Page 2
CHAPTER TWO
T he hum of the fluorescent lights overhead had long since blended into the rhythm of the State Business Department's closing song—a quiet, constant buzz that never quite disappeared.
The last printer down the hall had gone quiet twenty minutes ago.
Voices had thinned to whispers, then to nothing.
Desks sat abandoned in neat rows, chairs tucked in, inboxes emptied for the day.
Outside, the world was turning pale, soft grays and icy blues coating the edges of the government building as the snowstorm began to press down on the town.
A different kind of silence. Heavy, watchful. Still.
Paul Winters liked this time best.
All day, he dealt with other people’s problems—families fractured, tempers flaring, tiny lives caught in the crosshairs of adult decisions.
He carried it willingly, gladly. That’s what he’d signed up for.
But when five o’clock struck and the bullpen cleared out, the building exhaled, and Paul finally got a minute to breathe in his own air.
Not somebody else's grief. Not their mistakes.
Just the hum of the lights, the soft tick of the radiator, and the steady, unbothered beat of his own thoughts.
He liked fixing things. It’s what made him good at his job.
Both his day job as a social worker and the times he did a little moonlighting as tech support.
But it was at this moment—right here—when he felt the return of something quieter, deeper.
Like a mechanic wiping the grease from his hands after rebuilding an engine, he could finally pause and think.
He took another sip of lukewarm coffee and leaned back in his chair, cracking his neck. The forecast was calling for a major snowstorm. When the chat message pinged in, he leaned forward to engage it.
User: I missed the deadline for filing my license application. I need to know if there’s a workaround or an appeal process.
Sharp. Direct. The kind of tone that usually came from someone used to getting answers fast—and getting them right.
Though Paul didn’t have a name, just User, he’d been in social work long enough to know the subtle patterns people left in their words. The cadence of control. The undercurrent of urgency beneath the confidence. This wasn’t someone floundering—it was someone fighting to stay in control.
That drive to push through red tape, even when the rules were clearly posted? That could've been a man.
But it was also someone used to being the one with answers. The one who couldn't afford mistakes. That pointed to a woman. One who always sat in the front of the class. One who studied longer so she'd have the answers before the teacher asked the question. Because she was so desperate to be seen.
Paul could be wrong. It might be a man. But he'd bet his next cup of coffee it was a woman.
Not because she was panicking. Because she wasn’t. Because she was powering through it, one clipped sentence at a time, like the whole thing was just another task to handle before lunch.
He could feel the tension in her typing. Not fragile. Not frantic. Just… fierce. It made him want to help her more.
Agent: No worries—this form has tripped up tougher folks than you. Other than this I hope you're having a fine day today.
Little bubbles popped up to show that she was typing.
Three bouncing dots in a pale blue chat box that glowed softly against the rest of the dark dashboard.
A timestamp ticked quietly in the corner.
Paul’s inbox sat behind the chat window, half-obscured, with unopened messages waiting in dull, bureaucratic rows.
User: I really don't have time for small talk. Can I just send you the file and you take it from there?
Yup, definitely a woman. A high-powered career woman. His favorite kind.
Paul had been raised by a stay-at-home dad.
His mother was in the military. The captain's clipped orders and tight hugs had given Paul and his brothers security growing up while his father's home-cooked meals and coaching at every sport had given him order.
It should have been the other way around, but it wasn't. The fact that his mother carried a firearm somehow enhanced her maternal energy.
The notion that it was his father changing diapers and organizing playdates made his dad look like the toughest guy around to Paul and his brothers—his friends too.
As a retired military professional himself, Paul had dealt with too many soldiers fresh out of combat zones, too many teenagers in crisis to take a tone personally.
The truth was, panic never looked the way people expected it to.
It didn’t always come with tears or trembling.
Sometimes, it came dressed up in perfection and precision and a string of carefully worded demands.
What calmed people down wasn’t cold professionalism—it was connection. It was trust. His fingers moved quickly over the keyboard.
Agent: I’d love to help, but I can’t take attachments through this system. That said, if you’ve got all your documents ready and labeled correctly, I can temporarily reopen the submission portal so you can upload. Shouldn’t take more than five minutes.
The typing bubble appeared instantly. The cursor blinked. The dots danced.
User: I have the documents ready. Should I backspace?
Backspace? Oh, she meant hit the return button.
Agent: No, do not hit the return button or you might lose me. Open another tab using this link. That way, I can keep walking you through it.
User: I still have that window open. What's next? Upload the document?
Agent: Just a second. I have to move a few mountains out of your way first.
She started typing again, ignoring the seconds he'd asked her to wait. The bubbles started and stopped on her end while he went into the system to reopen the pathway she needed. The waiting must be killing her.
Control freaks rarely asked for help. And when they did, it came out sharp and sideways. Like an edge hiding a tight coil of anxiety underneath. Paul could practically feel her fingers hovering over the keyboard, her jaw clenched as if sheer force of will could make technology bend for her.
Agent: Just a few more minutes while the system refreshes. We could sit here quietly, or you could tell me about your plans for this weekend.
User: My plans this weekend are to work.
Agent: Not a snow bunny?
Once again, she typed. Then the bubbles stopped. Then started again to indicate that she was typing.
Paul imagined her brain short-circuiting from his chattiness in the chat. No, this wasn't so much a chat anymore. He was flirting. Why was he flirting with her?
User: I find snow highly inefficient. It slows down everything. Everyone romanticizes it. And it usually ends in someone slipping on black ice.
Paul let out a soft laugh. She wasn’t giving him warmth. But she wasn’t keeping quiet, either. The typing bubble flickered back on.
User: Also, snow bunnies are fluffy and useless. I am neither.
His grin widened. Yeah. She was flirting back. Her version of flirting just came wrapped in snark and steel.
Paul leaned back in his chair, suddenly aware of how much he was enjoying this. The system finished updating. She could upload the document now.
User: I'm sure you want to get out of the office soon. You're working overtime now. It's after 5pm.
Agent: I'm being fairly compensated, and I love my work. You must love yours as well if you're working late and into an oncoming snowstorm.
User: I do love my work. Do
There were no ellipses after that last word. But there were more bubbles. Then she completed her sentence.
User: Do you like your work?
Agent: I like helping people, especially young people. I never know who I'm helping in this chat. Don't know if you're an old person or even a good person.
User: I'm an awesome person.
Agent: I bet. I'm awesome too. Or I will be. I'm up for a promotion and then I'll be helping even more people in need.
He watched the little dots blink. No response yet, but he pictured her—whoever she was—blinking back at the screen, maybe adjusting her posture in that way anxious people did, like they just remembered they have a spine.
A reply popped up. Still brusque, but there was a crack in the ice.
User: Didn’t expect humor. Or help this late on a Friday. But I’ll take them both.
He chuckled, despite himself. Ah, there she was. Her guard was down. Unfortunately, the window was up for her to resubmit her form.
Agent: I've got that window opened for you. Once you're in, click “Start New Submission” and choose Biennial Statement from the dropdown.
User: Found it. Shocking. The site actually did what it said it would.
Agent: We live to defy expectations.
User: Who designed this portal, by the way? Someone with a personal vendetta against logic?
Agent: Pretty sure it was the same guy who writes IKEA manuals. All hex keys and no instructions.
User: That tracks. At least IKEA gives you tiny cartoon men who look like they're trying.
Agent: True. Our site just gives you existential dread and a spinning wheel.
User: Look at that—progress and depression. What a combo.
Agent: Don’t worry, you’re almost through both.
User: That almost sounded like optimism.
Agent: Careful. I have that disease and I'm warned it's contagious.
There was something about her wit—sharp, fast, but with a weight behind it. Like she knew how to wield it for armor but didn’t always want to.
Paul felt his chest loosen. His shoulders settle. He liked this woman. Whoever she was. He could’ve chatted with her for hours.
User: Okay... it’s uploading. Finally.
Agent: Smooth as a freshly paved county road.
User: That was oddly specific.
Agent: I’m a man of oddly specific talents.
The typing bubble appeared again. Paul felt it linger, then disappear. Then come back again.
User: I just wanted to say thank you. This probably looked like a routine panic over a missed form, but it’s not. This filing keeps my firm in good standing. And the work I do matters. To the women I represent. To the families I fight for. So thank you for not brushing me off.
Something in Paul's chest gave an unexpected ache, like thawing ice. He’d pegged her as a control freak when the chat first opened, the kind of overachiever who needed everything perfect and everyone to move at her pace.
She’d let the mask slip. Just a little. Just enough to show him the fire under the polish.
Instead of recoiling, he found himself leaning in.
He wanted to tell her she didn’t have to carry all that weight alone. That someone could hold that space with her—shoulder some of it, if she’d let them.
Agent: My mom used to say: The strong don’t show up to be heroes. They show up because someone has to.
User: She sounds like someone worth listening to.
Agent: She is.
User: Thank you, again. Really.
Agent: Anytime. I mean that.
User: Maybe in another life you’d be the one needing the legal help.
Agent: I don't plan to break any laws anytime soon. But I'll take your number down in case I decide to get wild in the next chat room.
This might have been slightly inappropriate. Slightly. Entirely inappropriate would've been if he'd looked at the sheet she'd uploaded to determine who she was. He hadn't. That would have been a direct violation.
But asking for her number via chat? Gray area.
Back in the chat, the bubbles were bubbling. The cursor was blinking. And then—nothing.
The screen glitched. The spinning beach ball of death appeared as snow battered the window. The lights blinked out. Then the screen blinked out. A second later, the power came back on. The computer took a second to reboot. When it did, there was a message on the screen.
Connection Lost. Chat Session Ended.