It started with a spilled coffee and a shared hatred for Mondays.
Two years ago, Harry had just started at the Grand Astoria Hotel—fresh-faced, overdressed, and wildly overqualified for manning the reservation desk. Susan was already a few months in, working reception with the kind of calm that either came from deep inner peace or complete emotional burnout. Harry couldn't tell which.
They officially met on a Monday morning that began, as most disasters do, with caffeine and incompetence.
A guest had yelled at Susan for ten straight minutes about the wrong type of complimentary mint on his pillow. Harry, trying to be helpful, knocked over an entire tray of hot drinks onto said guest's Louis Vuitton briefcase.
There was a pause. Then a scream.
Then a quiet, slightly wheezy laugh from Susan as she turned her back to the chaos and whispered, "You've just activated my trap card."
Harry choked on a laugh. "You're a duelist?"
"Only in the emotional damage category."
After that, they clicked.
It turned out they had a lot in common. Both had moved to London for a "fresh start" that turned into a "mildly disappointing sequel." Both loved anime. Both owned more notebooks than they'd ever fill. And both had perfected the art of surviving the hospitality industry through sarcasm, caffeine, and a shared playlist of dramatic orchestral battle music for when things got really bad.
They didn't call it friendship. Not at first. It was more of an alliance. A "we'll get through this shift together or die trying" kind of thing. But over time, it grew into something stronger. Comfortable. Solid.
They covered each other's shifts. Watched trashy shows together on off-days. Texted memes during dull meetings. Harry even helped Susan dye her hair purple once—though he never spoke of the towel incident again.
There were rumors, of course. Coworkers whispered about "will-they-won't-they." But the truth was simpler. Harry and Susan just worked together—like puzzle pieces that didn't match, but still made sense when forced into the same corner.
They never defined it.
But when the world cracked open, and reality went sideways, neither had to ask the other what choice they'd make.
They already knew.