#workplace dynamics

We need more scenes with McKay and Santos. Not in a shipping sense, but a mentorship sense.

Hear me out.

First impressions are everything. Al-Hashimi did not leave a good one with Santos, glaringly so. Collins is gone. Mohan is gone. I'm thinking they are going to nurture the fledgling "friendship" between herself and King. Besides, Santos is only 1 year behind her.

And we all know about Langdon.

That really only leaves McKay. I think it's an entirely slept on dynamic:

- McKay is a natural teacher.

- She is patient, kind, nurturing, and knowledgeable. AND won't hesitate to call you out on your shit.

- Santos appears to not respond well to authority figures in general, and (most?) men in particular.

- She loves medicine and it is so obvs she's chomping at the bit to learn, to be taught, to be guided. To be taken under someone's wing. Most importantly, to be taken seriously.

- Once Santos ditches her initial prickly demeanor, I think their energies would complement each other exceedingly well.

- Santos needs to trust someone. Have someone to look up to. To me, McKay is the most stable person in that ER. She fits the bill better than anyone else there.

This is just off the top of my head. I'm sure I could go on lol.

How many scenes have they worked together on a case? I bet less than 5 between 2 seasons 😲

Part 1 -- Part 7 -- Ao3 link

Summary: Patch buys more than one coffee. They and Tenna talk about old shows and share feelings. :D

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When you got home that night, the silence felt… heavy. Not in a dramatic, storm-cloud way, but in the weird, sticky kind. The kind that clings to your skin and makes you hyper-aware of everything — the click of your keys on the counter, the faint hum of the fridge, even the way your coat rustled as you shrugged it off. You didn’t even bother to turn on the big light. Just let the soft, orange glow from the kitchen nightlight lead the way as you toed off your shoes and dumped your bag on the floor like a dropped anchor.

There was a stack of unopened mail on the counter, bent slightly at the corner like it’d been waiting too long. The top envelope had a red stamp on it — not the scary kind, but definitely not a friendly one either. You picked it up with two fingers like it might bite you, peeled it open, read the number, and promptly slapped it back down like it had offended you personally.

“Ughhhhh. I hate the adult life...” you muttered to no one, rubbing your eyes like that might erase the numbers.

Instead of doing the responsible thing — like opening the rest of the mail or logging into your bank account to see if you were about to spiral into financial doom — you tossed the envelope toward the corner of the counter and beelined straight for the couch. You kicked your feet up, grabbed the remote, and flopped over sideways like you were trying to melt into the cushions. Bills could wait. Your back couldn’t.

A few button presses later and your comfort show filled the screen, all warm tones and predictable jokes. The kind of thing you’d watched so many times you didn’t even need to pay attention — just let it wash over you like a blanket. You could hear the old laugh track echoing through the room, distant and familiar, even if your eyes were already starting to flutter shut. You didn’t even realize when you fell asleep.

But the ache in your neck told you exactly when you woke up.

—

You groaned as the morning light dragged itself through your curtains, way too rude and way too early for how late you’d passed out. Your body felt like it had been folded into a suitcase overnight. Groggy, grumpy, you shoved yourself off the couch and rubbed the heel of your palm into your temple, already dreading the walk to work. Your TV was still glowing faintly behind you. You glanced at it once — and thought, weirdly, of Tenna.

You hadn’t meant to. But the thought just sort of landed. That faint white screen glow… it reminded you of him. Or, maybe not him exactly. Maybe the version of him that lingered after the show was over. The one with slouched shoulders and slow steps. The one who didn’t yell. The one who sat in silence with you, sipping a drink and forgetting to perform. That Tenna.

As you pulled on your shoes and started the walk to the studio, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him. Not the host. Not the brand. Just… Tenna. And somehow — somehow — you realized you’d started to care. Like, really care. He wasn’t just a job anymore. Not a “subject” to monitor or a “case” to manage. He was loud, exhausting, impossible — and deeply, unmistakably, real. And that realization settled in your chest like something warm and weighty, something that made your steps feel lighter even as the city buzzed around you.

The cold air nipped at your cheeks, but you found yourself smiling faintly as you passed by the coffee shop near the corner — the one with the chipped sign and the barista who always looked like she knew too much. On impulse, you pushed open the door.

The smell hit you first — roasted beans, steamed milk, and a hint of cinnamon. Comfort in olfactory form. You ordered your usual, rattled off the details without thinking. But then your gaze drifted over the menu again… and you ordered a second drink. Specific. With that extra splash of sweetener. The same way he always barked it at the cafeteria guy on set like he was placing a military order. You didn’t even hesitate.

You stepped back onto the sidewalk with both cups in hand, the paper sleeves warming your palms. You didn’t know if he’d drink it. Hell, you didn’t even know if he liked you enough to accept it without suspicion. But you’d noticed. And for some reason, that felt worth something.

You were halfway through the studio lobby when the chaos began.

From around the corner came a flurry of footsteps and a voice — a very Lanino voice — shrieking like a poetic train wreck.

“Oh, woe! The thunder cracks in my chest, and the clouds part only to mock me!”

You barely had time to blink before Lanino himself skidded into view, dramatically throwing one hand across his forehead like he was in an opera, the other clutched tightly around a crumpled script. His makeup was only halfway done, and his collar was askew, but the emotional distress was on full display.

“She said my metaphors were stale!” he gasped. “Stale! Like day-old toast in a lonely bakery window!”

You blinked. “...Elnina?”

“She spat it like a dagger of ice,” he continued, completely ignoring your question. “My twin soul, my tempestuous co-anchor! Our very segment — the Morning Weather Duet! — has fallen into a cyclone of bitterness!”

You opened your mouth to say something, realized you had no idea how to translate his dramatics into sense, and tried again. “So… you two had a fight.”

“Oh!” He staggered back a step, as if the word itself had stabbed him. “Call it not a fight, but a symphony of screaming hearts! She says I steal her thunder — her thunder, when I am clearly the lightning!”

You gave him a look. The kind of look that said ‘I have not had coffee yet and you’re lucky I didn’t spill it.’

“Lanino.”

He paused, halfway through flinging himself against the wall like a dying Victorian poet.

“Yes?”

“Have you tried… talking to her?”

He stared at you, horrified. “Communicating?”

“Yeah. You know. Words. Calm tones. Maybe listening instead of reciting poetry like you’re dying of heartbreak in a castle.”

There was a long beat.

Then: “Oh my stars. You’re right. How could I have been so blind? So selfish? My metaphors have clouded my meaning! My world isn’t complete without my cloudy twin soul!” He spun in place with a dramatic gasp and bolted down the hallway.

You watched him go.

“…You’re welcome,” you muttered, and finally turned toward the hallway that led to Tenna’s office.

Still carrying both cups of coffee. Still thinking about the quiet glow from last night.

And still wondering how the hell you got tangled up in this weird, buzzing, theatrical world where meteorologists had existential breakdowns and show hosts crackled with static when they were sad.

But… weirdly? You weren’t complaining.

You nudged the door open without knocking.

That wasn’t really breaking any rules. Tenna’s door was almost never fully shut. Not because he was particularly welcoming, but because the hinges stuck halfway and the frame didn’t line up quite right anymore, thanks to a previous tantrum involving a metal clipboard and a ratings report. So you eased it open with your shoulder, balancing both coffees in your hands like you were on the world’s slowest tightrope walk.

The first thing you heard was his voice — loud, flat, annoyed.

“No, you listen to me, Dana—if you want your sponsors on this program, they don’t get to slap a coupon code across my intro segment like it’s a shopping channel for washed-up celebrities!” A beat. “I am the segment! I am the face!”

Tenna stood near the window, rotary phone on the desk, hand gesturing wildly even though the person on the other end couldn’t see it. His other hand was pressed flat on the desk like he was physically holding himself back from crawling through the phone line and shaking someone.

His antennae twitched like they had minds of their own — sharp, erratic flicks that only made his irritation more obvious. His mouth was tight. And his screen? Flickering. Static around the edges, a low dull gray creeping across it. Not quite overwhelmed. But getting there.

He turned his head slightly and spotted you near the door. His whole body jolted like someone had just flipped a switch.

“Oh—Patch! Heh—excuse me for a moment…” His voice pitched into something almost polite, though the static on his screen didn’t back him up.

He turned away from you, clutching the phone again. “Listen, Dana, I don’t care how many decimal points you throw at me, if you overlay another ad for flavored protein sludge during TV Time’s cold open, I’ll staple your logo to a meteor and launch it into the sun.” A beat. “Yes, that’s a promise.” Then, without waiting for a response, he slammed the receiver down onto its cradle so hard the whole desk shuddered.

He stood there for a second, one hand still on the phone, his mouth twisted in a grimace. Then he exhaled hard — not dramatic, not showy. Just tired. The kind of tired you felt in your shoulders. His screen cleared slowly to white.

Then he turned to face you, shoulders relaxing maybe one percent.

“GOOD MORNING!” he said, trying to sound bright, but there was a lag in the delivery. His voice cracked slightly at the end, like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo that this was supposed to be cheerful.

His mouth opened again, about to say something else — but his screen flickered again, this time pink, faint and fleeting, when he caught sight of your hands.

“…Ehem. Two cups of coffee?” he asked, brow quirking behind the glass. “Bit of a gamble, isn’t it? That’s gonna give you a headache, no? I need you in top-notch condition.”

You shifted the cups in your grip, one eyebrow raised. “Relax. One of them’s for you.”

That shut him up fast.

You swore you could actually see the gears in his head seize up. His antennae, which had been slowly rising back to normal, drooped a bit in surprise. Not sagging like sadness — more like someone had tugged them downward from behind. His mouth parted slightly. Not for show. Just… real confusion.

“For… me?” he asked, like you’d told him a ghost just handed you a sandwich.

You stepped forward and offered him the cup. “Yeah. Black, splash of hazelnut syrup, one sugar, no foam.”

He reached out slowly, like he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t vanish. His fingers brushed the cardboard sleeve and stilled. For a second, he just stared down at it. Then he took the cup from you, cautiously, and lifted it like it might explode. He brought it to his mouth and took a small sip.

The moment froze.

You saw it immediately — the stillness. His screen didn’t flicker. His mouth didn’t move. He just… held the cup, staring into it like he was looking down a tunnel to his past life. A strange quiet washed over him, not heavy, but not light either. Just there. He blinked slowly — or, well, you could tell he would have, if he had the eyes to do it. The faintest blush of pink edged back into his screen again.

He turned his head toward you, lips parted slightly. “This is the exact coffee I always order.”

You shrugged. Tried not to look too proud of yourself. “I noticed.”

“…You noticed?” he echoed.

A small smirk tugged at the edge of your mouth. “You’re not exactly subtle. You always scream your order at the poor cafeteria guy like he’s a PA announcing your entrance.”

That got him. A weird, glitched little chuckle slipped out of him, half-laugh, half-garbled audio glitch. His antennae flicked again, this time upward — bashful but pleased. He looked away, turning slightly as if that would keep you from seeing the faint static that fuzzed across his screen for a second.

“You didn’t have to do that..” he mumbled, still not looking at you.

“Yeah, I know,” you said. “But I wanted to.”

Another beat of silence passed. Not awkward. Just… still. Like both of you had paused the script for a moment to sit in something unspoken.

Your gaze drifted to the clutter on his desk. Pages stacked haphazardly. Production notes, maybe. Probably approvals and sponsor nonsense. One sheet was half-crumpled, like he’d squeezed it too hard. You tilted your head slightly.

“You need help with any of this?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just took another long sip of coffee. His mouth stayed pressed to the lid for a few seconds, like he was hiding behind it. When he finally lowered it, he was staring into the cup again.

“…It’s just right,” he said quietly. Then he shook his head once, snapping out of it. “No. I got it.”

You nodded and grabbed one of the spare chairs from against the wall. Dragged it across the carpet with the wheels squeaking in protest. You plopped into it and leaned back slightly, stretching your legs out a little. Close to his desk, but not hovering. Just… there. Nearby.

“You sure?” you asked.

“Positive,” he said. Then, a little softer, “But you can stay.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. His antennae stood straighter now, flicking faintly like they were tuning into something small and good.

You took a sip of your own coffee. Let the silence settle in the space between you.

The quiet stretched on for a while, but it wasn’t stiff or cold. Just easy. The kind of silence that could only come from two people who’d run out of reasons to be guarded. You didn’t fidget. Tenna didn’t perform. It was strange, really — sitting in his office without the usual undercurrent of tension, like static under your skin. 

The lights above gave off a low hum, and the clock on the wall ticked with annoying determination, but neither of you seemed in any rush to break the moment. The coffee was still warm in your hands. You could hear the faint clatter of crew boots in the hallway, the occasional distant call over a headset. But here, in this space, it felt like the world had hit pause for just a few frames.

Tenna leaned back in his chair with a soft creak, his fingers curling loosely around his paper cup. His antennae flicked, then slowly relaxed into a lazy curve, like they couldn’t quite decide whether to stay alert or let go completely. His screen was still white, dimmed a bit by the office light filtering in through the blinds. No static. No flicker. His mouth had softened too — not smiling, not tense — just neutral, but in that rare, resting kind of way that didn’t come easy to him. You could tell. You’d seen the way his shoulders tightened when he was anxious. The way his lips curled back when he got defensive. Right now? His shoulders were low, his fingers weren’t twitching, and the little lines at the corners of his mouth — yes, he had those — looked soft. Like he was actually resting for once.

You let your eyes drift toward his desk again. Still a mess. You didn’t press the offer to help — he’d already said no — but something about the sight of the chaos made you want to nudge your coffee aside and sort through it anyway. Not because it was your job. Just because it felt… natural. Familiar. That weird human impulse to tidy someone else’s mess not out of duty, but affection. You didn’t even realize the thought had taken root until you found yourself smiling into your cup.

Tenna noticed. His screen flickered faintly pink.

“What?”

You blinked out of your daydream and looked up at him. “Hm?”

“You’re smiling like you’ve got a secret.” he said, and took another sip. His tone wasn’t accusing. More curious. Like maybe he was hoping you’d say something ridiculous and weird, just to make the morning a little less dull.

You swirled the last of the coffee in your cup. “It’s nothing. Just thinking.”

“That sounds dangerous.” he deadpanned, his antennae giving a little twitch.

You rolled your eyes. “I watched something last night,” you said, setting the cup down. “That dumb sitcom I always come back to. The one with the talking fridge?”

Tenna tilted his head slightly. His screen didn’t flicker, but you could almost feel his focus sharpen.

“Oh, I know that one,” he said, suddenly animated. “That was on cable syndication for like, twenty years. Network practically ran the reruns into the ground. But people loved it.” He shifted forward, resting one elbow on his desk. “There’s that one episode — the one with the haunted blender — absolutely kills me.”

You snorted. “That one’s a classic. The actor couldn’t keep a straight face for half the shoot. You can actually see them laughing in the background.”

“Exactly!” Tenna pointed at you, grinning now — really grinning, lips pulled back into something boyish and earnest. “That’s the stuff that hits. Not the perfect shots. The human garbage. The mess-ups.”

You felt a quiet warmth settle between your ribs. It wasn’t even the conversation that did it — not really. It was the way he was reacting. Like the two of you weren’t just coworkers in some spiraling media empire, but actual people. Sharing stories. Laughing over the same dumb blender gag. Like all the static and screaming and stage lights weren’t between you anymore.

Tenna leaned back again, his chair creaking softly as he exhaled through his mouth. He stared up at the ceiling for a second, mouth slightly open in that way that meant his mind was drifting. His antennae twitched once, then eased into a droop, soft and slow. It didn’t look sad — just peaceful. Settled. A rare stillness from someone who was always, always in motion.

“You ever wonder if that’s what people want more of?” he asked after a beat, his voice quieter now. “Not the glitz. Not the games. Just... weird little moments like that. The kind that aren’t trying too hard to mean something.”

You glanced at him. “Yeah,” you said. “Sometimes.”

He nodded slowly, then tilted his head just a bit, screen catching a glint of the overhead light.

“I don’t think I’ve ever really had that,” he said. “Just dumb background noise. Everything’s always gotta be bold. Loud. Memorable.” A pause. “Sometimes I think if I stop being those things, I just... disappear.”

You wanted to say something — something comforting, something smart — but your words didn’t come fast enough. So instead, you leaned forward a little in your seat, resting your arms on your knees. The silence stretched, but not in a bad way.

Then, quietly, you said, “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

Tenna looked at you.

And though his screen didn’t show eyes — never did — you could feel it. The weight of his attention. The subtle shift in his posture. The way his antennae froze, like they didn’t want to break the moment.

“…Yeah,” he said, voice soft. “I guess I am.”

The moment lingered, suspended like a single frame before a commercial break. But no camera cut. No ad jingle. Just stillness. Just Tenna sitting across from you with a coffee cup half-full and his screen glowing low and even — no static, no flicker, not even that theatrical buzz he usually carried like armor. His mouth was slack now, not tired, just… soft. Unmasked. For someone so built for spotlight, so wired for attention, it was strange to see how naturally he fit into this kind of quiet — like maybe, despite everything he claimed, he’d been starving for it.

You leaned back in your chair again, slow, thoughtful. The cushion squeaked under your weight, and the sound seemed to bring Tenna out of his stillness. He blinked — or whatever the Tenna version of blinking was — and glanced toward the desk again, one finger tapping against the side of his cup in a rhythm that didn’t match the second hand on the clock.

“Y’know,” he started, his voice light but unsure, “I used to think if I ever got a day off, I’d just rot on my floor. Like, full reset. No broadcast, no people. Just silence.”

You huffed a laugh, tilting your head toward him. “And now?”

He hesitated. His mouth twitched — not into a smile, not quite — but into something like contemplation. Like he was tasting the words before speaking them aloud.

“…Now I think I’d want someone to rot with.” he said.

It was simple. Casual, even. But it hit somewhere you didn’t expect.

You didn’t say anything right away. You just nodded slowly, eyes drifting to the window behind his desk where the blinds were only half-closed. The morning sun had shifted since you came in. The light cut differently now — across his screen, across your face. Warm. Mellow.

For a moment you let yourself sink into it, into the softness of the hour and the strangeness of it all. How the most chaotic person you’d ever met — this unstable, screen-faced, spotlight-addicted chaos gremlin — could sit here with you like this. Quiet. Real. Flickering with something like vulnerability.

“You ever actually get one of those days off?” you asked eventually.

Tenna chuckled under his breath. It crackled a little, unpolished. “Not really. I don’t think I know how.”

You turned your cup between your hands, letting your fingers soak up the last of the warmth. “I could show you,” you said. “I mean, if you ever want to try it. Doing nothing. Being no one.”

His antennae twitched.

You weren’t sure if he’d take you up on it. He probably wouldn’t. At least not soon. But the offer hung in the air anyway, soft and unspoken, like a light left on in the hallway just in case someone came home late.

Tenna looked down at his coffee again. Then, slowly, he brought it back to his mouth and took another sip. His mouth lingered on the lid this time, and when he finally set the cup down, he leaned forward slightly, folding his hands in front of him like he was anchoring himself to the desk.

“I think people forget,” he said after a pause, “that I didn’t start out like this.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Big. Loud. Broadcast-ready.” His mouth twisted into a crooked half-smile, but there wasn’t much humor behind it. “I wasn’t always… Tenna. Not the way they know me now.”

You didn’t interrupt. You just waited, breathing quiet.

“I used to stammer,” he said. “All the time. Couldn’t even order takeout without choking on my own words. Nobody wanted to listen to me back then. Hell, I didn’t want to listen to me. And then one day I realized — if I shouted loud enough, no one could tell if I was scared.”

That one landed heavy.

He looked at you again — or turned toward you, at least. His screen dimmed slightly, not in a negative way, just reflective. Soft static fizzled at the corners like his memory was reaching too far back.

“And then it stuck,” he said. “The voice. The show. The noise. I kept turning it up until no one asked what I was like when the cameras were off. Not even me.”

Your chest tightened a little. You’d known there was more to him — of course you had — but hearing him admit it like this? Without the act? Without a smirk or a flashy soundbite? That was something else.

You reached for your coffee again, just to have something in your hands. “You’re still you,” you said. “Even when it’s quiet. Even when the show’s off.”

His mouth twitched again. But this time, it leaned into a real smile. Small, tired, but real. His antennae perked a little — one of them twitching to the side like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

“…Thanks, Patch.” he murmured.

Another stretch of silence. Another wave of soft sunlight spilling across the floor between you. And something inside your chest — something tight, something old — finally let go.

This was the kind of quiet you didn’t get on accident. This was the kind of quiet that had to be earned.

And somehow, you had.

You leaned back in your chair again, arms crossed loosely, your empty coffee cup resting on your knee. He hadn’t spoken in a few minutes, but that wasn’t unusual. Sometimes Tenna got stuck in his own head — not in a scary way, just… caught. Like an old tape looping something personal.

His antennae gave him away more than anything else; they’d droop when his thoughts turned inward, when he was remembering things he didn’t quite know how to talk about yet. And they were doing that now — slowly angling down, like they were listening to something only he could hear. His mouth was relaxed, but there was a little crease at the edge of it, like he was chewing on some memory too big to swallow.

You didn’t push. You didn’t have to.

Instead, you tapped your cup with a finger, thinking about last night again. The comfort show. The haunted blender episode. And for whatever reason, you heard yourself speak before you could think better of it.

“Do you ever watch anything for fun?”

Tenna blinked — metaphorically — and his head tilted, screen flickering slightly with confusion.

“You mean like… TV?”

“Yeah. Something not part of your job. Just to enjoy it.”

He looked genuinely baffled. Like you’d asked him whether he sleeps inside the transmission tower or not. His mouth parted, closed, then opened again, shaping around the words like he had to warm up to the concept.

“…I used to,” he said finally. “Back when the noise didn’t follow me home.”

You nodded a little, letting your thumb rub absently along the cup sleeve. “What did you watch?”

Tenna leaned back slowly, resting the coffee cup on the armrest of his chair. His antennae perked up — just slightly — as he thought.

“There was this old science fiction serial,” he said. “Pre-color. Cheap props. Everyone had those weird plastic ray guns that made the same three sound effects.” A soft laugh slipped out of him, static-muted but honest. “It was awful. Completely unwatchable by today’s standards.”

“And you loved it,” you guessed.

He turned his head toward you. “I devoured it,” he said. “I taped over my own segments just to make room for reruns. I used to mouth along with the lines. The villain had this ridiculous cape made of tinsel. My favorite episode was the one where they landed on a planet made entirely of recycled film reels. You could see the camera crew in the background.”

You snorted. “Sounds like a mess.”

“It was,” he said, smiling now. “But it felt like someone made it just because they wanted to. Not to sell anything. Not to trend. Just… because it was fun. Silly. Meaningless.”

You paused.

“…Do you miss it?” you asked.

Tenna didn’t answer right away. He looked down into his cup again, quiet. His screen dimmed — not sad, just thoughtful. Like memory was heavier than he expected.

“…Yeah,” he said softly. “Sometimes I do.”

And something about the way he said that made your chest ache just a little. Because this wasn’t the Tenna people saw on screen — not the one who barked jokes and screamed at sponsors and cracked like lightning just to fill the silence. This was the version of him no one got to see. The version who used to tape over his own broadcasts just to make room for bad science fiction and tinsel capes.

You didn’t say anything more. Just offered a small, quiet nod and let the silence return — respectful this time. Reverent.

And he didn’t look away.

And something about the way he said that made your chest ache just a little. Because this wasn’t the Tenna people saw on screen — not the one who barked jokes and screamed at sponsors and cracked like lightning just to fill the silence. This was the version of him no one got to see. The version who used to tape over his own broadcasts just to make room for bad science fiction and tinsel capes.

You didn’t say anything more. Just offered a small, quiet nod and let the silence return — respectful this time. Reverent.

And he didn’t look away.

He stayed like that, half-turned toward you, the coffee cup balanced delicately between his fingers. You could still see the faint curl of his mouth — small, soft, thoughtful. His antennae shifted slightly, perking up just a little from their previously drooped state. It was like watching a storm finally start to pass, the air still damp but a little warmer. You weren’t used to seeing him this way, and honestly, you weren’t sure he was used to it either.

“Y’know,” you said, breaking the silence gently, “if you ever find the name of that old sci-fi show again... I’d watch it with you.”

Tenna’s fingers stilled on the coffee cup. The silence between your words and his answer stretched just long enough for you to wonder if you’d overstepped somehow. But then his antennae twitched — not sharply, not in alarm — just a small, surprised lift. His screen flickered faintly at the edges, and for a split second, you could’ve sworn there was a blush forming. Not bright. Barely even there. But pink enough.

His voice, when it came, was quieter than usual. Not strained, not filtered through that classic Tenna-brand bravado. Just… honest. “I think I’d like that.”

You smiled, and you didn’t even try to hide it. Something in your chest settled — something that had been oddly tense since the moment you first met him. Maybe since before that, even. Like your body had just now gotten permission to stop bracing itself.

“I used to think those shows were dumb,” you admitted, leaning back in the chair. “Too cheap. Too over-the-top. But I don’t know. Last night I put it on, and... it felt safe. Familiar. Like it wasn’t trying to be anything except what it was.”

Tenna gave a low hum of agreement, resting his chin briefly on his fist. “Maybe that’s why we remember them. Because they’re not trying to impress anyone. They’re just… being.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised a little. “Are we still talking about TV shows?”

He huffed. A quiet sound. But amused. “Maybe.”

There was another pause. Softer now. The kind that doesn’t demand to be filled.

You looked around the room — the messy desk, the blinds letting stripes of sun cut across the carpet, the half-dead plant in the corner someone had definitely forgotten to water. And then back to him.

“I like this,” you said. “Just sitting here. Talking.”

He didn’t say anything back. But his screen stayed warm, still. His antennae stood tall. And his coffee never left his hand.

And that was enough.

----

Your need for structure isn’t merely a plot device to create a partner for Silco who fits his need for control. The reason you function this way — what makes this need so deeply ingrained — goes back years.

It would be easy to reduce it to preference. To say that you simply like structure, that you work better within clearly defined boundaries. But that wouldn’t quite capture it. Because this isn’t about convenience or habit — it’s something that shaped itself over time, built out of experience rather than choice.

What looks, from the outside, like a need for control is in reality something quieter and far more practical. It’s a way of functioning. A response to environments that demanded more than they explained, that expected results without ever defining the terms. And over time, you learned that without structure, even the simplest task could turn into uncertainty.

Dekha… Accha laga… To meme banakar post kar diya.

Ye itna easy to explain hai nahi but unfair bahot hain.

Day 1 agar aap kisi bhi company ko join karo to you will know ke POSH ka training bada necessary hota hain.

People are asked to adhere to the POSH policies to keep the office environment warm and friendly for people around, especially girls.

Because ladkiyaan aaj bhi workplaces par safe nahi hain, BTW its 2026.

Usme ek sabse important clause ye hota hai ke you cannot involve romantically with your colleagues.

Par I have seen people from two departments getting married in the past companies I have worked in.

Mujhe iss sab se koi samasya nahi hain.

Kyunki waise bhi middle- and lower-middle class mai boys face difficulty to find matches.

To ho bhi jaati hai to theek.

Maine aaj tak 25000 INR in-hand monthly se zyada nahi uthaya hai and my remote location allowed me to work on this much.

Arre kuch paisa to chahiye to survive.

To mujhe waise bhi fark nahi padta because no matter I was 27-28 and now I am almost 30 to paisa nahi hai to kya hi partner talaashenge.

But jo ye aajkal ek trend bann gaya hai of these managerial people especially men eyeing on young female associates/interns, ye saraasar galat hain.

Iss tarah ke behavior ka jamkar virodh hona chahiye and people in top brass have a huge responsibility here to check whether juniors don't suffer at the hands of seniors.

Credit: Anhonee | Ep.81 | Zee TV (YouTube)