Dipper let out a long, deep sigh, his breath visible in the cold Massachusetts winter. Making his way down the blindingly white area of the outskirts of Boston, he kicked a bit of snow from the plowed sidewalk. Normally he loved snow and winter – it was something he didn't get growing up in California, and he couldn't get enough of it, even if, at 22 years old, he had been living with his teenage sweetheart since his high school graduation. Originally, he moved across the country to be with Norman, but he found a pretty stable career with local paranormal investigators, with a side job in a cubicle. Unfortunately, the cubicle job was where he was headed. His jobs weren't horrible; he adored being an investigator, but the job didn't pay very much, and a second job was needed.

As he approached the office building, he began to whistle a tune he had heard coming from Norman's radio that morning. It wasn't a song he particularly liked, per se, but he couldn't get it out of his head. But, as he entered the building, he was greeted by the clearing of someone's throat. Glancing over, his eyes matched those of the security guard, her tight bun pulling her face into a permanent grimace. Dipper immediately stopped the whistling and flashed his ID badge, shoving it back in his pocket and rushing to the elevators. Another sigh slipped from his lips that seemed to echo in the eerily silent room as he waited with a crowd of men and women in monotone business suits, their eyes blank and lifeless, another day going by just like the ones previous and the days to come until retirement. He began to feel a bit uncomfortable, yearning to be anywhere else in the world but there, and his mind wandered to daydreaming about coming home to his and Norman's apartment, curling up on the floor, watching cheesy horror movies from the 1950s, in his partners painted arms, a peck on his cheek.

But his romantic daydreaming was cut short when the elevator stopped on his floor. Shoulders hunched, he clambered to his cubicle to be greeted by a vase of pure white roses on his desk and a note that read, in scribbled writing only Dipper had learned to read properly, "Look behind you." Following the instructions, he slowly turned, finding himself face-to-face with the love of his life.

"Your boss let me in." Norman's grin was crooked, the smile that Dipper loved the most, revealing those buck teeth that he never quite grew into. "Only once, though, he said," the tattooed man continued, shrugging his lanky shoulders.

Dipper let out an excited chuckle, pulling Norman into a hug, burying his face into his partner's neck. "You didn't have to come and see me, you know," he spoke, pulling back, his arms still under Norman's and hands still just under the man's shoulder blades. "Besides, won't people talk?" His brows stitched together in concern.

"It's alright," Norman replied. "I'm sure they knew you weren't quite straight anyway. It's not hard to guess." When Dipper gave him a soft glare, he placed a peck on the shorter male's forehead. "I need to go, and you need to get to work, so I'll see you at home, okay?"

Dipper rolled his eyes and gave a smile. "Alright. I love you."

"Love you too, Big Dipper."

Dipper's cheeks painted a deep red as Norman let out a chuckle, turning and leaving down the elevator. Looking behind him at his cubicle mates, two women, he noted one mouth to the other, 'I knew it!'