The Stellar Comet

That did not explain, however, why he felt vaguely as though he were reporting to a headmistress for discipline rather than to a designer for equipment.

Edna Mode’s reputation preceded her. Brusque. Sharp. Efficient. He had braced for it, rehearsed a handful of courteous replies in his head during the drive over. The last thing he wished was to offend the only woman alive capable of reining in his… condition.

So when the door swung open to reveal you instead—

Well.

Not Edna Mode.

“Mr. Paladino,” you said smoothly, as though you had been waiting for him. Your voice was low, confident in that sultry way that suggested you always knew more than you let on. “You’re early.”

He cleared his throat. “Punctuality is… a habit of mine.”

Why did his collar suddenly feel too tight?

You only tilted your head, stepping aside so he could enter. The room smelled faintly of ozone and metal shavings, and somewhere a radio murmured out a lazy jazz number. It was less a laboratory than a den—a den belonging entirely to you. Blueprints, prototypes, half-dismantled gadgets cluttered the benches in a way that looked chaotic, yet purposeful.

You gestured to a stool. “Sit.”

So he did. Stiffly. Hands folded on his lap, posture ramrod straight. As though you might give him a grade for deportment.

You picked up a notepad, pen poised, and regarded him evenly. “Tell me what’s been happening. Faults. Glitches. Anything that needs addressing.”

Straight to business. He appreciated that. Or at least he told himself he did.

“The dispersal plating has weakened,” he replied in his usual monotone. “During field use, there is now a five-second delay before the absorption field stabilizes. Which means, in those five seconds, if my attention is… misplaced, the results could be catastrophic.”

He heard how flat it sounded. Catastrophic. As though he were giving testimony in court rather than describing the prospect of vaporizing someone.

Still, he went on. “Additionally, the weight distribution is uneven. Thirty-five minutes of wear induces strain in my cervical spine. I have had to adjust my stance accordingly.”

You jotted notes without interruption, expression unreadable. It unsettled him more than open judgment would have.

“Mm,” you murmured at last. “We’ll take new measurements. Start fresh.”

You reached for a caliper, and before he could object you were tilting his chin up with two fingers. Your touch was featherlight. Professional, no doubt. He reminded himself sternly that it was professional.

He tried very hard to look past your shoulder at a shelf of bolts. Anything but the sudden proximity.

“Funny,” you said after a moment, measuring along his cheekbone. “You don’t strike me as shy. And yet here you are, doing everything you can not to look me in the eye.”

The remark landed sharper than he expected. His spine stiffened. You thought him arrogant, like the others. Too self-important to acknowledge you. It was easier, usually, to let people think that. Explaining… explaining always sounded absurd.

Still, he heard himself answer flatly, “Better that than accidentally putting a laser through your skull.”

Your brow lifted slightly at that, pen still poised.

“How do you mean?”

His gaze flicked up—just once, startling blue eyes meeting yours before darting back to the shelf behind you. The briefest lock, but it felt like being caught off guard in court without a prepared statement.

“Eye contact,” he said stiffly. “If I fixate too long, the… energy discharge becomes unstable. Focus becomes dangerous. Uncontrolled.” His tone was clinical, as if reading testimony from a file, but he could hear the faint edge of discomfort in his own voice. “I’ve scorched walls. Furniture. Once a fellow’s hat at twenty paces. I prefer not to risk…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “Well. Better aloof than lethal.”

You didn’t answer right away. You only stood there, closer than necessary, eyes tracing the planes of his face with a focus that made his pulse thud uncomfortably in his throat. He was acutely aware of it—your attention, sharp and deliberate, like you were cataloguing every line, every angle.

He tried to hold still. Tried to remember this was technical, professional, nothing more. But there was a peculiar weight in the silence.

His collar felt too tight again. Ridiculous. He hadn’t even fastened the top button.

You hummed softly at his explanation, pen tapping against the edge of your notepad. “So that’s why,” you said, voice low, almost amused. “Everyone thinks you’re too haughty and conceited to look them in the eye… when really you’re just worried you’ll set them on fire.”

The corners of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. He shifted on the stool, shoulders still square, jaw tight. “It… is the practical truth.”

You tilted your head, studying him like a problem that might actually be fun to solve. “There are ways around that, you know. Filters. Redirectors. Even minor dampeners. If the helmet feels too medieval.”

He made a quiet sound—something between a breath and a laugh, though it carried no real humor. “I have tried all manner of contraptions, Miss. Glass shielding, leaded lenses, reflective guards. None of it lasts. Nothing has worked.”

His pulse had quickened; you could see it in the hollow of his throat. He kept his gaze stubbornly averted, fixed somewhere over your shoulder, but you could feel his awareness of your eyes on him.

Amd you were still watching him, studying every line of his face as though you had all the time in the world. That was what made him nervous. Not the proximity. Not the calipers. Not even the fact that you now knew the truth. It was the way you looked at him like he was worth the focus.

You let the moment stretch just long enough for him to squirm before you finally broke eye contact, pen tapping once against your notepad. Your gaze drifted to the helmet sitting on the workbench.

“It’ll be done in three days,” you said lightly, as though the decision were already set in stone.

He blinked, a faint crease forming between his brows. “Three?” His voice was low, cautious, like he’d misheard. Then, after a pause: “…Are you certain?”

You pursed your lips, deliberately slow, eyes returning to his. “Two would be reckless. And you strike me as a man who values precision over haste.”

He shifted again, clearly unconvinced, mouth opening then closing as if to argue.

So you gave him the killing blow—a slow, knowing smile. “There’s a reason I’m Edna Mode’s protégé, Mr. Paladino. Three days.”

For a moment he only studied you, as though weighing whether you were teasing him or deadly serious. Then, at last, he inclined his head stiffly. “…Very well.”

And just like that, it was settled.

He rose from the stool with the same precision he had sat down, straight-backed, careful with every movement. It was the kind of posture drilled into a man, not chosen. He smoothed his tie once, unnecessarily, then reached for his hat where it rested on the bench.

“Three days, then,” he said, as though repeating it aloud might make it less unusual. His voice was steady, but you caught the faintest hesitation before he added, “Thank you… for your time.”

Polite. Formal. Distant.

You leaned a hip against the workbench, arms folding loosely. “Try not to miss me too much in the meantime.”

The line made him falter just slightly as he adjusted his coat sleeve. For the briefest second, his eyes flicked to yours again—blue and sharp, almost startled—before he tucked his gaze back to the floor. A small, stiff nod, and then he was making for the door.

You watched him go. Watched the measured way he carried himself, the tall frame, the dark hair perfectly in place, the way he seemed determined not to let a single detail slip out of line.

Beautiful, you thought. Quiet, deliberate, and so unlike the men who usually stumbled over themselves in your presence.

You tapped the end of your pen against your notepad, a smile ghosting at your lips. Three days would give you more than enough time to fix the helmet.

And perhaps… to build something else, too.

Three Days Later

Simon had always taken pride in his appearance. A clean shave. A pressed suit. A tie knotted correctly. It was a matter of professionalism—an extension of respectability in the courtroom, in public, even, yes, as a costumed hero.

That was what he told himself, at least.

It did not explain why, this Sunday morning, he had taken an extra ten minutes to polish his shoes until they shone, or why he had lingered at the florist debating the merits of roses versus lilies before abandoning the idea entirely and settling on a book—first edition, carefully wrapped. Far more suitable for a woman of intellect. At least, he hoped so.

He told himself it was simple gratitude. She had repaired his helmet, after all. A small gesture of thanks was only polite.

(And yet, every time the thought circled, he caught himself adjusting his tie again, as though you might notice the symmetry of the knot.)

The drive to Edna Mode’s home was uneventful, save for the persistent hum in his chest that he resolutely ignored. Anticipation. Ridiculous. He was here for equipment, nothing more.

He had just stepped out of the car, package tucked neatly under his arm, when a familiar voice cut through the morning air.

“Darling.”

He turned to find Edna herself sweeping down the path, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose despite the cloudy sky. She stopped dead in front of him, head tilted, arms crossed.

“My God, Simon,” she said, her accent slicing each syllable. “Why do you look as though you’re about to give closing arguments before the Supreme Court? For heaven's sake—it’s Sunday.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck. “I—thought it best to present myself… properly.”

“Properly,” she repeated, eyes narrowing. Then, with a little smirk: “Properly for whom?”

He adjusted his tie, pulse skipping. “For… the occasion.”

She made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Occasion, pah. Do not insult me with your courtroom jargon. You think I cannot see? You are not the first superhero to walk through those doors enchanted by my assistant.”

The words landed heavier than he expected. Enchanted. He almost dropped the package.

Edna was already marching toward the house, gesturing dramatically with one hand. “That infuriating Gamma Jack comes sniffing around here every Tuesday, like clockwork. ‘Oh, Edna, just a little adjustment to my gauntlets’—nonsense! He does not want my gauntlets. He wants her. Always asking, always lingering, never leaving. Tiresome!”

Simon followed stiffly, heat crawling higher up his neck. He gripped the package tighter, the brown paper threatening to crease.

“Honestly,” Edna went on, voice sharp as her scissors, “you men are all the same. Do you think she has not noticed? Do you think she does not know exactly the effect she has? Please. She was born knowing. It is practically in her posture.”

Simon’s throat worked. His mind scrambled for a proper reply, something—anything—that would sound dignified. Instead all he could muster was, “I… see.”

“Mm.” Edna glanced over her shoulder at him, amused. “Do not look so grim, darling. You are not the first, but perhaps you will be the least boring.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, mortified at how easily she had read him. If Jack—loud, brash, maddening Gamma Jack—came calling here every Tuesday… what chance did a stiff, dull lawyer have?

Edna paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, tilting her head back toward him with a sly grin.

“And Simon, darling?”

He met her gaze warily. “Yes?”

“Do try not to stare at her like a starving man at a steak dinner. It is unsightly.”

His ears burned hot. “I would never—”

She cut him off with a dismissive flick of her hand, already sweeping into the depths of her cavernous home. “You men always think you wouldn’t. That is the problem.”

And then she was gone, leaving him alone in the hall, pulse hammering, mortified that she had managed to pin him like an insect to cork with a single sentence.

Edna’s words clung to him like burrs as he walked the hall, every step echoing his mortification. Do try not to stare… Ridiculous. Unsightly, she had said. He would not give her the satisfaction.

Still, he knocked lightly against the already open door before stepping into the lab.

You were there, of course. As though the room itself bent around your presence. Hair pinned neatly up, lab coat falling sharp over a silk blouse and skirt. The faint shimmer of stockings catching the light when you shifted. He noted the heels—unnecessarily high for laboratory work—and looked away just as quickly, telling himself the observation was professional. Strictly professional.

“Mr. Paladino,” you greeted him, voice warm, smooth as honey, and your smile—God help him—your smile could have won an award.

He inclined his head, posture as formal as ever, though he felt oddly as though he had already lost ground. “Good afternoon.”

You gestured toward the workbench. “Your helmet’s ready. Took a little coaxing, but I think you’ll find it far less medieval now.”

He crossed the room, parcel still tucked neatly under one arm, and set it carefully aside. “I appreciate your attention to detail,” he said, words measured, clipped. “Truly.”

And he meant it. Perhaps more than he knew how to say.

You lifted the helmet from the bench with both hands, setting it gently down in front of him. “All right,” you began, slipping seamlessly into explanation, “first thing was the dispersal plating. I reinforced the layers with an alloy designed to stabilize the field immediately on activation. No more five-second delay. It should be instant.”

Simon blinked once, absorbing that. Reinforced plating, immediate stabilization. That meant he could—

He lost the thread for a moment, because your voice had dipped slightly lower on instant, smooth and certain, and he had to drag his thoughts back before they scattered.

You went on, tapping the side of the helmet with your pen. “Second—the weight distribution. I altered the frame, shifted the load away from the cervical spine. You’ll feel it balanced more evenly across the shoulders. Thirty-five minutes, sixty minutes—you shouldn’t notice the strain.”

He swallowed, jaw tightening. Shouldn’t notice the strain. God, he hoped you hadn’t noticed his pulse quickening.

You leaned in just slightly, one hand braced against the bench as you pointed to a subtle adjustment along the inner rim. “And I’ve modified the harnessing, so you won’t have to correct your stance every ten minutes like a soldier on parade. You can move like a man instead of a statue.”

His mouth parted, a breath slipping in before he remembered to close it. Move like a man instead of a statue. He had to clamp down hard on the irrational thought that you had meant it as anything other than mechanical.

He cleared his throat. “That is… remarkable.” His voice sounded rougher than he intended, so he repeated, more even: “Remarkable work. Truly.”

He tried to focus on the helmet in front of him, on the alloy, the dispersal, the balance—yet all he could hear was your voice curling smooth around each word, and it took every ounce of discipline not to lose himself in it entirely.

You let his praise for the helmet settle for a beat, then reached beneath the bench and slid a slim case across the table toward him. A knowing smile curved at your lips.

“For the courtroom charmer,” you said smoothly, “who doesn’t want to set his clients on fire.”

Simon blinked, posture tightening as he set his parcel aside and reached for the case. He opened it with the care of a man expecting some elaborate invention—and then frowned faintly at the sight inside.

“…These are glasses.” His tone was clipped, confused, as though you’d handed him a common fountain pen in a velvet box.

“Actually,” you said, still smiling as you stepped into his personal space, “they’re not.” You plucked the frames from their case with a delicate flourish. “Special composite lenses. They absorb and disperse excess discharge. To everyone else, they’re just your everyday spectacles.”

He stiffened as you held them up, as if the explanation had left him more unsteady than reassured.

You tilted your head, lashes low. “May I?”

His pulse jumped. He hesitated just long enough to betray himself, then gave the faintest nod. Carefully, he removed his own glasses and folded them with meticulous precision, gaze slipping deliberately away from you lest he linger too long.

You stepped closer still, your perfume catching faint in the air, your teeth grazing your lower lip as you lifted the new pair. He noticed it—of course he noticed it. His eyes dropped for half a heartbeat before he forced them away again, back to the safe blankness of the wall.

Then you slid the frames gently onto his face.

They fit. Perfectly.

“They look like your everyday set,” you continued, voice low, smooth, deliberate, “but the material is something new. Special composite, layered with a crystalline absorber. To anyone else, you’re just wearing ordinary frames. But these—these will swallow the beams before they ever leave your eyes. No more singed hats. No more avoiding people like they’re made of glass.”

Simon stood frozen, pulse thudding in his throat. The glasses sat light against the bridge of his nose, no different from the pair he had worn for years—and yet the very idea of testing them set his blood cold.

You tilted your head, smiling faintly as though coaxing a child. “Go on. Look at me.”

His stomach knotted. He gripped the edge of the bench to steady himself. Foolish. Dangerous. The lenses were unproven, untested in the field. If they failed—if even a fragment of energy slipped through—then the result would be—

He swallowed hard. “I… would prefer not to gamble with your life.” His voice came out tighter than he meant, almost strained.

“You’re not gambling,” you murmured. “You’re trusting me.”

Trust. The word landed heavier than steel. He had trusted devices before, engineers before. They had failed. Nothing had worked. Nothing had ever worked.

And yet—your eyes stayed fixed on him, calm, unwavering, patient. That smile that could undo men.

His pulse thundered louder. He shifted, fingers flexing against the bench, the breath in his chest shallow and sharp.

His jaw worked, tight enough that it ached. He could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, in the hollow of his throat.

“I have… scorched walls,” he said stiffly, voice rough as gravel. “Furniture. Buildings at twenty paces. Do you imagine I could live with myself if the next thing I ruined was—” He cut himself short, breath catching. “No. I will not.”

You only smiled at him, slow, deliberate, like you were in on some secret he hadn’t caught up to yet. “Simon,” you said softly, his name a velvet weight on your tongue. “If I thought there was even a chance these wouldn’t work, do you think I’d be standing here asking you to look at me?”

The words lodged somewhere behind his ribs, pressing into a place he usually kept barricaded.

His fingers tightened on the edge of the bench until his knuckles whitened. It will fail. It always fails. You’ll prove her wrong, and she’ll die because of it.

You leaned just a fraction closer, lashes lowering, smile still calm, unwavering. “Trust me.”

His throat went dry. His body obeyed before his mind could protest.

Slowly, carefully, he raised his gaze.

For an instant his whole body went rigid, every nerve braced for catastrophe. The familiar prickle began at once—the heat at the back of his eyes, that awful surge that always meant disaster. His breath caught sharp in his chest. God—no, not her, not here—

But the charge never escaped.

The lenses held. The energy went nowhere.

Nothing happened.

For the first time in years, the power coiled harmlessly inside him, swallowed whole before it could slip free. And he was looking—actually looking—straight into your eyes.

Panic froze him at first, his pulse hammering so violently he thought he might be sick. But then—slowly, disbelievingly—realization seeped in.

He could look at you.

Properly.

Greed overtook him before he could stop it. His eyes traced every detail as though starved—your expression, calm but intent; the arch of your brows; the shape of your nose. And then lower—God help him, lower still—to the curve of your mouth, lips soft and parted in that poised, sultry half-smile you wore like it had been designed for you alone.

He drank it all in, helpless, his stare lingering far too long, ravenous in its new freedom. For a man who had spent years denying himself even a glance, it felt indecent—sinful—how badly he wanted to memorize every line of your face now that he finally could.

You let him stare, soaking in the weight of his gaze, until you finally tilted your head, lips curving.

“Careful,” you murmured slyly, voice smooth as silk. “You’ll burn a hole through me anyway, staring like that.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Simon remained perfectly still, locked in place, eyes fastened to you as though the moment he looked away it might all collapse. The familiar pressure still built behind his eyes—the heat, the unmistakable spark of activation—and yet nothing left him. The lenses drank it down, swallowed it whole, kept it caged.

It should have reassured him. Instead, it terrified him. Terrified him, and thrilled him.

Because he could not stop.

His gaze traced over you greedily now, shameless in its hunger. Each detail of you hit him like oxygen after suffocation, like sunlight after years underground.

And still, his power pulsed and pressed at the edges of him, straining—but held. Contained.

His heart hammered, chest tight, the sound of it deafening in his ears. He should look away. He should. But he couldn’t. Not when it finally, finally, did no harm.

Not when it felt like he’d been starving, and you’d just given him permission to eat.

His throat worked, dry and unsteady, before at last the words scraped out, hoarse and stiff.

“…It’s… working.”

The sound of his own voice startled him, as though it had broken the spell. Sense rushed back in jagged pieces, mortification following quickly on its heels. His gaze faltered at last, dropping away as he cleared his throat.

“Forgive me,” he managed, straightening his shoulders as though posture could patch over the rawness in his tone. “I—thank you. Truly. I cannot…” He stopped, swallowed, tried again. “I cannot overstate what this means.”

His hand fumbled briefly before he remembered the parcel he’d set neatly on the bench. He reached for it now, fingers too tight on the brown paper as he held it out to you.

“I—brought this. A token of gratitude. For the helmet,” he said, voice finding the stiff, formal cadence he clung to like a lifeline. “It is a first edition. I thought… perhaps it might suit.”

A pause, his eyes flicking back to yours for only a heartbeat before sliding away again. “Though nothing, of course, could compare to what you have just given me.”

You took the parcel from his hand with a little smile, unwrapping the brown paper neatly rather than tearing it. Inside was a handsome, clothbound volume, gilt lettering still bright along the spine:

“The Collected Discourses of Epictetus: Revised Classical Edition.”

An intellectual’s book. The sort men kept on their shelves to signal refinement, but few ever read beyond the first chapter.

Simon stood ramrod straight, hands clasped behind his back, watching you closely. He expected you to smile politely, perhaps remark on the binding—courteous, perfunctory. That was the best he could hope for.

Instead, you traced the spine with your thumb, eyes lighting faintly in recognition.

“I’ve read this one,” you said softly, almost sheepish. Then you hesitated, lips pressing together before you admitted, reluctant but honest, “In fact… I have the full collection at home.”

Simon blinked once. His stomach sank. Of course. Of course you would. Brilliant, sultry, dazzling, and well-read besides—why had he thought for even a moment that he could impress you with something so meager?

His jaw tightened. He adjusted his cuffs, as though the motion could hide the quiet flush of mortification creeping up the back of his neck.

“I see,” he said at last, monotone steady even as his thoughts ran roughshod. A fool, Paladino. You’ve brought sand to the desert. She has everything already, everything, and you thought to hand her crumbs.

He cleared his throat, “If there is…” He paused, started again, voice carefully measured. “If there is anything I might do in return for your generosity—for the helmet, for these glasses—”

He faltered, not quite able to finish the thought. His pulse beat heavy in his throat.

You leaned closer, smile curling slow and deliberate, lashes low but gaze unwavering. “Yes,” you said, smooth as silk. “You can take me to dinner.”

The words landed like a blow to the chest. For a moment, Simon simply stared at you, utterly unmoored. His lips parted, but no sound emerged.

Dinner. You had said it as though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though men like him were asked that every day by women like you.

He swallowed hard, collar suddenly too tight again. “I… beg your pardon?”

But you only smiled, unwavering.

You didn’t give him the space to retreat into formality. Instead, you stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the two of you were nearly chest to chest.

He could smell your perfume now—something soft, heady, maddening—and when you tilted your chin up to meet his gaze, your lashes fluttered just enough to make his pulse spike.

“I’ll let you take me to dinner,” you repeated, voice low, velvet-smooth, as though you were granting him a privilege.

Simon froze. Stared at you again, blue eyes wide behind the new lenses, every thought scattered like papers in a gale.

For one suspended heartbeat, he did nothing. Just stood there, stiff and silent, as though his brain had simply shut down.

Then, belatedly, instinct took over. He adjusted his tie—unnecessary, perfectly straight already—and then his glasses, even though you had only just fit them on him. “I—yes. Of course. If—that is—”

He stopped, cleared his throat, tried again. “Would you permit me… the honor of taking you to dinner, then?”

The words came out more formal than he intended, a courtroom plea rather than an invitation, but it was the best he could manage while his pulse thundered in his ears.

“I—ah—would of course need to make arrangements,” he said, voice tight, every syllable weighed like evidence before a jury. “A proper establishment, nothing too—nothing unsuitable, you understand. Friday evening, perhaps, though I would need to—”

He stopped, adjusted his glasses, pulse hammering loud in his ears. “That is, if Friday does not suit, then Saturday—though I imagine your calendar is far less… available than mine—”

His words trailed off, strangled somewhere between panic and formality.

You only smiled at him, calm, assured, head tilting just slightly as though you’d been waiting for him to tangle himself into knots. Then you leaned a fraction closer, lashes lowering, your voice smooth as velvet.

“When and where, Simon?”

The question cut clean through his fumbling, leaving him blinking at you, throat dry, as though he’d just been cross-examined and found lacking.

He froze for half a heartbeat, then straightened, as though hauled upright by invisible strings. His hand twitched once more toward his tie before he forced it still at his side.

“There is a place downtown,” he said at last, voice clipped but steady. “Mastro’s. Quiet. Respectable. Friday evening, seven o’clock.”

The words landed like a verdict, decisive at last.

His pulse still thundered in his ears, but he held your gaze—truly held it this time—waiting for judgment.

You let the corners of your mouth curve, slow and certain, savoring how stiff and formal he sounded even while asking you to dinner. “It’s a date, then.”

He swallowed, the words hitting him square in the chest.

You leaned back just slightly, eyes lingering on him as your voice softened to a hum. “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Paladino.”

For a moment he could only stand there, rooted to the spot, before his body remembered what to do. He inclined his head in a stiff nod, recovering what little composure he had left. “Until then.”

He reached for his helmet, tucking it carefully under one arm, and began edging toward the door with exaggerated care.

And then, still holding your gaze, nodding once more—he turned, only to misjudge the distance. His hip caught the edge of a side table with a dull thud. The instruments rattled, one nearly toppling before he righted it with a sharp hand.

Simon froze, mortification written in the rigid line of his shoulders.

“Apologies,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses as though that would erase the stumble.

You had already turned your head, hiding the smile that tugged insistently at your mouth.

The drive home was mercifully uneventful. Straight roads, quiet streets, the low hum of the engine steady beneath him.

And yet Simon gripped the wheel tighter than necessary, jaw locked, every mile an exercise in self-control.

It’s a date, then.

The words replayed themselves mercilessly, accompanied by the tilt of your chin, the curl of your smile, the hum of “I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Paladino.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if that could scatter it. Foolish. Utterly foolish. He was a grown man, a practicing attorney, a licensed superhero. And yet one woman’s smile had unraveled him like a schoolboy.

Five days.

He groaned under his breath at the realization. Five whole days until Friday evening. Until Mastro’s. Until he would have to sit across from you, holding himself together under the full weight of your eyes and your voice, pretending he wasn’t hopelessly, helplessly—

He cut the thought off, pressing his lips into a thin line. No. He would manage. He must.

Still, when the light turned red, he caught himself adjusting his glasses in the rearview mirror. Again.

Simon James Paladino had never dreaded and longed for a Friday more in his life.