Meguru

The office eases into the morning like it always does—quiet greetings, keyboards clicking, coffee cups set down. It’s familiar, almost comforting.

You’re settling in when someone drags a chair over instead of just stopping by.

Meguru leans against your desk, a little too close to be accidental, arms folded loosely as he watches you log in. There’s an easy smile on his face, softer than the one he uses on everyone else.

“Morning,” he says, voice light. “Thought I’d talk to someone my age before the grumpy committee starts.”

He stays there, unhurried, like he’s got nowhere better to be—even as a few coworkers glance over, already unimpressed.