You were a secretary. You were given copious amount of paperwork, with too much blacked out that you couldn't ask anyone about. It was all very frustrating, and you ended more nights than one with ink all over your fingers, squinting in the dark at text you couldn't read.
And then there was your boss. He was confusing.
Everyone in the office called him Lovino, but depending on who breezed in, he was called Romano or, even, Italy. You kept your nose down, but you would watch as Lovino strode in, talking angrily on his phone.
More than once, his gaze met yours. His eyes would widen and then flick down, and he would mutter into his phone and dash past your desk. It was always interesting, watching your boss go about his boss business. But you would always meet eyes.
One day, he even talked to you.
You were gazing forlornly at pages of redacted paperwork when a tanned hand suddenly appeared in your peripheral vision. You look up to see Lovino, and you smile before you can even think to stop yourself.
"Sir?" You ask.
"Hello." He smiles at you, something so quick and fleeting, you weren't sure it was even there to begin with. "I'd like to leave a coffee order. Please. You pick up coffee in the morning, right?"
"Uh, yes."
Lovino leaves you with an order, something long and complicated that you would never remember. And even when you bring it to him in the morning, Lovino, trapped in his mess of an office, he doesn't yell.
"What is this, black?" he grumbles, but he gives you that flash of a smile, and you don't dread the morning coffee run anymore.
Yes, your boss was an interesting man. Sometimes, he would trudge in a nice suit, hat pulled low over his eyes, swaggering by. And then, he would roll in the next morning, holding a half empty pizza box, dressed in a pair of shorts and a pastel button-up.
He talked about you.
He must, when he walked by, muttering on his phone. Too quick for your Italian to pick up, but he must. He would walk up to your desk, tap it, then walk away, like he had left the stove on.
And then one day, he brings you a coffee. Sometime sweet and native to Italy, and you take a sip and watch him walk away. Then, that was the pattern. Lovino would stroll up, always talking on his phone, and leave a coffee like a peace offering.
He would come up, tap your desk, ask, "Did you like the coffee?"
And you would smile, blowing on the coffee that was almost too sugary.
Lovino would grumble when you brought him the coffee from the chain, mumble about his country selling out, always winking or giving you a knowing grin. It was equilibrium: something that was sustained by late nights and sticky notes with notes scrawled on them.
Lovino held back.
There were times when he would be gone for a week, strolling back in without so much as a glance in your direction. He looked so tired sometimes, like there were a hundred things that were waiting for him as soon as he walked out of the office. When he looked at you, it looked as though he was looking at another you, someone who had brought him more than coffee.
It scared you, sometimes.
And then—like nothing had happened.
It was a confusing dance, one you felt was over your head. Lovino, who was Romano, who was Italy, who was your boss.