Page 39 of Robbin’ the Rich

Micah: What are you doing today?

Robin: Spreadsheets. Zombie violence… maybe both simultaneously

Micah: Your hobbies are alarming

Robin: Says the man emotionally attached to fictional astronauts

I could practically hear his laugh through the phone. The thought warmed something low in my chest before I could stop it.

Coffee in hand, I wandered into my office and settled into my desk chair while my monitors flickered awake around me. It was time for work mode. Client files opened across one screen while spreadsheets filled the other. I lost myself in expense reports and quarterly projections.

Numbers made sense. Numbers behaved, unlike feelings. I tucked one leg beneath myself in the chair and started working through reconciliation reports while music pumped through the speakers.

For almost thirty full minutes, I behaved like a normal productive adult.

Then my phone buzzed again.

Micah: Important question

I smiled before I even opened it.

Robin: statistically unlikely, but continue

Micah: Do you think Spock would enjoy roller derby?

I snorted loud enough to startle myself.

Robin: No. But I think Data would. Figure that out.

A few seconds later:

Micah: Your answer is only making me more obsessed with you.

My stomach flipped so hard I physically leaned back in my chair. Jesus Christ. Nobody should’ve been allowed to make my heart flutter before ten AM.

I stared at the message way too long before typing back.

Robin: Bold statement for a man I could still theoretically stab

Micah: You’d look beautiful doing it

I dropped my forehead against my desk, laughing helplessly. This was ridiculous. I wasn’t used to smiling this much… or to checking my phone and feeling lighter. I wasn’t prepared for somebody weaving themselves into the edges of my day this quickly. But every time Micah’s name lit up my screen, warmth bloomed through me before I could stop it.

And honestly? I was starting to think maybe I didn’t want to stop it at all.

Later that day I made my way to the rink. Music echoed through the speakers while skaters circled the track in bursts of motion and color beneath lights of a disco ball. Wheels thundered against polished wood. Someone shouted near the jammer line. Laughter exploded from the benches where half the team already sat, gearing up for practice. The Grimm Reapers weren’t exactly graceful as a collective. We were more like organized chaos with kneepads. And I loved every second of it.

I dropped my bag beside the bench and was hit in the shoulder with a rolled-up sock.

“Late,” Mel called from across the room.

“I have a job,” I shot back.

“You work from home.”

“Exactly. Very busy.”

Mel snorted and went back to adjusting her helmet, clipboard in hand like an exhausted camp counselor.