#ummmm yeah

Or the morning you unscrewed the broken light fixture yourself. Kaiser came home twenty minutes later, saw the ladder out, and paused in the doorway with a baffled, almost offended look.

“You didn’t wait for me?” he’d said.

“You weren’t here,” you answered, already putting the tools away.

He didn’t argue, but he stared at the light like it had personally betrayed him by being repaired without his involvement.

He never said it out loud—not then, not in any of the dozen small scenarios that followed—but it chipped at him in a complicated way. Because Kaiser liked being relied on. Not out of ego, not really. It was the intimacy of it, the quiet way needing someone tied you together. For someone who strutted through public life with all the brightness of a star, performed for it meticulously, he was painfully soft in private moments; he wanted to matter. To you especially. To be useful. To be the person you looked to. He’d never admit that wanting so openly felt frightening.

So he never pushed. Never complained. He just filed each moment away, tucks of longing he tried to smooth out with humor or swagger or silence.

Which is exactly why, when it finally happened, it hit him like a lightning strike.

You were at the stove that evening, halfway through prepping dinner. Something simmered behind you, something chopped in a bowl beside you, something needed rinsing in the sink. And on the counter: a jar you’d just taken out of the pantry.

You tried twisting the lid once, barely even testing it, before glancing over your shoulder.

“Kaiser,” you said casually, pointing your chin at it. “Open that for me?”

He froze.

You didn’t notice. Your attention already back on the knife, moving through vegetables with practiced rhythm. To you, it was a matter of efficiency; he was right there, unoccupied, lounging at the edge of the counter scrolling through his phone. You could open it, of course. You could open ten of them. Easy. But it was faster for him to twist a lid while you kept dinner on schedule.

To Kaiser, it was an earthquake.

He set his phone down too quickly, almost fumbling it. Picked up the jar like it was delicate. Reverent. Sacred.

It opened with a soft pop.

“…Here,” he said, voice a notch quieter than normal.

You hummed, took it without looking, and kept working. He stayed beside you. Close, almost expectant. But you didn’t see the way he watched your hands, your shoulders, your expression. You didn’t see the stunned pride blooming into something molten and warm.

Dinner went normally enough. Conversation moved, but Kaiser… felt different. Not silent, but softer. More muted around the edges. He still told you about the book he bought, but he didn’t embellish every detail. He didn’t go through his usual theatrics searching for your reaction. He offered critiques, but fewer. And when he settled at the table, he didn’t dominate it with his usual extravagant commentary.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You replayed the last couple hours in your head. Nothing you said was sharp. Nothing happened out of the ordinary. He was still teasing, still leaning into your shoulder every now and then. But there was something beneath the surface, something searching, almost shy.

And then it clicked.

The jar.

Your chest warmed. You hadn’t meant to give him anything special, but apparently you had. And as the evening wound down and you both slipped into nighttime routine, you saw the way he kept glancing at you. Soft. Uncertain. Hopeful without wanting to be.

You climbed into bed, reached across the blankets toward the nightstand on his side, then paused deliberately.

“Kaiser?” you asked.

He looked up instantly.

“Mm?”

“Could you pass me the charger?”

His breath hitched, so small but so sharp you almost laughed. He grabbed the charger immediately, almost too fast, placing it gently in your hand like it was something glass-fragile.

You thanked him softly.

Kaiser’s shoulders eased, something bright and wordless blooming in his expression. When he slid into bed beside you, he didn’t hide behind theatrics or sarcasm. He tucked himself close, kissed the top of your shoulder, and whispered—barely audible, like it wasn’t meant for the air at all:

“Anytime.”

And he meant it. Every shade of it. Every version of being needed, even in the smallest ways. Maybe especially in the smallest ways.

Because to him, that was the first time you’d let him hold a corner of your world.