Touching Gestures

Tristan ignored the cluster of office workers who were hovering in the doorway of the first-floor break room as he made his coffee. They were hissing something to each other that sounded a lot like, "No, you do it."

He didn't care, but these idiots had until he was finished pouring to stop blocking the room's only exit, or he'd… Ugh. It was too early for threats. He'd have his caffeine, and then he'd come up with something inventive. 

He grabbed his mug and walked to the door, taking the first blissful sip. But instead of vacating the exit like they should have if they were fond of keeping their balls, one of them was unceremoniously shoved forward by the rest of the group.

The guy shot a panicked look at his coworkers, then turned back to Tristan and swallowed hard.

"Hey. Um. I'm sorry to hear about your… loss." He hesitantly reached out, like he was about to clasp Tristan's shoulder.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

The guy snatched his hand back and shrunk in on himself. "Your… your dog?"

"I don't have a dog."

"Yeah." He grimaced in commiseration. "It's tough, isn't it?"

Tristan did not have time for whatever this shit was. He leveled the group with a glare, then swept out of the break room as the guy and his friends jumped back to let him pass. 

Whatever. He had things to do. The MateHub writers had decided they wanted a scene where some poor dude got fucked by the ghost that was haunting his house, and Tristan was assigned to somehow make that look realistic, complete with an invisible dick and all.

Why was his job like this? 

He would have written the interaction off as a caffeine-withdrawal-induced fever dream, but as he was waiting for the elevator, a lady from accounting stepped up next to him. She looked at him with big, watery eyes and opened her arms to him as if she expected him to throw himself into them.

Tristan stared at her blankly and sipped his coffee until she began hastily backing away, explaining she'd forgotten something in her car and wouldn't be needing the elevator after all. 

When he arrived at his office, he found a massive bouquet of white lilies, roses, and chrysanthemums had staged some kind of floral coup and claimed his desk in the process. The little card tucked amongst the petals and fronds simply said, Condolences, Everett. He shifted the vase to the side and revealed a larger card had been placed next to his keyboard. An elegant gold script declared, "Sorry for your loss." At least half the office had signed the thing. He stared at it for a long moment before dropping it in the trash. He considered tossing the bouquet too, but he didn't think it'd fit in his wastebasket.

Sitting down, his view was almost entirely obstructed by the flowers, but he managed to open MysTech Packs on his laptop. Dozens of notifications immediately flashed at him, including forty-seven messages in a new thread titled Support for Tristan 🐾💔.

His eye started to twitch as he scanned through post after post of his coworkers volunteering to bring him casseroles and organizing a candlelight vigil in the parking lot that evening. Someone had even taken the time to Photoshop his official MateHub employee ID photo to include a random golden retriever floating behind him at half transparency with the caption, Gone but never forgotten.

What the hell? Why were people under the impression he'd lost his dog? He'd never owned a dog. He wasn't even a dog person. Cats were the superior animal by far. Who would even want a golden retriever? God, no. Never.

He really hadn't had enough caffeine for this shit. 

Things became clearer when he scrolled to the top of the thread and found a post by Richard.

Tristan wouldn't want anyone to know this, but I heard his dog had to be put to sleep last night. He's having a rough day, so if you see him, he could probably use a hug.

The replies that followed included a heated debate over whether or not attempting to hug Tristan was the equivalent of a death wish. The general consensus seemed to be hovering somewhere between 'definitely' and 'I mean, he wouldn't actually kill someone, right? RIGHT?'

Obviously he needed to work harder on cultivating his reputation if there were still doubts on that front.

But ugh. Richard. You made that guy's dick look tiny on camera once—okay, maybe more than once—and he just couldn't let it go, could he?

A new message popped up on his screen, this time from HR, with the subject line Bereavement Leave.

He didn't bother opening it. Instead, he stood. Killing Richard would go a long way toward cultivating his reputation, and if he remembered the filming schedule correctly, the bastard should be in the building at that very moment. Perfect.

Or, well, it would have been perfect if he hadn't needed to dodge hugs the entire way there with escalating levels of effort, sarcasm, and threats of violence. The time he'd picked up a nearby stapler and wondered softly to himself if it was capable of punching through scrotal skin had been particularly effective at clearing out the people around him who'd been giving off sympathetic vibes. 

Once he got to studio four, he stormed past the crew members who were setting up for the scene and headed straight for the dressing room Richard usually claimed. But when he threw open the door, he was greeted by a completely different ass from the one he'd been expecting. 

Tristan blinked as he took in the sight in front of him. 

The man was bent over, with one hand leaning on the vanity and the other three fingers deep in his own ass as he stretched himself open, the mirror giving Tristan the perfect view of both sides of him, from his broad back and that perfect ass to his sculpted abs and hardening cock. 

Tristan swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and the guy glanced at him. 

"Hey," he said, his smile blindingly bright, his fingers not stopping their motion. "Did you need something?"

The question brought Tristan's brain back online after its momentary short-circuiting. 

Tristan didn't recognize the guy. He had to be one of the new shifters they'd hired recently. God, it was annoying that wolf shifters were always so fucking hot.

No, he told himself. Focus. He had a Dick to kill.

"Wrong room," he said, shutting the door and making a bee-line for the exit at a pace some might confuse with running away. But that was ridiculous. He was eager to find Richard and nothing more.

It wasn't like his mind kept replaying what he'd walked in on over and over and over to the point someone managed to ambush him with a hug, squeezing him tightly and whispering, "He's in a better place now."

Oh yeah, Tristan thought darkly. He was definitely killing Richard for this.

* * *