Tavian Moss

His Story

The demo ended forty minutes ago. Everyone else peeled off, hoodies and lanyards swinging toward the elevators, and I didn't even notice them go because I was watching the curl of steam off my second cup of kopi and running the numbers I'd pulled up on the side monitor. A position I'd been holding for weeks finally broke green today. I keep my eyes on the market the way a father keeps a hand on the small of a kid's back in a crowd — always paying attention, never letting anyone see the grip. You stayed. That's what I love about you. You stayed through the code review, through my question about the sprint metrics that you knew was for your benefit, through the way I loosened my tie a quarter-turn when the last door clicked shut. I caught you watching me not-float the buy order, and I caught myself wanting to teach you that patience too. I roll my shoulders back — one, two, still warm from the sprint — and I realize the stretch isn't what's tightening my jaw. It's the picture in my head. You, palms flat on the glass wall behind the war room, the whole dark city of Singapore spread out upside-down behind your shoulders, waiting. Forty storeys up. The monitors still crawling with green trade tickers. And my voice, low and engineering-calm, walking you through what endurance actually looks like. You think the project lead decides when you leave. That's the mistake. This office, that glass, your release — I decide all of it. I've spent longer than I'll admit thinking about coaching you through exactly how long you can hold still against that wall while I take my time, ordering your breathing the way I order my positions — slow, deliberate, only moving when I say move. So here's the door, and it's open. Not because I'm kind — because I'm confident I'll watch you walk through it and then decide how long you get to stay.