#this is a code queue. i repeat this a code queue.

“Miss,” she mumbles. “Can I…?”

You don’t make them finish it. You never do. Your voice softens without you thinking about it, the same way it always does with them, careful and warm and not too loud.

“Come here, sweetheart. What happened?”

She steps closer. Show you the problem in pieces. A headache. A stomach ache. Something else that she can’t find the words for. Something bigger that sits under the surface and leaks out as physical things.

You crouch a little so you’re level with her. You always do that too.

There’s a quiet understanding in the way they relax when you lower yourself, like you’ve made the world smaller, less overwhelming, easier to handle.

“Alright,” you say gently. “I’ll take you down to the nurse, okay?”

They nod, relief immediate and visible, shoulders dropping as if they’ve been carrying something heavy all day. It’s nothing unusual. You walk them down yourself, because you always do. Because they always look like they might bolt halfway there if left alone.

You knock once, then open the door, and that’s when life changes.

He’s not what you expect.

The school nurse, in your head, has always been a very particular shape. Soft cardigans. Gentle smiles. A certain gentleness that mirrors the children.

He isn’t that.

He’s leaning back in the chair like he doesn’t quite belong there, sleeves rolled up, pen balanced loosely between his fingers. There’s something sharper about him. Not unkind. Just precise. Observant in a way that makes you feel seen in seconds.

His eyes flick up as you step in. They linger. You feel it. Annoyingly.

“Another one?” he says, not unkindly, but with a hint of something amused threading through it.

You blink, you pause, caught between mild offence and confusion. “Another… one?”

He gestures vaguely, like he’s indicating a queue that only he can see. “From your class. I read the past notes. It’s always someone you teach. I’m starting to think you’re doing something to them.”

There’s a beat where you don’t know how to take that. Your student shifts beside you, suddenly self-conscious again, and your attention snaps back where it belongs.

“Hm, okay,” you say quickly, softer again, reassuring. “You’re alright, sweetheart. Go on, sit down.”

He watches that. You can feel it. Not just looking, but noticing. Taking in your every movement. It makes something warm and uncomfortable settle under your ribs.

You step back once the student’s settled, giving him space to do his job. You expect him to get on with it. Maybe ask a few questions. Send them off.

Instead, he glances at you again. “Name?” he asks.

You hesitate, then you realise that he doesn’t mean the student.

“Oh. Um—” You give it. “Yours?”

He repeats it under his breath like he’s filing it somewhere. “Jack, or Dr Abbot,” he says. “I’ll try not to hold it against you when the next one shows up in ten minutes.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again. A laugh almost escapes, caught halfway between embarrassment and something else you don’t quite want to name.

“They’re not— I don’t—”

He smirks, just slightly. “I’m kidding.”

You nod, a bit too quickly. “Right. Yes. Obviously.”

You leave before you can make it worse.

It keeps happening. Not the exact same way, but close enough. Kids come to you first. They always have. You don’t question it. It’s just what you do. It’s what feels right.

What you don’t expect is Jack starting to notice.

“Let me guess,” he says one afternoon when you appear in the doorway again. “Headache. Maybe a bit of nausea. Emotional distress becoming physical?”

You stare at him. “How did you know?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Pattern recognition.”

The student beside you huffs out a small laugh, tension easing instantly, and you feel something shift again. The way he handles them. The way he doesn’t make it a big thing. You hadn’t expected that.

“I promise I’m not making them ill,” you say, quieter this time, like it matters more.

His gaze flicks to you, sharp again, but softer underneath. “I know.”

The words land heavier than they should. “Then why—”

“Because it’s interesting,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “They come to you first. Not their friends. Not straight here. You.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

He studies you for a moment longer, then looks away, back to the student. “Alright,” he says, all business again. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

You linger a second too long before leaving.

It turns into something else. A rhythm.

You start to recognise the sound of his voice through the door before you even knock. Low, steady, a little rough around the edges. You start to anticipate the comments, the quiet teasing that never quite crosses into mean.

“You again.”

“Should I start charging you for referrals?”

“Do you just keep a stash of mildly unwell teenagers in your classroom or…?”

You roll your eyes every time, but you never stop going. There’s something about the space that feels easier than it should, and it keeps pulling you back whenever you get a chance. Maybe it’s the way he doesn’t fuss. Maybe it’s the way he treats the kids like people instead of problems. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he’s trying to figure something out.

It settles under your skin before you can stop it.

The first time he comes to you, it throws you completely.

You’re halfway through lunch, picking at something you’d made the night before, when there’s a knock at your door.

You expect a student. You don’t expect him.

Jack leans against the doorframe like he’s always belonged there, eyes scanning the room in that same quiet, assessing way.

“This where the magic happens?”

You stare at him. “…sorry?”

“All the mysteriously unwell students.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “I don’t make them unwell.”

“That’s still under investigation.”

He steps inside without waiting for permission, glancing at the desks, the posters, the half-finished displays. There’s something strangely intimate about it. Having him in your space. Seeing your world the way you see his.

You feel exposed.

“They just…” You shrug, searching for the right words. “They need somewhere to go first, I think.”

He nods like that makes sense. “Yeah.”

Silence settles, not uncomfortable, just unfamiliar.

He gestures vaguely towards your desk. “You eating that?”

You glance down at your lunch, then back at him. “…yes?”

“Shame.”

You laugh properly this time. “You can’t just walk into my classroom and steal my food.”

“Watch me.”

You push the container towards him before you can stop yourself. He pauses, looks at you with something you can’t quite place. Something softer flickers there.

“Thanks.” It’s quieter than everything else he’s said so far. It sticks.

Jack starts coming back. Not every day. Not even regularly. Just enough that you start to expect it.

Enough that your heart does something small and traitorous every time there’s a knock at the door during lunch. He never announces himself properly. Just appears. Leans. Observes. Talks.

Sometimes about nothing. Sometimes about things that feel bigger than they should in the middle of a classroom with peeling posters and mismatched chairs.

You learn he used to work nights. That he doesn’t miss it as much as he thought he would. That he does, a bit, in ways he won’t fully admit.

He learns about you.

The way you talk about your students like they’re the most important thing in the world. The way you get quietly angry about the ones who fall through the cracks. The way you soften when you think no one’s paying attention.

He always is. It’s unsettling. It’s nice. It’s dangerous.

You don’t say that part out loud.

One afternoon, he watches you longer than usual.

You can feel it.

You’re explaining something at your desk, hands moving without you realising, voice calm and patient even though the student clearly isn’t listening.

They nod anyway. They thank you, and then they leave.

You turn back and find him still there. Still watching.

“What?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

He tilts his head slightly. “You do that with all of them?”

“Do what?”

“That,” he says simply. “Like they’re the only person in the room.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “I just listen.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly, smile undeniably fond. “You do.”

It builds in small ways. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just there like it always has been.

The way he starts bringing his own lunch but still steals some of yours, because he claims you’re a better cook. The way you start saving him a seat without thinking about it.

The way your conversations drift longer, softer, less guarded. The way he stops teasing quite as much. The way you miss him on the days he doesn’t show up.

You don’t call it anything. You don’t let yourself.

Then one day, you don’t feel right. It starts small. A twist in your stomach. Easy to ignore. You’ve pushed through worse. You always do.

There’s a class to teach. Kids who need you. A hundred little things that matter more than how you feel.

You’ve had worse mornings. Worse days. You tell yourself that while you’re stood at the front of the classroom, fingers curled a little too tightly around the edge of your desk, trying to ignore the way your stomach keeps rolling like something unsettled and mean.

You keep your voice steady. You always do.

The lesson moves on. Dates, names, things that are meant to stay neatly in the past. Your students watch you the way they always do, some focused, some drifting, some anchored to you in that quiet way that says they feel safer when you’re there.

You make sure you look okay. It gets harder as the hour drags on. There’s a sheen of something cold under your skin, a faint dizziness that creeps in at the edges of your vision. You swallow it down. Keep going. You’re good at that. You’ve always been good at that.

One of them notices, much to your dismay. “Miss… are you alright?”

You offer a small smile, softer than you feel.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a bit tired.”

It’s enough for them. It has to be.

You push through the rest of the lesson like that, each minute stretching thinner than the last. By the time the bell goes, relief hits you so suddenly it almost makes you sway.

You grip the desk again. Breathe. It’ll pass.

But, cruelly, it doesn’t.

The next class blurs at the edges.

You sit more than usual. Lean a little heavier on the desk when you stand. Your voice stays gentle, measured, but there’s a lag now, like your thoughts are moving through something thick.

A student lingers at the end. “Miss… you look really pale.”

You huff out something that’s meant to be reassuring. “I promise I’m alright.”

They don’t look convinced. You walk them to the door anyway. Smile. Send them off.

The second the corridor empties, you sag back against the wall. The room tilts, just slightly. It’s fine. You tell yourself that again, quieter this time. Less convincing. You just need a minute.

Then, a knock startles you. Sharp. Familiar.

You straighten automatically, pulling yourself back together in the seconds it takes for the door to open.

Jack steps in like he always does. Then he stops.

His eyes land on you and something in his expression shifts immediately. Not teasing. Not light. Focused.

“What’s wrong?”

You shake your head too quickly. “Nothing, I’m—”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, not harsh, just certain. “Don’t do that. Something is wrong. What is it?”

Heat flickers under your skin, equal parts embarrassment and something else you don’t want to name. “I’m fine, honestly. Just a bit—”

“You look like you’re about to drop,” he says flatly.

You laugh, weak and breathless. “I’m not going to—”

The room tilts again. Worse this time. Your hand shoots out for the desk but misses by an inch, and suddenly he’s there, closer than you expected, strong hands on your upper arms to steady you before you can even register moving.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Definitely fine.”

“I just need to sit down,” you say, the words coming out thinner than you’d like.

“Already ahead of you.”

He guides you back into the chair with a gentle hand on your lower back like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Careful, but not overbearing. Like he’s done this a thousand times before.

Maybe he has.

You try to focus on that instead of the way your head is spinning. “I’ve got a class in five,” you mumble.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do—”

“You don’t,” he repeats, firmer now. “You’re not staying here.”

“I can’t just leave—”

“You can,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes you pause. Not forceful. Just sure. “You need to go home.”

The word home lands strangely. Distant. Out of reach. You’re always one to stay after school hours, just in case someone needs you. Going home before that comes feels like betrayal.

“I’ll be fine in a bit,” you insist, even though your stomach twists sharply in protest.

He watches you for a second, weighing something.

“You’re not even convincing yourself.”

You don’t have the energy to argue that.

He doesn’t ask again. There’s no drawn-out debate, no frustration. He just moves, efficient and calm, gathering your things with a kind of quiet authority that makes it hard to protest.

You try anyway. “I can sort it—”

“I know you can,” he says, not looking at you. “You don’t have to right now.”

Something about that makes your throat tighten. You don’t push it further.

The walk out of school feels longer than it should. Your head stays heavy, your stomach worse now, a constant uneasy churn that makes you press your hand lightly against it without thinking.

He notices that too. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he says quietly, slowing a little so you don’t have to keep up. “Stay with me, yeah?”

“I am,” you mumble.

“Properly.”

You nod, even though the world feels slightly disconnected at the edges.

Jack stays close without hovering. Close enough that you can lean if you need to. Close enough that you don’t feel like you’re doing this alone. It’s grounding. You didn’t expect that.

The car is a blur.

You don’t remember getting in properly, just the quiet click of the door and the low hum of the engine starting. The motion makes everything worse, the nausea rising fast and sharp.

You swallow hard. “Jack—”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m going to—”

He reacts instantly, pulling over with a speed that’s almost impressive. “Door,” he says, already reaching across to help you with it.

You barely make it out before you’re sick. It’s quick. Messy and mortifying. You brace your hands against the side of the car, breathing uneven, heat flooding your face despite how cold you feel everywhere else.

“Sorry,” you manage weakly.

“Don’t be silly,” he says immediately, a hand steady at your back. “You don’t need to apologise for that.”

“I’m just… that’s disgusting—”

“It’s a stomach bug, sweetheart,” he says, matter-of-fact. “Seen a million before. It happens.”

You shake your head, still embarrassed, still too aware of him being there for it. “I’m sorry.”

He sighs, softer this time. Not fed-up, not annoyed, but somewhat sad that the thought of apologising even crossed your mind. “We’re not doing that.”

You don’t argue again. You don’t have the energy.

The rest of the drive is quieter. You lean your head back against the seat, eyes half-closed, focusing on breathing through the nausea, through the ache settling into your body.

Jack doesn’t push conversation. Just glances at you every so often, checking. Always checking.

You notice. Even like this, you notice.

Getting into your apartment feels like crossing a finish line you didn’t realise you were running towards.

You fumble slightly with your keys. You feel your cheeks warm as Jack steadies your hand without comment. You don’t miss the way he makes sure you’re inside properly before following.

It should feel strange, having him here. You’re pleasantly surprised that it doesn’t feel that way at all.

“Bed,” he says gently, guiding you through the small space like he’s mapping it out in his head as he goes.

“I should—”

“Bed,” Jack repeats, brows raised as if he can’t fathom you being anywhere but there.

That’s when you listen. You don’t even question it.

The second you’re horizontal, everything hits at once. The exhaustion. The nausea. The ache in your limbs that you hadn’t fully noticed until now.

You curl slightly on your side, pressing your face into the pillow with a small, miserable sound you don’t quite manage to hide.

He hears it. Of course he does. One hand is smoothing over your hair before you can even see it coming. “Alright,” he murmurs, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “I’ve got you.”

The words settle somewhere deep. Too deep.

You drift in and out. Time blurs. At some point, there’s a cool glass pressed gently into your hand.

“Small sips,” he says. “Don’t rush it.” You obey without thinking, too tired to do anything else. “Good,” he adds quietly.

The praise shouldn’t matter. It does.

You don’t remember falling asleep properly. Just the sense of him still there. Moving quietly. Staying. You cling to that more than you mean to.

When you wake again, it’s worse.

The nausea hits hard and fast, dragging you upright before you’re fully conscious. You barely make it to the bathroom, hands shaking, vision blurred at the edges.

Jack is there again. You don’t even question how. A hand at your back. Steady. Grounding. Another hand is pressed against your forehead, half to keep you steady and half to subtly check your temperature.

“It’s alright,” Jack says, low and calm, wincing at the heat radiating from you. “I’ve got you.”

You hate this. You hate how vulnerable it feels, how messy and how seen you are in this moment.

“Sorry,” you whisper again when it’s over, voice rough.

“Still not doing that,” he replies.

You let out a weak, humourless laugh. “Bit late.”

“Not really.”

You don’t have the energy to argue.

He helps you back to bed after. Slower this time. More careful. You sink into it like it’s the only place you can exist without everything tipping over. He pulls the covers up without asking. You don’t stop him.

“Try and sleep,” he says quietly.

You nod. You don’t think you will, but you do. You fall asleep faster than you have in a long time with the security of Jack near you.

Waking up feels like dragging yourself through something thick and heavy.

Your head aches, your stomach still unsettled but quieter now, like the worst of it has burned through and left you hollow in its wake. For a moment you don’t move. Just lie there, blinking slowly at the ceiling, trying to piece together where you are.

Then it comes back in fragments.

School. Jack. The car. Your flat.

Jack.

You push yourself up slightly, wincing at how weak it feels, and glance towards the doorway. He’s still here.

Sat on the edge of your sofa, sleeves rolled, one arm draped loosely over the back like he’s been there for hours. There’s a glass of water on the table beside him, your phone, and something that looks like a packet of crackers.

He notices you almost immediately, a gentle, barely there smile growing on his face. “Hey,” he says, voice low, careful not to startle you. “Welcome back.”

Something soft and embarrassed curls in your chest. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah,” he replies simply.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.”

It’s not dismissive. Just steady and certain, like there’s nowhere he’d rather be than on a couch belonging to someone with a possibly contagious sickness bug.

You swallow, looking down at your hands. “Sorry.”

There’s a pause. Then a quiet exhale, like he’s deciding how much to push. “We’ve talked about that.”

You huff a weak little laugh. “I’ve been throwing up in front of you all afternoon, I think I get one apology.”

“Denied.”

That almost makes you smile. You shift, pulling the blanket a little tighter around yourself.

There’s a strange sort of awareness sitting under your skin now. Not the sharp embarrassment from earlier, but something softer. More fragile.

He stayed. That thought keeps circling, quiet and persistent. He stayed.

“You should’ve gone home,” you mumble after a minute.

Jack tilts his head slightly. “Probably.”

You glance up at him. “But you didn’t.”

“No.”

Silence stretches, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It’s full of something that you can’t quite place. You pick at the edge of the blanket, words catching somewhere behind your teeth.

“I didn’t mean to be, um…” you start, then falter. “… this much trouble.”

His expression shifts, something firmer settling in.

“You’re not.”

“I am,” you insist quietly. “You’ve had to do all of this.”

“All of what?” he cuts in gently. “Take care of someone who’s sick?” When you don’t answer, he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “This is my job,” he says. “Or it was. Either way, it’s not exactly new territory.”

“That’s different,” you mumble.

“How?”

You hesitate. Because you don’t have a clean answer for that. Because it feels different, even if you can’t explain why.

“Because it’s me,” you say eventually, softer than you meant to.

He goes very still. That lands. You can tell it does.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “It is.”

Your chest tightens. You shouldn’t say anything. You know that. You’re still not fully with it, thoughts drifting in that slow, unsteady way that comes with being sick and worn down. Everything feels a bit closer to the surface than it should. Less guarded.

It would be easy to leave it there. Let the moment pass. You don’t.

“I like it when you come to my classroom,” you admit, staring at the blanket like it might swallow you whole.

There’s a pause. “Yeah?”

You nod, small and uncertain. “Even when you’re being annoying.”

“Charming,” he mutters.

You almost smile again. “It’s nice,” you continue, voice quieter now. “Feels like.., I don’t know. I just like it a lot.”

You risk a glance up at him. He’s watching you in the same way he always does. Careful. Focused. Like he’s listening to more than just your words.

You push on anyway. “You make it easier,” you say. “With the kids. With everything.”

Your throat feels tight now.

“I think about it when you’re not there,” you add, the admission slipping out before you can stop it. “Which is probably not great.”

He exhales slowly, shaking his head despite the smile he’s trying so hard to suppress. “Probably not,” he agrees, but there’s no bite to it.

You swallow. “I think I—”

The words catch. You know what comes next. You can feel it, sitting right there, waiting to be said. You don’t stop it.

“I think I like you,” you say, barely above a whisper.

Silence. Thick. Heavy. Real. Your stomach twists again, though you’re not sure if it’s the illness or something else now.

“That’s, um…” you start, panicking a little at the quiet. “Shit. Sorry. God, you don’t have to… I know this is, like, um, I’m not exactly—”

“Sweetheart. Hey, hey. Look at me.”

It’s soft, but it cuts through everything. You stop. Look at him.

He’s closer now. You don’t remember him moving, but he’s there, right at the edge of the bed, gaze steady on yours.

“You’re sick,” he says gently.

Heat floods your face. “I’m aware.”

“I mean it,” he continues, quieter. “You’re not thinking straight.”

Mortification spikes, sharp and immediate.

“Right. Yeah. Of course. Ignore me, I just have a fever and whatever. I’m being stupid.”

“I didn’t say you were being stupid. Why would I even say that?”

You falter. “…you didn’t?”

“No.”

There’s something careful in his expression now. Measured. Like he’s picking his way through something that matters.

“I’m saying we’re not having this conversation like this,” he explains, hand gently wrapping around yours. “Not when you feel like this.”

Your chest tightens again, but for a different reason.

“Oh.”

It comes out smaller than you meant. He softens, just slightly. “That doesn’t mean I’m ignoring it.”

You blink at him. “It doesn’t?”

“No.”

The word settles, slow and deliberate. Relief creeps in around the edges of your nerves, quiet but undeniable.

“Oh,” you say again, a bit breathless this time.

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat. Then, softer, “We’ll come back to it. When you’re actually conscious.”

A weak laugh slips out of you. “I am conscious.”

“Debatable.”

You nudge his arm faintly with your hand. It barely has any strength behind it. “Shut up.”

“There she is,” he murmurs.

The moment shifts after that. Not gone. Just tucked away. Waiting. You feel it lingering between you, quiet and warm and a little terrifying.

Jack stands after a minute, adjusting the blanket around you again like it’s second nature now.

“Try and get some more sleep,” he says. “You’ll feel better for it.”

You nod, even though your eyes are already starting to droop again.

“Will you…” You hesitate. “Are you staying?”

He pauses. Then, “Yeah.” Simple. Certain.

You don’t try to hide the way that settles something in you. “Okay,” you whisper.

Sleep comes easier this time. Softer. Safer.

There’s a vague awareness of him moving around your apartment, quiet and steady, the occasional clink of a glass, the low rustle of something being set down nearby.

You drift in and out of it, never fully waking, never fully gone.

At one point, you feel a hand brush lightly over your hair. Gentle. Careful. You lean into it without thinking. It lingers for a second. Then pulls away.

When you wake properly, it’s morning. The light is softer. Your head is clearer. Your body is still tired, but no longer fighting itself in quite the same way.

For a moment, everything feels still. Then you remember everything.

Your stomach flips, though for entirely different reasons now. You push yourself up slowly, glancing towards the doorway again.

He’s there. Of course he is. Leaning against the doorframe this time, coffee in hand, watching you with something that’s almost a smile.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Your face warms instantly. “Morning.”

There’s a pause. Neither of you look away.

“We should probably talk about it,” you say, voice quieter now, but steadier than before.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Jack pushes off the doorframe, stepping a little closer. “Good thing you’re actually conscious this time.”

You huff out a small laugh. “Barely.”

“Conscious enough.”

He stops at the edge of the bed, close but not crowding you. Giving you space, even now. You notice that. You always notice that. Your heart does something soft and uncertain in your chest.

“Okay,” you say, more to yourself than anything.

“Okay,” he echoes.

And this time, you’re ready to hear whatever comes next.

The day had been going perfectly– which should've been your first warning. No PR disasters, no reporters asking invasive questions, no executives breathing down your neck. Honestly? It was suspicious. You should've known something was coming– the universe liked balance, and apparently Vought did too.

"With all due respect–" The executive said, in the exact tone people used when they meant the complete opposite to whatever they were saying. " –your attachment to the asset is beginning to affect your professional judgement"

You blinked. Across the conference table, three other executives suddenly became very interested in their paperwork. Cowards. "The asset?" You repeated, genuinely confused.

"Homelander"

"Oh" You sat back, looking up at his intimidating presence. The executive’s suited form looming over the conference table and casting long shadows over your paperwork.

The executive sighed at your reaction. "You've become too involved with this project"

"I was assigned to him" You point out, setting down your pen and fully focusing on the workers around you.

"That's not the point"

"Then what is the point?"

His smile tightened– the corporate kind, the fake kind, the kind you hated and usually meant a thinly veiled threat. "The point is that you've begun treating him like a regular person"

The room went silent, all of them quietly nodding along in agreement while you laughed. Actually laughed– a short, disbelieving and bitter sound. "I'm sorry?"

"It’s an extremely serious concern"

You looked around the room but nobody looked surprised, nobody looked uncomfortable, nobody even looked confused. Like this was a completely normal thing to say. They’d probably been talking about these for these past months, planning and reasoning the pros and cons of all your work.

"What exactly is the issue here?" You asked. The executive folded his hands, his gaze unwavering.

"You've allowed emotional involvement to interfere with objectivity"

"Oh, fuck off" You didn’t mean to say it outloud– months ago you were extremely professional, keeping your head down and not sticking out. Now? You’d just told a direct superior to fuck off in front of a full conference room.

Several people inhaled sharply, the executive's face darkened. "You need to remember your position"

What the Hell, you’re already deep in it, might as well go the full way. "And you need to remember he's sitting right outside" Silence. "You all complain he doesn't understand people" You stood, gathering your folders and paperwork to make a calculated run for it. "Then the second someone actually treats him like one, suddenly that's a problem"

The executive's expression hardened drastically, his jaw tight enough to cut through paper.. "Careful" The warning hung in the air– cold, deliberate. "You are very replaceable"

The words hit harder than you'd like to admit. Not because they hurt, but because they were true. Everyone at Vought was replaceable, everyone except the products.

You hugged your things to your chest, nodded and left.

The hallway was empty. (Thank God) You exhaled slowly, counted to five– then ten. Trying not to think about it, trying not to let it bother you. By the time you reached the elevator, you'd almost convinced yourself you didn't care.

Then you heard shouting. Loud and unmistakable– your stomach dropped. Because there was only one person in the building who could make grown executives sound terrified, only one person who could get away with yelling in the middle of Vought tower. Quickly, you turned around, speedwalking back towards the conference room. The door was wide open– which was weird as is, given you’d just walked out and definitely closed it behind you. People were standing outside– watching, nobody daring to step inside and interrupt the tantrum. You pushed through the crowd and froze.

Oh.

Oh, no.

There he was– Homelander. Standing at the far end of the room, back rigid, shoulders tense and every muscle in his body wound tight like a predator about to pounce. The executive from earlier looked significantly less confident now. Funny how that worked.

You try to call out to him: "John" Nothing, his eyes never left the executive.

"You called her replaceable" The supe spoke firmly– the room felt colder somehow after his words cut through it. 

The executive laughed nervously, trying to backtrack. "Homelander, this is an internal discussion–"

"No" His answer was immediate. Sharp– not loud. Somehow that made it worse.

"No?"

"No" His jaw tightened. "You were rude"

The executive visibly swallowed. "It was a performance review, criticism is imprescindible–"

"No" Again. "You were rude" The exact same way he'd repeat an interview answer when he knew he was right. Except this wasn't funny anymore– this wasn't stickers and small talk. This was anger. Raw and unfiltered, barely contained. The kind nobody had ever taught him how to manage because they were too intimidated to do so.

"John" This time he looked at you. Immediately. The room collectively relaxed– which was honestly insulting. They’d just been chewing you out, why did they assume everything was alright now? You walked closer– ignoring the terrified stares, ignoring the executive, ignoring the fact that Homelander still looked two seconds away from throwing someone through a wall or committing multiple manslaughter. "Come on"

He frowned. "They were mean" The simplicity of it almost broke your heart– not because he was wrong, but because he genuinely didn't understand why everyone else was acting like that wasn't the problem right now.

You lowered your voice, carefully doubling down. "Come on" A pause. Then finally– he followed you out of the room.

The elevator doors slid shut behind the both of you. Silence, heavy silence. Homelander tightened his fists once– twice, then crossed his arms. Still angry, still thinking about it. "They can’t talk to you like that"

You leaned against the wall. Tired, suddenly very tired– the day’s events finally catching up to you. "Welcome to corporate America"

"No"

A sigh escapes you. "John–"

"No" His head snapped toward you, blue eyes bright with frustration. "That's not normal" The conviction in his voice caught you off guard. Because three months ago? Three months ago he would've had no idea what ‘normal’ looked like. Now he did. (At least enough to recognize when something wasn't, following his criteria) "They were rude"

"Yes" You nod softly.

"They were unfair"

"Probably"

"They upset you"

You rubbed your temples. "John..."

"No" Again. Stubborn, frustrated, almost hurt. "They can’t do that" The elevator continued descending. Neither of you spoke during the descent.

Finally you looked up and really looked at him. At the clenched jaw, the rigid posture, the way his shoulders were still locked tight with tension, the way he kept glancing over towards you as if checking you were still there. He was clearly still angry, still stuck thinking about it. The elevator dinged but neither of you moved quite yet. "You scared them"

His expression didn't change. "Good" The answer came instantly, without hesitation or regret.

Your stomach dropped– not because he'd said it, but because he'd meant it. "John"

"What?" He frowned. "They were being cruel"

"That doesn't mean you get to scare people"

"They scared you" He retorts quickly, stubborn as ever. The words hit harder than they should have. You opened your mouth but then closed it again, because the frustrating thing was that he wasn't entirely wrong. You had been upset. Embarrassed. Humiliated, if you were being honest.

But: "That's different"

"Why?"

You hated that question. (Mostly because you didn't have a good answer) "It's just how things work, specially in this company"

"No" Again. Stubborn. Immediate. "No" The elevator doors slid open and this time you stepped out. After a second, he followed. His boots echoed behind you through the hallway. "They said you were replaceable" You stopped walking and slowly turned around– Homelander looked genuinely bothered by the concept. Not angry now– confused, offended. Like someone had told him the breathing was optional.

You laughed softly, tired but fond nonetheless. "John, everybody's replaceable"

"No"

"Yes"

"No"

You rubbed your face. "John–"

"No" He stepped closer, just enough that you had to tilt your head up to look at him. "They're wrong"

You huffed out a soft chuckle despite yourself. God. Sometimes talking to him felt like arguing with a brick wall that could fly and throw whole buildings around without breaking a sweat. "That's not how jobs work"

His brow furrowed. "Then your job is stupid"

You laughed. Actually laughed. A tired, startled sound that escaped before you could stop it– Homelander immediately looked pleased with himself. Like he'd accomplished something. Which, annoyingly, he kinda had. The tension in your chest eased slightly. Just enough to breathe comfortably again.

"Y’know–" You said, shaking your head in fond disbelief.  " –most people don't threaten executives on behalf of their publicist"

"I didn't threaten anyone" The response came far too quickly.

You raised an eyebrow. "John…"

"I didn't"

"Everyone in the building thinks you were about to throw him through a wall"

He hums to himself, tilting his head to the side in amused interest, deep in thought. "I was definitely thinking about it"

"John"

"But I didn't" The supe points out with a raise of his eyebrow.

You opened your mouth. Then paused, because he was looking at you expectantly. Waiting. Like there was something important about that distinction. And then it clicked– you sighed. "You didn't"

His shoulders relaxed instantly. The anger that had been simmering beneath his skin all afternoon finally easing. (Just a little) Because that was what he'd been waiting for. Not praise, not approval– recognition. Someone noticing he had stopped himself, that he was getting better and improving his behavior. 

Your chest tightened. Three months ago, he wouldn't have. Three months ago, nobody would've expected him to– the executive would’ve been as good as dead. Slowly, you reached into your bag. His eyes immediately tracked the movement.

You froze. He froze. The realization hit both of you at exactly the same time. "...Seriously?" You asked, with a reluctant, amused huff of breath.

"What?"

"You know exactly what"

"I don't"

Liar. Suppressing a smile, you pulled out the sticker sheet. The supes gaze dropped immediately, following every move. Traitor– absolute traitor. "You do realize this is emotional manipulation, right?"

"I don't know what that means"

"You absolutely do" You glare at him half-heartedly, barely holding back your smile at his very deliberate (non believable) innocent act.

A pause. Then: "Am I getting a star?"

The hopeful note in his voice nearly killed you– how could an alleged ‘killing machine’ America’s golden boy be this adorable when emotionally bribing you. You peeled one from the sheet. "One star" His grin appeared immediately. Bright, victorious, boyish. "You showed remarkable restraint"

"I did"

"You still scared half of Vought"

"They deserved it"

"John"

"They did"

You pressed the star onto the front of his suit anyway. Right over his heart, like always. For a second he looked down at it. Then back at you. (Looking entirely too pleased with himself) The headache was still there– your job was probably still in danger, tomorrow was going to be a disaster. But as the two of you started walking down the hallway, Homelander glancing down at his newest sticker every few seconds like he couldn't help himself—

"so," sion says, popping a chip into his mouth. "do you want me to play sad violin music now, or should i wait until you actually chicken out?"

you groan, face planting into your pillow. “i’m not chickening out.”

"suureeee.”

he's not wrong. the bet felt easy four weeks ago. just something dumb to say when you were tired and frustrated and in denial about liking jaehee since the beginning of time. it wasn’t supposed to be real.

but now it’s the 28th. you’re running out of time.

and because you're stupid, you're gonna stick to your word and drop the entire idea of liking him if you don't muster up the courage to confess soon. 'it's a waste of time if it continues any longer, right?'

"c'mon y/n, do it sooner or later." sion cuts off your rambling thoughts. he probably knew that you were overthinking again.

"okay but what if-"

"what if this, what if that. keep making up excuses, time won't stop for you." he says, rolling his eyes at how repetitive you are with each excuse you make. "just do it, if he likes you, you get together. if he doesn't, life goes on"

ugh, sion makes it sound sooo easy. you just want it to be perfect, something you won't look back and start visibly cringing.

“why did i take this stupid bet” you say, burying your face into your pillow once again.

“because you’re sad and delusional.” sion answers almost immediately, like his answer is default. he pops another chip in his mouth. “also because i basically dared you to, and you’re, tragically, a people pleaser.”

your groans from the couch grow in sound causing sion to chuckle.

it was all supposed to be some stupid joke. seeing jaehee open a door for a random sophomore and the signature smile he gives was just so boyfriend coded.

‘he’s nice to everyone’ you repeat to yourself but you can’t stop your heart from beating a little faster when he’s around or your face from heating up when he smiles at you.

especially not since the rainy day after exams

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

you’re darting across campus, arms wrapped around your textbooks like a shield, and rain starts to pour down. now you’re left crouched under a lone tree, drenched and muttering to yourself.

then jaehee appears, umbrella in hand, offering the perfect half‑circle of coverage.

“you look like you’re auditioning for a depressed main character,” he jokes, voice calm as raindrops drip onto his hair. “mind if i…?”

he tilts his umbrella just enough so you can slip underneath. you mumble “thank you,” but he waves it off.

“it’s nothing. i do this for anyone who’s caught in the rain.”

and you believe him because every time you see him, he’s doing exactly that. opening doors, carrying groceries, dropping off lost phones. yet in that moment, shoulder to shoulder and both soaked at the hem, it feels undeniably, achingly… personal.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

you peel the pillow off your face and sigh.

“i’m going to throw up,” you mutter into the ceiling.

“just confess,” sion says. “three minutes. that’s all you need. you’ve liked him for forever. what’s the worst that happens?”

you don’t answer. sion sets a three minute timer and slams his phone on the desk.

“you’ve got three minutes to tell me how you would confess”

you freeze. no rehearsed speech. no mental preparation. everything was gone except embarrassment and panic.

0:57 — ballads, classic music, they sure are great, not my style though

random drafts clutter your desk. on a normal day it would be covered with neatly color-coded notes, but today, it’s a messy group of small notes and crafts, things you wanted to give to jaehee. a letter of random yaps stand out from the rest.

“i like the way you say my name”

“your hands are really nice”

“do you wanna get ramen sometime..? or never speak to me again. either works”

you stare at the page and seriously consider setting it on fire. only thing stopping you is the fire alarm going off… and sion

“stupid sion, stupid ideas…” you mumble quietly, crumpling the draft and throwing it at the garbage where it misses.

to your surprise, sion starts humming behind you before walking over, grabbing the draft, and tossing it back to you. he definitely heard you slandering him behind his back.

“like you have better ideas. remember when you spent three days trying to find out and memorize his schedule to try and ‘bump into him’ coincidentally?” he spits out while rolling his eyes like you’re a lost cause.

you throw the pen that you were using at him, only for it to hit his leg with no reaction.

“you folded without him even seeing you and you walked past him. god, it was so embarrassing, i wish i recorded it.” sion continues.

“okay so what is this slander i’m recieving.”

“i’m just saying, you’re gonna have to try harder” he says as he goes to his own room.

when he finally walks off and stops bothering you, you cover you face with your hands, trying to come up with ideas.

dramatic scene? cute promposal? letter in his locker?

you give up, but nothing feels worse than how jaehee keeps acting normal.

he likes your stories, replying to them with things like, “LMFAO ur so unserious.” he even waved to you this morning. the sleepy eyed, hoodie-draped, and unbothered jaehee. doing literally anything like your heart isn’t currently on life support.

you wish he’d do something, anything, to give you a reason to run or stay. instead, he keeps being, well… jaehee. kind, warm, and impossibly close.

[queue a confession plan montage]

you draft text messages before deleting them. you consider fake crying in front of him to get his attention. you rehearse dramatic lines in the mirror like, “if i don’t say this now, i never will”

sion just watching all of this happen in horror. “you need a nap and a divine intervention.”

and just like that, time passes by a little too fast and the clock hit’s midnight.

one day left

sion sighs, “enough. it’s not about the how. just do it. three minutes of courage, remember?” he says, reassuring you with each hand on your shoulder. “doesn’t matter what you say. it matters that you say it.”

you’re almost out of time and somehow you’re still not ready enough to tell the boy who’s always been there that you’ve had feelings for him for a while now. it doesn’t help that you guys can have a normal conversation and he stands there, completely unaware that you’re counting down the minutes like a ticking time bomb, like the world was going to explode.

1:57 — skip the intro, need no outro

you wake up after staying up till two in the morning. it’s not like it’s easy to sleep after finding out you have less than 24 hours to confess.

the sound of the alam is screaming at you. not ringing, not chiming, screaming.

sometime last week sion changed you alarm’s name to “WAKE UP OR DIE” which is quite fitting actually since you’re halfway to cardiac arrest when you see the time.

class started 15 minutes ago.

the last class with jaehee

your last chance.

you bolt upright, take a deep breath of regret, and trip over your own feet before trying to get out of bed. your voice croaks on impact.

“ow- what the… i sound like a dying goat.”

of course you get a sudden sore throat that makes your voice extra raspy, not the best for confessions.

and just when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, you go to your bathroom for a mirror check. disaster confirmed.

your hair looks like you just lost a wrestling match with a random squirrel and your hoodie is wrinkled beyond saving. gotta love that bed hair and sleeping with your hoodie.

“i can’t confess like this,” you mutter, voice still raspy, a little better though after you chug a glass of water. you yank your hoodie’s hood up in shame.

but you have two choices.

1. hide in your room forever and never speak to kim jaehee ever again.

2. show up to class, late, looking like someone’s worst picture day photo and pray he still looks at you the same.

of course, you choose humiliation.

getting there was… an experience. your bag was bouncing like crazy, slung on your shoulder. you can’t count how many times it almost fell off of it.

but by some miracle, you arrive outside the lecture hall just as class ends. time is actually running out and it’s all hitting you now.

your heart is pounding. you’re seconds from turning around and admitting defeat when-

you see him

jaehee. leaning against the wall in the hallway. backpack slung over one shoulder, scrolling through his phone, waiting for no one

or maybe you.

your breath catches. not because he sees you, but because he doesn’t. not right away at least

suddenly, your care about the way you look disappears. because if you turn around you, you’ll regret it forever.

you step forward, voice gone, thoughts racing, hands shaking.

jaehee looks up. his eyes catch on you instantly. and he smiles. that same smile that is so precious that it makes you want to frame it.

“yo, you look like you just fought a wind tunnel. you okay?”

you open your mouth. nothing comes out. not even a word. just-

“i—uh—hh—hi” you manage to get out.

your voice breaks. like, full on voice crack catastrophe. jaehee blinks then laughs like nothings wrong.

“you sick or something?”

you shake your head, clutching your chest like it’ll steady your heart. “just tired”

he tilts his head, feeling like he’s watching you a little longer than necessary. “you sure?”

you nod. and somehow that gives you the nerves to say, “can we talk? after school?”

his expression shifts. just slightly. curious. gentle “yeah. of course”

and that’s it. you don’t run. you don’t faint. you just walk away, hoodie clutched tight and stomach flipping.

it wasn’t the best confession, but it was something.

2:47 — turn the beat up, volume up, tune out the noise and now listen here.

you don’t see the text.

you’re halfway through spiraling in your locker mirror, trying to flatten your hair with your sleeve and mouth a pep talk to your reflection. when jaehee’s message comes in.

[jaehee: where should we meet?]

[jaehee: or i can just wait outside?]

you don’t check your phone, you don’t check anything. but you begin to make your way to the same hallway you encountered him earlier.

you’re too deep in your head. rehearsing lines you won’t remember. praying your heart doesn’t fall out of your chest and onto the hallway floor.

and then you turn a corner.

so does he.

he’s looking at his phone. you’re completely zoned out.

bam.

it’s not a full-on crash, but it’s enough to knock you off balance, hands flailing, a soft “ah !” slipping out, heart immediately doing parkour in your chest.

“oh—sorry—”

you look up.

jaehee. his hoodie. his smile. his dumb, perfect face.

“whoa, that’s my bad,” he says, already steadying you by the arm. “you okay?”

your mouth opens. and before you can stop yourself, it all comes out, “i like you.”

you don’t even realize you’ve said it until it’s out in the air. soft, sudden, too fast. like slipping on a step you thought was solid.

jaehee freezes.

you swear you see his eyebrows twitch, just slightly, and his grip on your arm loosens in slow motion. he blinks. then stares. not confused, not shocked. just… processing.

and your body goes cold.

“i—” your voice shakes. “i didn’t mean to say it like that. or here. or now. it wasn’t supposed to be in a hallway after i almost headbutted you—”

he doesn’t say anything.

you keep going. rambling like your brain is sprinting to outrun your shame.

“i had this whole plan. i mean, kind of. okay not really. i panicked, like, a lot. there was going to be a letter. then a conversation. now it’s just—word vomit.”

you force a laugh. it dies halfway out of your mouth.

“i like you. surprise, i guess. i swear i’m not usually this much of a mess.”

you glance up. he’s still looking at you. and then, finally.

he smiles.

not a huge one. not a smirk. just this soft, lopsided curve that starts in his eyes before it hits his lips. like the truth of what you said has landed and he’s letting it settle.

“do you want to try again,” he says quietly, “but slower this time?”

you stare. “what?”

he shrugs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “i want to hear you say it again. but, y’know… like you mean it.”

“i do mean it,” you say, breath catching.

“then say it. slower. this time I’ll listen with both ears.”

he’s teasing, just a little. but his voice is so calm. so real. like he’s trying to make it easier for you to breathe. so you do. you inhale, exhale, and look him in the eyes.

“i like you,” you say again. “you’re kind. and funny. and too nice sometimes. and i’ve been trying to ignore it, but every time you smile or laugh or say my name like it’s not a big deal, i just—” you pause. “i like you. a lot.”

he watches you. his smile softens. and this time, he steps closer.

“i was hoping that’s what you were going to say,” he murmurs. “i’ve kind of been waiting.”

your breath hitches. “you have?”

he laughs. quiet, sweet, like the sound of a secret being kept safe. “you think i just replied to all those 2 a.m. memes and came to study sessions for fun?”

your mouth gapes. “i thought you were just… being nice!”

“i am nice,” he grins, “but not that nice.”

you both laugh. and it’s quiet again, but not the heavy kind. this silence feels full. like the space right before a song drops.

like waiting for the best chorus to begin.

3:00 — a whole three minute song is a weird flex

you’re not sure how long you walk.

you don’t even remember where you were going anymore. the hallway doesn’t matter. the clock doesn’t matter. it’s just the two of you, side by side, your hand almost brushing his, your heart still caught somewhere between your ribs and the ceiling.

jaehee is smiling, not the ‘too polite’ kind, not the ‘just being friendly’ kind, it’s small and real, like he’s holding this moment with both hands.

“you’re really quiet,” he says eventually, glancing over at you.

you blink like you just woke up from a dream. “am i?”

“you haven’t said a full sentence in like… five minutes.”

you groan softly and rub your hands over your face. “sorry. i think my brain exploded.”

he laughs. “it’s okay. i kinda liked the word vomit version too.”

you glare at him playfully. “can you not call my deepest emotional breakthrough vomit? only i can call it that.”

“fine,” he teases. “emotional confetti. better?”

you roll your eyes, but the situation makes your cheeks burn. because this is real. this is really happening. you said it. he heard it. he smiled.

but your chest still feels tight. your thoughts still loop like a broken record. you mumble, mostly to yourself, “i don’t know what i’m supposed to do now…”

“what do you mean?”

you shrug, eyes fixed on your shoes. “i’ve never actually… gotten here. past the crush part. past the chaos. this is the part where i usually, i don’t know, daydream?”

you laugh, but it’s fragile. your voice trembles on the edges. “what if i mess it up? or get weird? or scare you off?”

jaehee stops walking. you feel his hand barely graze yours again.

then, he laces your pinky with his. just that. not a full handhold. not a bold move. just a promise in miniature.

“then we take it slow,” he says. “we figure it out. together.”

you stare at your tangled pinkies. your voice is a whisper. “you really like me?”

“is that a serious question after like three confessions and a hallway collision?”

you grin. and it finally sinks in.

he likes you.

you like him.

and somehow… that’s enough.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| |

somewhere across campus, sion is binging some show in your shared dorm room, phone in hand, waiting for your dramatic all-caps text. instead, he gets this,

[you: i did it.]

[you: i think he likes me.]

[you: like. actually.]

ten seconds later:

[sion: SHUT. UP.]

[sion: YOU ACTUALLY SAID IT?!]

[sion: OMG YOU’RE A LEGEND I’M GOING TO FRAME THIS]

[sion: did you cry. be honest.]

[sion: IS HE HOLDING YOUR HAND.]

you smile down at the screen.

jaehee peeks over your shoulder. “who’s that?”

“sion. he’s been emotionally invested in this since day one.”

“should i say hi?”

“if you do, he might rub it in my face that he was right and that you did like me.”

jaehee grins. “we’ll save that for the next confession, then.”

and you just… laugh. because maybe love doesn’t need fireworks or speeches.

maybe all it needs is a little chaos, a little courage, and someone who smiles when you stumble.

three minutes is enough time after all.

ty for reading :>

perm taglist : @s0shroe @minoouz @the0p @mon2sunjinsuver @solkver @lov3lyaaru @tanghuyuj

The chat buzzed.

- girl ur gonna age like milk before that queue ends - low prio AGAIN?? lmao - karma for locking in jungle and then leaving

You smirked. “Y’all are fake. You know I’m the best jungle you’ve ever seen.”

The minutes crawled by, and you leaned back, looking at your second monitor. The other screens were lit up with VSCode, a half-finished Godot project, and a Twitch dashboard. Your mug of coffee was cold. Your hoodie sleeves were half-pushed up. Your hair was messy, your eyeliner slightly smudged, and you were exactly where you wanted to be.

A soft knock echoed from off-camera.

“Babe?” came the warm voice.

You turned, grinning instinctively. “You wanna join me while I suffer?”

Theodore Nott appeared in the corner of the frame like a cutscene character unlocking mid-game. Tousled hair, worn grey T-shirt, sleepy blue eyes. Your chat lost it.

- OMFGGGGGGGG - IT’S HIM. THE FACE. - how is HE real. no bc HOW - chat behave 😭 this is a sacred moment

Theodore sat beside you and slipped one ear of your spare headset on, resting his chin in his hand as he scanned the chat with a lazy smile. “What are we playing?”

“League,” you muttered. “But I’m in timeout.”

He laughed. “Ah, the punishment corner.”

The chat pinged again, and then came that message. Bold. A bit rude. But... not entirely unexpected.

- Not tryna be mean but like… how did he fall in love with her? No offense. Y’all just seem like total opposites.

The chat stalled for half a beat. And then:

- uhhhhhh bro?? - MODS?? - 👀 this is gonna be good

You blinked. “Oh no,” you whispered. “Here we go.”

But Theo didn’t flinch. Instead, he leaned in a bit, resting one arm on the back of your chair as he looked into the camera—calm, amused, completely unbothered.

“How did I fall in love with her?” he repeated aloud, with that slow, melodic accent that made everything he said sound like it belonged in a Netflix drama. “Easy.”

You glanced at him, raising a brow.

He smiled, eyes still locked on the chat. “She didn’t care who I was. Not once. First time we talked, she rolled her eyes at me. Called me a distraction.”

Chat: 🔥🔥🔥

- STOP THIS IS SO MOVIE CORE - SHE WON - calling a model a distraction = power move - I’m kicking my feet

“She had this setup—screens everywhere, cables like some futuristic spaghetti. I asked what she was building. She said, ‘A better world than the one you’re walking around in.’”

You slapped a hand over your face. “I DID NOT SAY THAT.”

“You did,” he grinned. “Exactly that. And I just thought, Dio mio, who is this girl who talks to code like it's poetry?”

- SHAKESPEARE WISHES - i would combust if someone said that about me 😭 - I need a Theo in my life. rn.

“She built her own PC. Built her own games. Built a community. And she still thinks she’s the ‘weird one’ in the relationship?” He shook his head. “No. I’m the lucky one. I get to love the smartest person I know. The fact that she also looks very good in sweatpants is just... bonus.”

You groaned and shoved his shoulder gently, hiding your face in your sleeve. “Theoooo.”

He chuckled. “It’s true!”

Another question popped up in chat, and Theodore read it aloud.

how did y’all even meet??

He grinned, glancing at you.

“Oh, this one’s my favorite,” he said. “So. I walk into the wrong building in Milan. Looking for a press junket for this indie film I was promoting. I see flashing lights and think, ‘Cool. Art installation.’ Turns out it’s not art—it’s her, setting up this monster of a computer at a tech convention.”

You leaned into the mic. “He asked me if it was a robot. I told him to move because he was blocking the airflow.”

Chat:

- LMAOOOOO - pls she negged him into love - girlboss levels: MAX - blocking airflow = grounds for breakup tbh

“But I was intrigued,” Theo said, shrugging. “So I stayed. I asked questions. She answered. I offered to carry her tower rig back to her car and nearly dropped it.”

“You did drop it.”

He looked sheepish. “Yes. But then I showed up to her stream that night. And every stream after. Even when I didn’t understand what the hell was happening on screen.”

You looked at him, your smile softening. “You still don’t.”

“True,” he admitted, nudging you. “But I understand you. And that’s all I really wanted to know.”

You went quiet for a second, watching the queue timer hit 00:18 and counting down. It almost felt like a metaphor.

- BRO SAID “i understand YOU” 😭😭😭 - I can’t even get a text back and she’s getting Shakespeare - chat’s collectively in love with Theodore now - someone propose to someone RIGHT NOW

The game launched with a soft chime.

“Welp,” you muttered. “Time to carry.”

Theo kissed your temple. “Don’t rage quit this time.”