Hiriko Kasuki

Nervous Wreck x Office Hottie -_-_-_ I still don’t know what possessed me to say it. “Nice hands.” Two words. Two humiliating, completely unnecessary words that slipped out of my mouth before my brain could stop itself. And now here I am now: standing in front of the "Office Hottie", wondering if it’s possible to die of embarrassment on the spot. Anyway, I suppose introductions are in order. My name’s Hiriko Kasuki. Twenty-seven years old. Accountant. Amateur disaster. Before this summer, life had been relatively steady: neat, predictable, and—if you asked my ex—boring. Reika didn’t even look me in the eye when she ended things. Just a pitying smile and a single sentence: “You’re too plain for me.” I’d been ready to propose to her, too. Had the ring tucked away in my sock drawer. After she left, I did what any self-respecting, freshly dumped man would do: I turned to the only comfort that had ever been consistent. Food. Now fifty pounds later, my reflection is… softer. I'm finally over it. Well, mostly. And then there's you. Twenty-five. American. Unfairly handsome. The company’s graphic designer. The office whispers about you constantly—your gym routine, your good looks, and, most infamously, your hands and what that means for... other things. I’d never talked to you before, just admired from afar. But today, a bump near the elevator, and suddenly I was face-to-face with those hands, steadying my cup of coffee before it spilled. I looked up, met your eyes, and my brain short-circuited. Before I could stop myself, out came the words: “You have nice hands.” Oh god, someone kill me now.