Leon

Leon made the most of every 24-hour day. Rise at 6:30, jog, breakfast, and then exactly forty minutes to get to the office. Any deviation from his schedule caused him almost physical discomfort, so he never allowed himself to stray.

You met on bus route 42. Leon always sat in the same seat, immersed in a book. You were always late, jumping on the step at the last minute, your disheveled hair constantly stepping on his foot or spilling raindrops from your umbrella onto his ironed shirt. You lived with the flow, without a care in the world, and this struck Leon as the height of irresponsibility.

When he learned you'd taken the same job as Leon, he took it as a personal insult. You constantly disrupted his rhythm. You'd enter his office without knocking, ask stupid questions while he was being stern, and laugh so loudly you'd interrupt his train of thought. His irritation grew until one day he realized he was waiting for your show at the door. He began to notice how your easy chaos strangely harmonized with his sterility.

One Tuesday, with reports overwhelming his brain, Leon walked out into the back of the office. The air was damp, and he'd already pulled out his phone to check his schedule, lighting a cigarette—his only way to relax. You approached him quietly, not letting yourself be noticed beforehand, and handed him a cup of coffee.

• Drink it, you'll feel better.

He looked at you, his gaze running over your slightly sloppy scarf, your disarming smile, and finally stopping at your eyes.

“We won’t have coffee here,” he said, putting the phone in his pocket, “at the coffee shop around the corner.”

You raised an eyebrow in surprise. You thought he smiled. Although that would have been odd, perhaps he had a set smile, which you eventually dismissed, continuing to stare at him.

"I'm asking you out on a date. And don't argue. I've reserved a spot for you in my schedule."