#tgcpodcast

“You’re gonna fall asleep,” he says at some point, not even looking at the camera. You had finished folding laundry a while ago, now underneath warm and clean blankets tucked all the at up to your chin.

“I am not,” you mumble, already blinking slower. “I’m listening.”

“You said ‘mhm’ to something I didn’t even say.” Isaac snorts.

“Did too.” You retorted sleepily.

“Name one thing I just said.”

“…you’re editing.”

He snorts. “Yeah. That was ten minutes ago.”

You try to argue, but the words melt into a yawn, and then into silence. Your cheek presses into your pillow, the dim light from your room washing everything soft and warm.

His voice becomes background noise comfortable, steady, safe. His occasional little note to himself out loud about what he was editing.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

————

When you wake up, your room is darker.

Your phone is still where you left it, screen dimmed but not off. The call timer is still going.

And Isaac is still there.

Headphones on. Hoodie pulled up. Eyes flicking between his monitor and the tiny square of your sleeping face.

He doesn’t notice you’re awake yet.. just keeps clicking, scrubbing through footage, occasionally glancing back at you like he’s checking something.

Like he’s making sure you’re still there.

“Isaac?” Your voice is rough with sleep.

He startles immediately, looking at the screen. “Oh… you’re up.”

You push yourself upright, heart doing something weird and warm in your chest. “You stayed?”

It comes out softer than you meant it to.

He shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Yeah.”

“For how long?” You asked sleepily.

“Since you knocked out.”

“I was asleep for like… hours.”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him. “Why didn’t you hang up?”

He hesitates. Not long, just enough to feel real.

Then he leans back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck. “I dunno. You looked comfortable.”

“That’s not a reason.”

“It is a reason.”

“Isaac.”

He sighs, eyes flicking away from the camera. “I didn’t wanna wake you.”

Your chest tightens.

“You could’ve just ended the call.”

“Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time. “Could’ve.”

Silence settles, but it’s not awkward. It’s the kind that hums: full, heavy, honest.

He finally meets your eyes through the screen.

“I like being on call with you,” he admits, voice casual in a way that sounds practiced. “Even if we’re not talking.”

Your fingers tighten around your blanket. “Even when I’m literally unconscious?”

He huffs a laugh. “Especially then. You’re not roasting me or distracting me. Peak productivity.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You both fall quiet again, and this time neither of you looks away.

He glances at the clock on his monitor. “You should probably go back to sleep.”

“You first.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“You’re still tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“Isaac.”

He studies you for a second, like he’s debating something. Then his voice softens.

“Stay on call?”

Your heart trips.

“Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

You settle back into your pillow. He turns down his mic volume, the clicking of his keyboard fading into something distant and rhythmic. Not annoying. Just there.

Comforting.

You close your eyes again, but this time you’re aware of him. The quiet breathing. The occasional shift of his chair. The way he checks the screen every few minutes.

Like he’s making sure you’re still safe. Still there.

Right before you drift off again, you hear him mumble, so quiet you almost think you imagined it:

“Night.”

Your lips curve into your pillow.

“Night, Isaac.”

“With my dating profile,” you add quickly, flipping over on your stomach and putting your feet in the air as you looked at the back of his chair.

That gets his attention. He turns in his chair, one socked foot hooking around the leg like he’s bracing himself. “You already deleted it once this week.”

“That was for personal growth.” you quickly responded.

“That was Tuesday.” he responded just as fast.

You sigh and shove the phone toward him anyway. He takes it without comment, his hands familiar with the weight of it by now. You’ve handed him your phone for everything; tweets, thumbnails, texts you’re scared to send.

It was normal between the two of you.

“Be honest,” you say. “Which pictures make me look like someone people want to date and not someone who would rather eat mcdonalds and sit in bed than go out and do something?”

He scrolls slowly, methodically, like he’s handling something fragile. You sit up next to him as he scrolls. You sit up next to him, hugging your knees to your chest.

First photo: you dressed nicely, hair done, golden hour lighting that makes your skin glow. You look confident. Happy. Like you know exactly where you’re going.

He stops. His thumb hovers. “This one’s good,” he says, carefully. “Just… maybe not the first one.”

You prop your chin on your knee. “Why not?” You titled your head to look at him. He squints at the screen, tilting his head. “It’s a little intense.”

“Intense?” You scrunched your face up in confusion.

“Like you’ve got your life together,” he says. “That scares people.” He looks over at you, eyes soft at you already looking at him.

“That’s insane. I cried over a broken mug yesterday.” You laughed, looking back down at your phone in his hands.

“Yeah, but they don’t know that,” he says, and scrolls past it. You don’t think twice.

Next photo: a mirror selfie, casual clothes, soft smile, your phone half-covering your face. The lighting isn’t perfect. You look relaxed, like you weren’t trying. “This one’s solid,” Isaac says. “Feels… real...”

“Real how?”

“Like,” he pauses, searching for the word, “you look like someone who’d sit on a couch and watch bad videos with me.”

You grin. “High praise.” He hums, already moving on. He slows his scrolling for a moment, hesitating on a singular picture. There it is; the photo you secretly like the most. The candid one.

Your head thrown back mid-laugh, eyes bright, sunlight catching every angle just right. A picture Nick had taken when you were hanging out with the boys at lunch on a hot spring afternoon

It’s the picture your friends always point at and say this one. The one that feels unfairly good.

For a moment, the room is quiet except for the faint hum of his PC.

Then he swipes to a different picture.

“Wait Isaac-“ you ask, stopping him and leaning closer. “People usually really like that one.” you go to grab your phone from his hand.

He shrugs, too quick. “It’s fine.” he moves the upper half of his body away from your out stretched arm.

“Just fine?”

“Yeah. I mean…” he gestures vaguely at the screen, “it’s kind of a lot right out the gate.”

“A lot of what?” you ask curiously , suddenly self conscious of the great picture of yourself.

“Presence,” he says. “You don’t wanna overwhelm them.”

You consider that. “Huh. I never thought about it like that.” you say back down in your previous spot.

“That’s why you asked me,” he says lightly.

You nod, fully convinced. “True.”

He keeps rearranging photos where you’re smiling but not glowing, laughing but not radiant. The versions of you that are cute and charming and warm, without being the kind of beautiful that makes someone stop and stare.

He leaves out every photo that would make someone fall a little too fast. You don’t notice.

“What about this one?” you ask, pointing to a blurry group photo where your face is half-turned, caught mid-sentence.

“That’s good,” he says immediately. “Shows personality.”

“You can barely see me.” you replied monotone.

“Exactly.” he jokes. You laugh and let him keep it. When he finally hands your phone back, he does it like he’s returning something precious. Like he’s double-checked every corner.

You scroll through the finished profile, eyes lighting up. “Wait. This actually looks really good.”

“Told you,” he says, leaning back, hands folded behind his head and he lays on his pillow.

“You’re scary good at this,” you add. “Like, disturbingly.”

He shrugs, but his ears are a little pink. “I know you.” He interlocks his hands behind his head as he leaned against the wall behind his bed.

That feels true enough not to question. You stand, stretching, feeling lighter. “Okay. Profile’s live. Guess we wait for my future marriage partner to appear.”

Isaac watches you, unreadable. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Guess so.” he adds on with a quick mumble as he looks at his own phone.

You miss it; you’re already smiling at your phone, already trusting that if someone was worth your time, Isaac would’ve helped them find you.

And he sits there, knowing exactly how much of you he left just out of reach.

----------

A week passes.

Which wouldn’t be notable, except for the fact that absolutely nothing happens. No matches worth replying to. No conversations that last longer than three messages.

One guy opens with “wyd” at two in the morning and you delete the app, very annoyed, before redownloading it twenty minutes later.

By the time you’re back on Isaac’s bed again, it feels like muscle memory.

Same spot. Same blanket. Same faint smell of lean gamersupps and whatever candle he forgot was burning hours ago. You’re scrolling with a frown, phone tilted toward the ceiling like it personally betrayed you.

“This app hates me,” you declare, throwing your phone on his bed and putting your hands on your face, falling back into his pillows and blankets.

Isaac hums from his desk. “Strong accusation.” he keeps his focus on whatever video he was watching.

“I’ve had zero luck,” you say dramatically. “Like, statistically impossible levels of zero.”

“That’s not true,” he replies, still turned to his desk.. “You matched with that one guy.” he points out.

“He asked me if I ‘believed in astrology but only the hot signs,’” you reply flatly.

Isaac held his breath for a moment before laughing out, “yeah, okay.”

You sigh and hit your head against his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. “I think your photo choices cursed me.”

He swivels slightly to face you. “Excuse you?”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, squinting at him like you’re trying to solve a mystery. “I’m serious. You always pick such shit photos for my dating profiles that I’m starting to wonder if you have an ulterior motive.”

You laugh as you say it. A little teasing. A little dramatic. Nothing sharp.

Isaac doesn’t laugh.

The air in the room shifts; not loudly, not obviously. Just enough that you feel it. He turns his chair all the way toward you this time, forearms resting on his desk chair arms.

“Do you actually think that?” he asks bluntly.

You blink. “Think what?”

“That I’d do that on purpose.”

You quickly sit up to face him with a serious but nervous expression on your face. “No! Isaac, I was joking.”

“I know,” he says quickly. Then, quieter, “I just-“ He stops.

For once, he looks unsure. Not awkward in his usual ironic way, but genuinely hesitant, eyes flicking down to the floor like he’s deciding whether to pick something up that might cut him.

You lower your voice without meaning to. “Hey. What’s up?” There’s a long pause. The kind that stretches, fills the space between words.

“I didn’t pick bad photos,” he says finally.

You laugh out slightly before sighing. “Debatable.”

“They were good,” he continues. “Just… not all of them.”

That makes you tilt your head. “Okay?”

He exhales through his nose, a soft, humorless sound. “I left out the ones where you look… unreal.”

You don’t interrupt him.

“The ones where anyone would stop scrolling,” he says. “The ones where it’s obvious how easy it would be to fall for you.”

Your heart stutters, confused. “Isaac-”

“I like you,” he says.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just honest, sitting there between you like something he’s been holding too tightly for too long.

“I didn’t plan to tell you like this,” he adds quickly, words tumbling now. “And I swear I wasn’t sabotaging you or whatever, I just- every time you handed me your phone, every time you trusted me with it, I couldn’t bring myself to put you out there like that.”

He laughs once, breathless. “Which, yeah. Ulterior motive. Guilty.” he puts his hand over his mouth and pulls it down, looking down at his lap which he was all of a sudden intrigued by.

You stare at him. Not because you’re upset. Not because you’re shocked.

But because suddenly a hundred tiny moments rearrange themselves in your head- the way he always volunteered to help, how carefully he’d scroll, how he never once joked about you the way he joked about everything else.

“Oh,” you say softly, looking at him.

He winces. “That’s… not encouraging.”

“I just-” you search for the words. “I really thought you were just being picky.” you try to justify it.

“I was,” he admits. “Just… selectively.” he looks up and makes eye contact with you. The room is quiet again, but this time it’s different. Charged. Waiting.

You glance down at your phone, still open to the app. Then back up at him.

“So,” you say slowly, “hypothetically… if I did want better photos on my profile…”

He raises an eyebrow. “Hypothetically?”

“…Wuld you still help me?” you ask.

He studies you, expression soft, careful but a hint of disappointment in it. “Yeah,” he says. “I would.”

You nod, heart racing. “Okay.” Neither of you move. His words still heavy in the air

------------

The month doesn’t stop. You do go on dates.

You sit across from guys in dimly lit bars and overly bright coffee shops, nodding at the right moments, laughing when you’re supposed to. You let them tell you about their jobs, their exes, their strong opinions about movies you don’t care about. You give them a fair chance. You really do.

And some of them are nice. Just… not right.

Every Friday or Saturday, without fail, you find yourself back at The Group House. Shoes kicked off by the door, jackets draped over the same chairs, your presence woven so naturally into their space it barely registers as something new.

You don’t talk about the confession. Not directly.

You talk about the dates, though- half-hearted recaps while you sit cross-legged on the floor, leaning against his couch, laying on his bed, in his car when getting food… pretty much anywhere it was just you two.

“One guy tried to explain my own sense of humor to me,” you say one night, sitting in the couch in the living room of the house, chinese takeout box in one hand and a utensil in the other.

Isaac grimaces. “Immediate disqualifier.” You pick at your food before taking a bite, swallowing before responding.

“Another brought his laptop,” you continue. “He said it was ‘just in case inspiration struck.’”

“For what?” Isaac asks.

“I don’t know. Being unemployed?” That one makes him laugh, full and loud, head tipping back. The sound settles somewhere warm in your chest.

You realize, disturbingly, that this is the most fun you’ve had all week.

It keeps happening.

You compare bad openers. You roast bios together. He makes you playlists “for morale.” You sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch, knees brushing, sharing fries like it means nothing.

You don’t notice when your dates blur together, but your time with Isaac doesn’t.

One night, you come back later than usual. It’s quiet, rain tapping softly against the windows. You’re curled up beside him, the glow from his monitor painting the room blue.

“I don’t get it,” you say suddenly.

“Get what?” He replied as he scrolled through his phone with one hand, the other arm around your shoulders.

You stare at the reel from instagram playing on his phone. “Why dating feels like homework.”

He huffs. “Maybe you just hate school.”

“Maybe,” you say. Then, softer, “I never feel like this here.” He doesn’t ask what this is. He knows.

The realization creeps up on you slowly, not like panic but like clarity. You replay the month in your head: the way you check the time on dates, the way you forget it exists with him. The way you’re more yourself sitting on his bed in sweatpants than dressed up across from someone trying too hard.

You sit up suddenly, Isaac glances over. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say. Then, after a breath, “I think I owe you an apology.”

His brow furrows. “For what?”

“For saying your photos sucked,” you say. “Turns out the problem wasn’t the pictures.” you look down at him as he’s still laying down.

He tilts his head. “Oh?”

You meet his eyes. Hold them this time.

“I like you too,” you say. The words come out steadier than you expect. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just true.

Isaac goes very still. “…You do?”

You nod. “I think I have for a while. I just didn’t realize it until I kept leaving dates early to come hang out with you.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, disbelief and relief tangled together. “Wow. I really lost to myself.”

You smile. “Yeah. You kinda did.”

There’s a pause. A soft one. The kind that feels like standing at the edge of something gentle but important.

“So,” he says slowly, “what does that mean?”

You glance around his room, your second roomby now. The desk. The familiar mess. Him.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit. “But I do know I’d rather be here with you than anywhere else.”

His smile is small, but it’s real. “I can work with that.”