flashing me a quick smile. “All goodz, boss.”
“Long day,” I said.
“Yesez,” he murmured, rubbing his jaw. “Brain tiredz, but you make it okayz.”
“Go home soon, Khalil. You’ve done plenty.”
“Soonz,” he said, glancing at the hall with a faint smile. “One more claimz—for you, boss.”
“Always one more,” I teased. “You’re too diligent.”
He laughed lightly, leaning closer. “Gotta be, for best boss. You let me finizh, yeah?”
I told him to take his time, but I couldn’t stop watching his hands on the keyboard—steady, almost soothing, like a quiet rhythm. The office lights dimmed on their timer, shifting to a warm yellow glow. Outside, the rain had stopped.
We worked in silence for another ten minutes, just keystrokes and the soft hum of machines. When he finally shut down his computer, he turned to me. “You lock upz today, boss?”
“Yeah.”
“Okayz, best boss. See you tomorrowz.” He gave a small, playful salute, grinning.
He grabbed his stuff slowly, fixing his jacket, smoothing his collar. For a moment, he just stood in the doorway, looking like any guy leaving work. Nothing special.
But I knew where he’d been ten minutes ago. I knew the rhythm of his breath when he came back. And I knew I’d be here tomorrow, pretending to work, listening for that door, waiting for the silence to settle again.