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You’d been friends with Steven Grant and Marc Spector for almost ten months — which meant you’d learned the subtle tells the way other people learned languages.
Marc walked like he was clearing a room.
Steven walked like he’d forgotten where he put his keys.
Marc spoke directly.
Steven apologized between sentences.
Marc didn’t ramble.
Steven could turn a grocery list into poetry.
So when “Steven” walked into the Egyptian exhibit that evening with his shoulders too broad, his chin too set, and his smile strained like he’d looked up “friendly expression” on Google… you didn’t even bother pretending.
“Hello, Marc,” you said without looking up from your display sheet.
There was a very small, very satisfying pause.
“…I’m Steven,” he insisted unconvincingly.
You snorted. Loudly. “Sure you are.”
“I— I am! Absolutely. Definitely Steven… with a v.”
You finally lifted your head and gave him a look. “Marc, you’re standing like you expect someone to shoot at you.”
He immediately tried to slump his posture, which somehow made it worse — his arms ended up dangling like he’d lost control of them.
You raised a brow. “Are your limbs okay?”
“…Yes.”
A beat.
“I’m feeling very… Steven-ish.”
You deadpanned, “Steven has never used the phrase ‘Steven-ish’ in his life.”
Marc’s jaw flexed.
I TOLD you this wouldn’t work! I told you! They can smell you coming a mile away!
“Shut up,” Marc hissed under his breath.
You blinked. “Sorry?”
He cleared his throat. “Talking to myself. As Steven. Which I am.”
“Marc.”
He deflated like a balloon losing air. “Fine. It’s me.”
You leaned on the display case, arms crossed, watching him like someone watching a particularly ridiculous wildlife documentary.
“What,” you asked patiently, “were you doing?”
Marc rubbed a hand down his face. “I was proving a point.”
“By impersonating Steven? Badly?”
Marc grunted. “I wasn’t that bad.”
You were terrible. You did my voice like Kermit the Frog. Why would you make me sound like that?
“It wasn’t like Kermit,” Marc muttered.
You squinted. “You… did do a voice?”
Marc winced.
You waited.
He sighed heavily. “…I lost a bet.”
You burst into laughter.
Marc groaned again. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s incredibly funny,” you said. “What was the bet?”
Marc hesitated, and for a moment you saw that rare flicker of embarrassment — the one he hid under sarcasm and the occasional death glare.
Then he muttered, “Steven said you could always tell us apart.”
You smirked. “Well, that’s true.”
“And I said you couldn’t.”
You raised a brow. “Marc. Sweetheart. I can tell within thirty seconds.”
Marc’s ears went pink. “You’re not supposed to call me sweetheart when you’re roasting me.”
“That’s exactly when I’m supposed to.”
He looked like he desperately wanted to argue but knew he wouldn’t win.
You tapped a finger against your arm. “So why the bet?”
Marc exhaled sharply through his nose. “Because Steven chickened out.”
I DID NOT CHICKEN OUT. I simply exercised caution! Which is different! Also Marc told me my hair looked like a startled pigeon, so I wasn’t in the right emotional space.
Marc rolled his eyes internally. Then, out loud, he said, “He was going to ask you out.”
Your heart skipped. “Yeah?”
“He panicked.” Marc huffed. “Started rambling about the ethics of coworkers dating, even though you don’t even work with him.”
You smiled. “That sounds like Steven.”
“Exactly,” Marc said, frustrated. “And then I said I’d do it.”
Your head tilted. “Ask me out?”
“Yeah.”
“And then…?”
“And then Steven told me I’d freak you out because apparently, I look like a man who has ‘committed multiple questionable acts.’”
I meant it in an affectionate way! Your face looks… rugged! Heroic! Slightly stabby, but charmingly so!
Marc inhaled. “So then I said if I asked you out as Steven, you wouldn’t notice.”
You snorted so hard you almost choked. “Why would you ever think that?!”
“Because he said you like him more!”
Your laughter stopped — not because it wasn’t funny, but because suddenly there was something raw beneath his words.
You stepped closer, softening. “Marc.”
His eyes dropped to the floor. “He’s the friendly one. The one who makes you laugh. The one you drink tea with. The one who doesn’t—”
His throat worked.
“…scare people.”
“Marc,” you repeated, quieter, “you don’t scare me.”
He looked up at you — unsure, almost hopeful but fighting it.
I keep telling him that.
You placed a hand gently on Marc’s forearm. “You know I like both of you, right? I don’t have a favorite.”
Marc swallowed. “Yeah. But Steven thinks if either of us asked you out, you’d say no. And I think—” He hesitated. “Well. I think you’d say yes.”
Your heart fluttered. “Do you?”
Marc finally met your eyes. Fully. Honestly. “Yeah. I do.”
ASK THEM, you absolute cucumber. You can do it. I believe in you. Just—maybe don’t do the Kermit voice.
Marc took one steadying breath.
Then:
“…Would you? Say yes, I mean.”
You arched a brow. “Is this you asking me?”
He nodded, shoulders tense.
You smiled — slow and warm. “Yeah, Marc. I’d say yes.”
Everything about him softened. His posture. His jaw. His breath.
“Oh,” he murmured. A real smile tugged at his lips. “Good. That’s… good.”
THANK GOD. I thought we were going to die alone and bitter.
Marc ignored him and lifted his hand to scratch the back of his neck — his tell for being flustered, though he’d deny it forever.
You nudged him lightly. “So what now? You taking me out? Or is Steven going to ask me on his lunch break tomorrow?”
Marc cracked a smirk. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“If you want one date…” He stepped closer, eyes dark and warm. “…or two.”
WE COULD SHARE. LIKE A VERY COMPLEX GOOGLE CALENDAR—
Marc rolled his eyes. “Not now.”
You grinned. “Two sounds fun.”
Marc’s smile grew, slow and real. He reached for your hand — hesitant until your fingers slipped easily between his.
“…You’re not mad?” he asked.
“For the terrible acting?” you teased. “I’m deeply offended.”
He grinned. “I wasn’t that bad.”
“Marc, you introduced yourself as ‘Steven with a V’ in a Batman voice.”
His ears flushed. “I panicked.”
You squeezed his hand. “I know.”
“And you still said yes?” he asked softly.
“That part was easy.”
He stared at you like you were something he didn’t think he was allowed to want.
This is beautiful. I’m crying.
“Can I take you to dinner?” Marc asked.
You leaned in, brushing your shoulder against his. “You better.”
Marc exhaled a breath he’d clearly been holding.
“Okay,” he said. “Dinner.”
“And then tea with Steven?”
“With Steven,” Marc confirmed, amused.
“And no more impersonating each other.”
Marc smirked. “Deal.”
Thank you. My reputation could not survive another one of his impressions.
Marc squeezed your hand once more — grounding, warm, completely himself.
“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured.
And with his fingers laced with yours and Steven cheering like an overexcited sport commentator inside his head…
It felt like the start of something absolutely chaotic and unbelievably sweet.