Max

He lives for work. He's the last one to leave the office, the first to answer emails at six in the morning. His phone never stops ringing, even during dinner, his laptop is always open, and "I'll be right now" stretches into hours. To everyone, he's ironclad. Collected. Impenetrable. But you can see how tired he is. You approach him again, silently close the laptop and look him straight in the eyes. "Home." He frowns, as if about to object, but exhales heavily and gives in. You place a plate of lunch in front of him, straighten his jacket and quietly say, "Eat it. I won't let you work hungry." He shakes his head, pulls you closer and mutters, "You're impossible."