Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thomas likes to think he's a good person.

He really does. He gets good grades. He returns his shopping cart to the corral. He once helped an old lady cross the street— okay, technically she didn't want to cross the street; she'd been waiting for the bus, and he'd kind of manhandled her across the asphalt to get her out of the rain while she whacked him with her cane, but his intentions had been good. He tips delivery drivers even when they get his order wrong. He waters his neighbour's plants when they're out of town. He's practically a saint— if modern-day saints were moderately agnostic, perpetually sleep-deprived, and had a sarcastic comment for every possible life situation.

Which is why, on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday evening, he cannot for the life of him, figure out what karmic debt he'd accidentally accrued to deserve the two idiots currently letting themselves into his apartment at 7:40PM without knocking.

"I'm making popcorn," Snowbird announces, already halfway to the kitchen. "You're microwave is still terrible, by the way. When are you going to get a new one?"

"It's not terrible— it's vintage," Thomas calls from the couch, not even bothering to get up and greet them. He had learned long ago that standing to greet Snowbird is a waste of energy. The man treats Thomas' apartment like his own personal lounge. "And I don't recall inviting you over."

"You didn't. That's what makes it a surprise!" Snowbird's voice echoes from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of cabinets opening and closing. "Where do you keep your bowls again? Wait, don't tell me— you eat popcorn straight from the bag like the feral creature you truly are."

"Respecting my boundaries and insulting my lifestyle. Truly the mark of a great friend."

Rotation, who walked in behind Snowbird and had now settled into the opposite end of the couch without a word, snorts. He's already got his phone out, thumb scrolling through what Thomas assumes are camera shots from whatever disaster show he's currently filming. Rotation was always filming something. The man has approximately seventeen side projects at any given moment and the attention span of a caffeinated hummingbird, which is apparently what makes him an excellent camera director. That, and his ability to yell at people until they do what he wants.

"Don't look at me," Rotation says without looking up from his phone, lifting one of his hands in surrender. "He's the one with the plan. I'm just here for moral support and to make sure you don't murder him before he explains."

"Bold of you to assume I won't just murder you both."

"You won't. You're a good person, remember?" Rotation's mouth twitches upward just a touch. "You help old ladies cross streets."

"That was one time and I didn't know she already had an umbrella on her— I still have nightmares about it."

Snowbird emerges from the kitchen triumphantly, clutching a massive bowl of popcorn that Thomas is fairly certain he didn't have the ingredients for. "Found your hidden stash. Very sneaky, keeping the good kernels behind the expired canned goods. Classic misdirection."

"Those canned goods aren't expired, they're just… aged. They have character."

"They expired in 2021, Thomas."

"Yeah well—" Thomas sputters slightly, searching for an answer. "Character takes time to develop."

Snowbird drops onto the couch between them, shoving the popcorn bowl into Thomas' lap like an offering. His expression shifts from chaotic energy to something slightly more focused— the look of a man about to make a request he knows will be met with resistance. Thomas has seen this look before— it preceded the time Snowbird talked him into helping him move a couch up three flights of stairs three in the morning. It preceded the time Snowbird convinced him to be a plus-one at a family wedding where an ex would be present. It preceded approximately twenty-eight other terrible decisions that Thomas— against all better judgement, had agreed to.

It is, in short— the look of impending doom.

"No," Thomas says, before Snowbird can get anything out.

"I haven't even asked yet."

"Yeah, well whatever it is— no."

"You don't even know what it is!"

"I know it's going to be something that requires me to leave this apartment, interact with other humans, and probably embarrass myself in ways that will haunt me for years. So the answer is— no."

Snowbird sighs dramatically, leaning back against the couch cushions. "Thomas, Thomas, Thomas, Thomas. My friend. My beloved human disaster. My favourite person to gaslight into terrible decisions—"

"Okay, so you just admitted to gaslighting me and you wonder why I'm not agreeing."

"— I need you to hear me out before you say no. Just hear me out. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

Thomas looks at Rotation, who had finally put down his phone and was watching the exchange with the expression of someone who's seen this play out before and knows exactly how it ends.

"He's not going to stop," Rotation offers. "You know that. Might as well hear him out and then say no. Save everyone some time."

"Traitor," Thomas mutters under his breathe, but he gestures for Snowbird to continue. "Fine. Five minutes. Starting now."

Snowbird sits up straight, suddenly all business. It's a jarring transformation— the chaotic friend replaced all of a sudden by the professional producer. Thomas had seen this version of Snowbird a couple of times before, usually when he's pitching something he genuinely believes in. The sudden change is still unsettling every time.

"I'm producing a show," Snowbird begins. "A dating reality show. It's called 'Hearts Entwined'. It's going to be huge— beautiful people, beautiful location, all the drama and romance viewers love and crave. We've got a mansion, we've got the crew, we've got the contestants. Everything is set."

Thomas blinks. "Okay…? Congratulations? I still don't see what this has to do with me."

"Everything was set," Snowbird continues, "until yesterday. When our main contestant— the person everyone is supposed to be fighting over— had what he called a 'family emergency'." He makes aggressive air quotes around the phrase. "Which is producer-speak for 'came to his senses and realised he'd rather have a root canal than spend six weeks on television being emotionally vulnerable.' Can you imagine?"

"Yes," Thomas says flatly. "I can imagine that perfectly. That sounds like a completely reasonable reaction."

"Which is why you're perfect!"

Thomas stares at him. He blinks. He waits for Snowbird to say he's just kidding.

But he does no such thing. Instead, Snowbird presses on, undeterred. "You're the last-minute replacement! The reluctant hero! The audience is going to eat you up. You're handsome in that 'I haven't slept in three days and I'm judging you' kind of way, you're funny when you're not trying to be, and you have zero expectations, which means you'll be authentically awkward. Authenticity is huge right now, Thomas. Huge."

"You want— me to be on a dating show."

"A dating show where you're the main character, yes."

"As a contestant."

"The main contestant, yes. The prize. The person everyone is trying to win over."

Thomas looks at Rotation, who is now actively trying not to laugh. "You're serious."

"Of course, Thomas. When have I ever not been serious in my entire life?" Snowbird leans forward, eyes sparkling with the kind of enthusiasm that usually precedes terrible decisions. "Six weeks, Thomas. Six weeks in a beautiful mansion next to a sunny beach. Free food. Free booze. A chance to meet some genuinely interesting people. And you'd be doing me a massive favour. Like, 'I'll never ask you for anything ever again' level favour."

"You'll definitely ask me for things again. That's how you operate."

"Probably, yes. But I'll feel slightly guilty about it."

Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have a job. I have a life. I have plans that don't include being manipulated into falling in love on national television."

"Your job is data entry. You've been there for two years and you still don't know what the company actually does." Snowbird ticks points off on his fingers with the precision of someone who's done extensive research. "Your life consists of coming home, watching Netflix, and occasionally hanging out with me and Flux and Rotation, which barely counts as socialising. And your plans for next weekend involve reorganising your bookshelf by colour."

Thomas opens his mouth to argue. Closes it. Opens it again.

"How do you even know about the bookshelf thing?"

"You told me. Two days ago. In concerning detail. For forty-five minutes."

"I was venting about my stress! That was private!"

"Nothing is private between us, Thomas. That's what friendship means." Snowbird grins, clearly enjoying himself. "Look— I'm not saying your life is sad. I'm saying it's... quiet. Predictable. Safe. When's the last time you took a real risk? When's the last time you did something that scared you?"

"I'm scared of heights. I don't do heights. That's a reasonable fear but I still go on roller coasters and skyscrapers."

"That's not what I mean and you know it."

Thomas is quiet for a moment. Because Snowbird, infuriatingly, has a point. Not about the dating show— that's still insane— but about the rest of it. When was the last time he did something unexpected? Something that wasn't work-sleep-repeat with the occasional friend hangouts thrown in? He's twenty-eight years old and his most exciting recent memory is the time his delivery driver gave him extra sauce by accident.

Rotation, who has been suspiciously quiet, finally speaks up. "He's not wrong, you know. About you needing something. I've known you for what— five years now? You're funny, you're smart, you're genuinely not terrible to be around. But you've also got walls up like a medieval fortress. When's the last time you actually let someone in? Like, really in?"

Thomas glares at him. "Whose side are you on?"

"Yours. That's why I'm saying this." Rotation shrugs. "You don't have to do the show. Obviously. But maybe... I don't know. Maybe Snowbird's insane plan isn't completely insane. Maybe it's exactly the kind of chaos you need."

Snowbird nods vigorously. "What Rotation said! Except more enthusiastic and with better hand gestures." He leans forward again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Thomas, I'm not asking you to find love. I'm asking you to have an experience. To shake things up. To maybe, possibly, let yourself be surprised by what happens. And if nothing happens, fine! You spend six weeks in a beautiful mansion, eat free food, make some friends, and come home with stories to tell. That's not a loss. That's a win."

Thomas eyes Snowbird sceptically. "And if something does happen?"

Snowbird's grin softens into something almost genuine. "Then maybe… that's a win too."

Thomas looks at his two best friends, sitting on his couch, eating his popcorn, having apparently coordinated an intervention-slash-recruitment drive without his knowledge. They're idiots. Both of them. Snowbird with his schemes and his chaos and his terrifying ability to get people to do things they don't want to do. Rotation with his short temper and his camera obsession and his surprising moments of genuine insight.

They're also the closest thing to family Thomas has.

"I hate you both," he says.

"No you don't," Snowbird grins.

"I really, really do."

"That's the spirit!" Snowbird jumps up, practically vibrating with excitement. "I'll take that as a yes! Car picks you up tomorrow at 6 AM. Pack light but bring personality. And maybe a few shirts that aren't various shades of grey— the cameras need colour. I'll email you the paperwork. Sign it without reading it, that's what everyone does."

"Wait, tomorrow? 6 AM? That's—"

But Snowbird is already heading for the door, Rotation following with a wave and a sympathetic grimace.

"Try not to hate us too much," Rotation says. "It's for your own good. Probably."

And with that, the door slams close behind them.

Thomas sits alone in his suddenly-too-quiet apartment, surrounded by his colour-coded bookshelf and his predictable life and a rapidly cooling bowl of popcorn. He stares at the door for a long moment. Then he looks at his phone, which is already buzzing with an email from Snowbird titled "READ THIS!!! (but not really, just sign at the bottom)."

He sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of his poor life choices.

"What," he asks the empty room, "did I just agree to?"

The room, predictably, does not answer.

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The scene shifts to what appears to be a storage closet in some kind of production office. Snowbird sits on an overturned crate, surrounded by boxes of camera equipment and random cables— trying to simulate a makeshift confessional room. He's grinning like a cat who's just discovered a factory full of canaries.

"So here's the thing about Thomas. He's a fantastic human being. Genuinely kind, genuinely funny, genuinely terrible at letting himself have nice things." He leans forward, lowering his voices conspiratorially. "I've known him for— what, six years now? Since college. And in all that time, I've watched him deflect every single opportunity for genuine connection with a joke. Every. Single. One. Someone shows interest? He makes a joke. Someone gets close? He makes a joke. Someone tries to have a real conversation about feelings? You guessed it— joke."

Snowbird shakes his head, but there's affection in his expression. "It's a defence mechanism, obviously. Textbook stuff. If you're laughing, you can't be hurting, right? If you never let anyone in, they can't let you down. I get it. I really do. But here's the thing— Thomas deserves more than that. He deserves someone who sees through the jokes. Someone who sticks around for the real him."

He pauses, grin widening. "And here's what Thomas doesn't know: I've already seen the casting tapes. All of them. Every single contestant who applied. And there's someone in this cast who is going to absolutely wreck him. In the best way possible." He leans back, looking immensely pleased with himself. "I'm not saying I'm a genius, but..." He considers. "Okay, I'm definitely saying I'm a genius. This is going to be beautiful. Painful to watch, probably, in that 'secondhand embarrassment' kind of way. But ultimately beautiful."

Another pause, this one softer. "Also, full disclosure, I might have... encouraged... another friend to join the cast. Someone Thomas knows. Someone who's going to be very surprised to see him there." He winks at the camera. Someone behind the camera makes a loud groaning sound in annoyance causing Snowbird to chuckle. "What? A little chaos keeps things interesting. And honestly? That friend needs a push too. They're both hopeless. Completely hopeless. Someone has to intervene and that someone is going to be me."

He stands, brushing off his shirt. "Anyway. Thomas thinks he's just doing me a favour. He thinks he's going to spend six weeks making jokes and avoiding feelings and then go back to his colour-coded bookshelf and his boring little apartment. He has no idea what's coming." The grin returns, wider than ever. "This is going to be the best television I've ever made. And the best part? It's real. All of it. The drama, the romance, the inevitable emotional breakdowns— completely genuine. I'm just... facilitating."

He heads for the door, then pauses, looking back at the camera. "Oh, and Rotation? He's in on it. Obviously. He's the camera director. He's going to have the best seat in the house for the whole disaster. We've got bets going on when Thomas finally cracks. I'm saying week three. Rotation says week four. There's money on this." He grins. "But don't tell Thomas. It'll ruin the surprise."

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The scene shifts again. Rotation is now in the same storage closet, but he's standing, arms crossed, looking vaguely annoyed at having to be there. His default expression, apparently.

"I'm only doing this because Snowbird said there would be snacks. There are no snacks. I've been lied to." He pauses, glares at someone off-camera. "This is going in the file, by the way. You owe me."

He turns back to the camera, expression shifting to something slightly more thoughtful. "Thomas. Yeah, I've known him for about five years. He's one of my best friends, which is surprising because normally I can't stand people who make jokes about everything. But with Thomas, it's different. The jokes aren't mean— they're just... a shield. You know? Like he's afraid that if he stops making them, someone might actually see the real him. And that's terrifying, apparently."

Rotation shrugs. "I get it. I'm not exactly an open book myself. But here's the thing about Thomas— under all the sarcasm and the deflections and the truly terrible floral shirts that Snowbird is definitely going to make him wear—" He pauses, smirking. "Oh yeah, I've seen the wardrobe. It's going to be amazing. Thomas is going to hate it so much."

He continues: "Under all that, there's a genuinely good guy. Loyal. Funny in ways that aren't just defence mechanisms. The kind of friend who shows up at 2 AM if you need him, even if he complains about it the whole time. He deserves... I don't know. Something. Someone. Not the safe, predictable life he's built for himself."

Another pause, longer this time. "Snowbird's scheme is insane. It's also probably exactly what Thomas needs. Not the dating show part, necessarily— though that is going be so entertaining— but the being forced out of his comfort zone part. The having to actually engage with people part. The maybe, possibly, letting someone in part."

He uncrosses his arms and gestures vaguely. "And yeah, I'm going to be there filming the whole thing. Partly because it's my job, partly because someone needs to make sure Snowbird doesn't take things too far, and partly because..." He trails off, almost sheepish. "Partly because I want to see it. The moment he stops making jokes and actually lets himself feel something. I think it's going to be worth watching."

He glances off-camera again. "Can I go now? I have equipment to set up and approximately thirty things to yell at people about. This touchy-feely stuff is exhausting."

A beat. "Also, for the record, I have money on week four. Thomas is more stubborn than Snowbird thinks. It's going to take at least a month for someone to crack that shell." He heads for the door, then stops. "Oh, and if you're watching this, Thomas—" He looks directly at the camera, expression deadpan. "You're an idiot. A lovable idiot, but an idiot. See you on set. Try not to make my job too difficult."

He leaves. And the confessional ends.

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The car arrives at 6 AM on the dot.

Thomas knows this because he's been standing at his apartment window since 5:45 AM, coffee in hand, watching the street with the resigned acceptance of a man marching towards his own execution. He'd spent most of the night before staring at his ceiling, replaying Snowbird's pitch in his head and wondering, for approximately the thousandth time, just how he'd ended up with friends who thought a "surprise reality show appearance" was an acceptable form of affection.

The car is black and sleek and screams "someone important is inside" which is hilarious because Thomas is currently wearing jeans and a grey t-shirt and has approximately thirty-seven minutes of sleep in his system. He grabs his suitcase—one bag, packed light despite Snowbird's warnings about "personality requirements"— and heads downstairs.

The driver is a professional who says exactly four words during the entire trip to the airport. Thomas appreciates this more than he can express. By 10 AM, he's on a plane to wherever he's going. And by 2 PM, he's standing in front of a building so aggressively Mediterranean it looks like it escaped from a postcard.

The mansion —and it is, unequivocally, a mansion—sprawls across manicured grounds like a stucco-and-red-tile monument to excess. Palm trees line the driveway. A fountain gurgles nearby. The whole thing is disgustingly picturesque, the kind of place where people go to fall in love or have dramatic conversations about falling in love while wearing expensive swimsuits.

Thomas is still staring when a production assistant materialises at his elbow.

"Thomas? Great, you're here. Follow me, we need to get you to wardrobe and makeup and then orientation and then—" The PA is already walking, clearly expecting Thomas to follow. And so he follows.

They wind through hallways that all look the same, past doors that lead to who-knows-where, until they finally stop in front of a room that glows with an unnatural green light. The PA gestures him inside and disappears, presumably to fetch more unsuspecting victims.

Thomas steps through the door.

And stops.

The room is... a lot, to say the least. It's painted a shade of green that doesn't exist in nature, a colour so aggressively pastel it actually hurts to look at directly. Racks of clothing line the walls, each item more hideous than the last. There's a makeup station in the corner with lights so bright they could probably be used for an interrogation. And standing in the middle of it all, looking like he owns the place, is—

"Rotation."

Rotation looks up from whatever he's doing to his camera— a massive thing perched on his shoulder like an aggressive pet. He's wearing a headset and an expression of permanent low-grade annoyance that Thomas knows intimately.

"Thomas. You're here. Good. And also you're late."

"I'm not late. I'm exactly on time."

"On time is late in television. You should have been here twenty minutes ago." Rotation gestures vaguely with his free hand. "Wardrobe's over there. They're going to put you in something terrible. Don't fight it. I've learned that fighting it just makes it worse."

Thomas looks at the racks of clothing with growing horror. "How terrible are we talking?"

"Remember that shirt Snowbird made you wear to his themed party last year? The one with the pineapples?"

Thomas shudders. "I've tried to forget."

"Multiply that by approximately eighteen." Rotation's mouth twitches upwards but he tries to dampen down the smile. "I'm sorry. Truly. But also I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer. It's going to make for great footage."

Thomas scoffs and rolls his eyes. "Some friend you are."

"Best friend, actually. Which means I get to enjoy your suffering and document it for posterity." Rotation jerks his head toward the wardrobe racks. "Go on. Get it over with. The faster you start, the faster it ends."

"I'm not wearing this," Thomas said, holding up a floral-print button-down that looked like a tropical garden had exploded on it. "This shirt has more colors than my entire emotional spectrum."

"Put it on," Snowbird's voice crackled through the one of the speakers. "The floral reads as 'approachable' and 'fun.' You need all the help you can get."

Thomas glared at the ceiling. "If this ends with me falling in love on national television, I'm blaming you."

Snowbird's laugh echoed through the speaker. "Oh, Thomas. That's exactly what I'm counting on."

Thomas sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of poor life choices, and heads toward the racks.

Twenty minutes later, he's standing in front of a mirror, staring at a stranger.

The stranger is wearing a shirt so aggressively floral it looks like a tropical garden exploded. The stranger's hair has been gelled into something approaching a style. The stranger has what appears to be foundation on his face, making him look slightly more alive than Thomas usually looked.

The stranger is, apparently— him.

"I look like a tourist who got lost on the way to a Jimmy Buffett concert," Thomas informs the makeup artist, who just shrugs.

"You look approachable. That's what they wanted."

"I look like I'm about to sell someone timeshares."

The makeup artist hides a smile. "That too, probably."

Before Thomas can further mourn his transformation, the door opens and Snowbird glides in. He's transformed from chaotic friend to television producer, complete with clipboard, headset, and an aura of controlled chaos that follows him like a cologne.

"Perfect!" Snowbird circles Thomas like a shark examining a particularly promising prey. "The shirt is perfect! You look like a sad, handsome garden party. The audience is going to eat you up."

Thomas gestures at himself. "This is a crime against fashion and you know it."

"It's a crime I'm willing to commit for good television." Snowbird checks something on his clipboard. "Okay, listen up. The limos are about to start arriving. You'll be positioned at the end of the main walkway. As each contestant arrives, they'll approach you, you'll exchange some pleasantries, we'll get reaction shots. Try to look open to love, not like you're waiting for a bus."

"I don't look like I'm waiting for a bus."

"You have a very specific expression when you're waiting for a bus. I've seen it. No bus faces."

Thomas opens his mouth to argue, but Snowbird is already steering him toward the door. Rotation easily falls into step beside them, camera now active, red light blinking ominously.

"Remember," Rotation mutters, "don't swear. Don't touch the mic. Don't say anything that could be interpreted as offensive to any demographic, lifestyle, or brand of sparkling water."

"You mentioned the sparkling water thing last time. Is there a story there?"

"There's always a story. You don't want to know it— I can tell you some other time."

They emerge into the sunshine, which feels personally offensive in its brightness. Thomas blinks, adjusts, and finds himself positioned at the end of a long walkway lined with palm trees. A procession of black limousines are already pulling up in the distance.

A producer with yet another clipboard materialises to give rapid-fire instructions. "Okay, Thomas. First impressions are crucial. You're the main catch, so they'll be coming to you. Smile, be warm, ask questions. Remember their names— that's important. We don't want a repeat of last season. We'll be getting reaction shots of you as each person approaches. Try to look interested, even if you're not."

"What if I am interested?"

"Then look even more interested. Enthusiastic, even. We can work with enthusiastic."

The producer disappears and Thomas is left alone with his terrible shirt and his rapidly deteriorating sense of self-preservation.

The first limo door opens.

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A man sits in what appears to be a small, darkened room. A single chair, a plain background, and a camera pointed directly at him. He's handsome in an approachable way— kind eyes, warm smile, the kind of face that makes you want to trust him immediately.

"Hi there! I'm Legacy, and I'm so excited to be here!" He grins, genuine and unforced. "I know dating shows can be kind of hit or miss— like, you never know if you're going to get genuine connections or just a lot of drama— but I really believe in putting yourself out there, you know? Life's too short to play it safe."

He leans forward slightly, still smiling. "I'm looking for someone genuine. Someone who makes me laugh, who wants to stay up late talking about nothing, who's not afraid to be themselves even when the cameras are rolling. Is that too much to ask?" He laughs at himself. "God, listen to me— I sound like a commercial. But I mean it! I'm here for the real thing. And if it doesn't work out romantically? Hey, at least I'll make some friends. That's a win either way, right?"

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Legacy steps out of the limo like he's stepping into a warm embrace. There's no hesitation, no awkwardness— just easy, genuine confidence. He's tall, maybe an inch or two taller than Thomas, with an open face and eyes that crinkle when he smiles. His clothes are nice without being flashy, the kind of outfit that says 'I made an effort but I'm also not trying too hard.'

He spots Thomas at the end of the walkway and his smile widens. He walks over with purpose, hand extended.

"Hi there! I'm Legacy." His handshake is firm, warm, exactly the right amount of pressure. "And wow— this place is something else, huh?"

Thomas shakes his hand, already feeling vaguely inadequate in the face of so much genuine warmth. "Thomas. And yeah, it's... a lot."

Legacy laughs— a real laugh, not a polite one— and it transforms his face into something even more approachable. "That's the understatement of the century. I counted three fountains on the way in. Three. Who on earth needs three fountains?"

"Maybe they're for different moods. One for contemplation, one for romance, one for when you're really thirsty."

Legacy's laugh gets louder. "I like that. A fountain for every emotional state. Very considerate of them." He grins. "You're funny. In a dry, unexpected way. I appreciate that."

Thomas blinks. "You appreciated my fountain-based humour?"

"See, that's exactly why. Anyone can make small talk about the weather or the nice views. It takes a certain kind of person to assign emotional purposes to decorative water features." Legacy's eyes sparkle. "You're weird. I like weird."

"I'm not sure 'weird' is a compliment, but I'll take it."

"It absolutely is. Weird is interesting. Weird is memorable." Legacy claps him on the shoulder. "Normal is boring. You, my friend, are not boring."

Thomas finds himself smiling despite his better judgment. Legacy is... nice. Genuinely, authentically nice. The kind of nice that doesn't feel like a performance even in front of all these cameras. It's almost unsettling.

A producer appears to usher Legacy toward the mansion. He waves as he goes. "See you inside, Thomas! Save me a spot at the snack table— preferably near a fountain. I need to figure out which one is for snacking."

Thomas laughs despite himself. "I'll see what I can do."

Legacy disappears through the mansion doors, and Thomas turns back to the limo procession, still smiling.

One down. However many more to go.

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A different man sits in the same confessional chair. He's average height, average build, with kind eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses perched at the end of his nose and an easy smile that suggests he's in on a joke no one else has heard yet. He looks comfortable, relaxed, like being interrogated by a camera is just another Tuesday.

"I'm Kanukei. I teach high school maths." He pauses, grin widening. "I know, I know—'oh no, a maths teacher on a dating show, how exciting.' But here's the thing about teaching: you learn a lot about people. You learn to read between the lines, to spot the kid who's struggling before they say anything, to recognise when someone's putting on a show versus when they're being real."

He leans back, crosses one leg over the other. "I'm here because it seemed like an interesting experience. Worst case scenario? I make some friends and get a free vacation in a beautiful mansion. Best case scenario?" He shrugs, still smiling. "I meet someone who can tolerate my terrible puns and my habit of correcting historical inaccuracies in movies. I'm not picky. Chemistry is chemistry, you know? You can't fake it. You just have to show up and see what happens."

A pause, thoughtful. "Also— my students are going to lose their minds when they find out I did this. That chaos alone is worth it."

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The second limo door opens.

Kanukei emerges with the easy, unhurried grace of someone who's comfortable in his own skin. He looks around, taking in the mansion, the cameras, the production crew buzzing in the background, and nods to himself like he's confirming something he already suspected.

Then he spots Thomas and walks over, smile easy and genuine.

"Hey there." He extends a hand. "I'm Kanukei. You must be Thomas— the main event."

Thomas shakes his hand, relieved to find another normal person. "That's me, apparently. Though I'm still not clear on the contract I signed. There was a lot of fine print and I may have just agreed to surrender my firstborn."

Kanukei laughs, easy and warm. "Bold of you to assume you have a firstborn to surrender. That's optimistic. I respect that." He tilts his head, still grinning. "I teach maths, which means I'm professionally trained to recognize patterns. And this?" He gestures at the scene around them. "This is definitely a pattern I've seen before."

"And what pattern is that?"

"The 'someone thought this was a good idea and now we're all along for the ride' pattern. I see it in faculty meetings all the time." He shrugs. "Don't worry. I'm good at going with the flow. Chaos is just another variable to account for."

Thomas feels an immediate kinship. "You have no idea how refreshing it is to hear someone say that. I've been here twenty minutes and I'm already overwhelmed."

"Twenty minutes? Rookie numbers. Give it a week." Kanukei glances toward the mansion. "Well, I'm going to go find the others and see if anyone wants to play cards or something. Keep it low-key. Good luck with the rest of the arrivals."

"Thanks. I think I'm going to need it."

Kanukei waves and heads off, the picture of unbothered calm. Thomas watches him go with something approaching hope. Maybe this won't be entirely terrible. Maybe there are other normal people here.

But before that thought can settle, the third limo already pulls up.

Thomas watches the door open, mentally preparing himself for another round of pleasantries and first impressions. He's got his 'interested but not too interested; face ready. He's got a few conversation starters in his back pocket. He's—

All of his thoughts come to a stop because the person getting out of the limo looks familiar.

Very familiar.

Devastatingly, impossibly familiar.

Thomas' brain, which has been running at approximately 40% capacity since the floral shirt incident, screeches to a halt.

Because that's Flux.

Flux. Fluixon, Flux. His best friend. Flux, the person he complains to about everything, including most recently the absurdity of being blackmailed onto a dating show. Flux, who should be at home, in his own apartment, living his normal life while Thomas suffers alone.

But instead Flux is here. At the mansion. Getting out of a limo. Looking around with an expression of bewildered panic that Thomas knows intimately.

Their eyes meet.

Flux's face goes through approximately twenty different emotions in three seconds: recognition, confusion, hope, more confusion, horror, betrayal, and finally a kind of resigned acceptance of his own doom.

Thomas' face goes through approximately the same sequence— minus the hope.

"You," Thomas breathes.

"You…" Flux mouths back, looking like a man watching his own life flash before his eyes.

For a long moment, neither of them moves. They just stare at each other across the walkway, two best friends united in mutual shock and dawning horror.

Then Snowbird materialises between them like a demon summoned by awkwardness.

"Flux! So glad you could make it! Thomas, you know Flux, right? Small world!"

Flux stares at Snowbird with the expression of someone who's just discovered their best friend is also their assassin. His mouth opens. Closes. And then opens it again.

"You," he finally manages, voice strangled. "You did this. You knew this was happening when you blackmailed me."

Snowbird's smile doesn't waver. "I prefer 'strongly persuaded.' It has a nicer ring to it." He pats Flux on the shoulder. "Now go say hi to Thomas! Love is waiting!"

He disappears before Flux can respond, leaving him standing there, frozen, staring at Thomas like he's not sure if this is real or some kind of elaborate nightmare.

Flux stumbles forward, catches himself, and ends up standing directly in front of Thomas. For a moment, they just look at each other. Then Flux's expression crumbles into something between despair and desperate laughter.

"Thomas."

"Flux."

"You're here."

"I am."

"On a dating show."

"Apparently." Thomas gestures at himself. "Main contestant. Can you believe it?"

Flux stares at his shirt. "What… what are you wearing?"

Thomas rolls his eyes. "I don't want to talk about it."

"The shirt, Thomas. What the fuck is that shirt?"

"I said I don't want to talk about it." Thomas runs a hand through his hair, which immediately ruins approximately twenty minutes of work by a very nice makeup artist. "Flux. What the actual hell? Why are you here?"

Flux looks around wildly, as if checking for eavesdroppers. Satisfied that no one is immediately within earshot— though the cameras are definitely still rolling— he leans in close and lowers his voice to a frantic whisper.

"I was blackmailed."

Thomas blinks. "Blackmailed?"

"Blackmailed. By Snowbird. Our supposed producer friend who is apparently a sociopath with a camera crew." Flux's eyes are wide and slightly manic. "He found out about something. Something I've been very carefully keeping secret for years. And he said he'd tell— he said he'd tell… him if I didn't sign up."

Thomas' brain, which has been slowly booting back up after the initial shock, suddenly connects several dots. "Him? Wait. You don't mean—"

"Yes." Flux cuts him off, looking pained. "Don't say his name. I can't hear his name right now. I can't think about him right now. I'm having a crisis."

Thomas processes this. Flux has a secret. A secret he's been keeping for years. A secret involving a "him" that Snowbird threatened to reveal. A secret significant enough to force Flux onto a reality dating show.

And then it clicks.

"Ohhh…" Thomas says slowly, understanding dawning. "That thing. The thing you've been in denial about for approximately three years. The thing you talk about constantly but pretend is just 'appreciation.' The thing involving a certain someone with great bone structure and an inability to take anything seriously."

Flux's face goes pale. "Shut up. Shut up, someone might hear you."

"No one's listening. And even if they were, they'd just think I'm talking about—"

"I said shut up."

Thomas grins. Despite everything— the terrible shirt, the surreal situation, the complete upending of his expectations— he can't help it. This is too good to be true. His best friend, the most emotionally constipated person he knows, has been blackmailed onto a dating show because of his secret crush.

It's beautiful. It's tragic. And it's going to be amazing to watch.

"Flux," Thomas says, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder, "I just want you to know— I am going to enjoy this so much."

Flux glares at him. "You're supposed to be supportive."

"I am supportive. I support you in your time of crisis. I also support my own entertainment. These things aren't mutually exclusive."

"You're a terrible friend."

"Your best friend, actually. Which means I get to enjoy your suffering and offer emotional support. It's a package deal." Thomas squeezes his shoulder. "Okay, seriously though. What happened? How did Snowbird even find out?"

Flux sighs, the sound heavy with defeat. "I don't know. I've been so careful. I've never said anything. I've never—" He stops, something flickering across his face. "Actually, there was that one time. A few months ago. We were all hanging out, and I'd had a few drinks, and Saps was being—" He stops again, this time with dawning horror. "Saps was being himself. Laughing, joking, putting his arm around me like he always does. And I might have... said… something. Something vague but possibly incriminating. And Snowbird was right there."

Thomas winces. "And he heard you?"

"I don't know. I thought he was distracted. But he's Snowbird. He's never distracted. He's always collecting information, always filing things away for later use." Flux runs a hand through his hair, making it even more chaotic. "I should have known. I should have seen this coming."

"To be fair, who expects to be blackmailed onto a dating show?"

"Snowbird. That's who. Anyone who knows Snowbird should expect exactly this level of chaotic manipulation." Flux groans. "And now I'm here. Competing. For you. For your affection. On national television. While the person I'm actually in love with is—" He stops, swallows. "Is probably at home, living his life, having no idea any of this is happening."

Thomas looks at his friend— really looks at him— and feels something soften. Under all the panic and the jokes, Flux is genuinely terrified. Terrified of being found out, terrified of losing something he's never had, terrified of the whole situation.

"Hey," Thomas says quietly. "It's going to be okay. We're in this together, right? Whatever happens— we'll figure it out."

Flux looks at him, some of the panic easing. "Together?"

"Together. Best friends, remember? Through terrible shirts and blackmail and reality shows. We've got this."

For the first time since getting out of the limo, Flux smiles. It's small and shaky, but it's real.

"Thanks, Thomas."

"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when we're both out of here and can laugh about this over drinks."

"That's going to be a lot of drinks."

"I know. I'm already budgeting."

A producer clears her throat nearby. Flux glances toward the mansion, then back at Thomas.

"I should go in. Before they send a search party."

"Yeah. Probably for the best."

Flux hesitates, then pulls Thomas into a quick, fierce hug. "For what it's worth— I'm glad you're here. Even if this is insane."

Thomas hugs back. "Same. Now go. We'll talk later."

Flux nods, squares his shoulders, and heads toward the mansion. At the door, he pauses, looks back, and gives a small wave— half resigned, half hopeful.

Thomas watches him go, a strange mix of emotions swirling in his chest. Worry for his friend. Excitement for the drama to come. And underneath it all, the faintest spark of hope that maybe, just maybe, this insane situation will lead to something good.

Then he turns back to face the next limo, already pulling up the driveway.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Flux sits in the confessional chair, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between seething rage and exhausted resignation. His hair is a disaster— worse than when he arrived, if that's possible— but he's not clutching a pillow. He's gripping the armrests like he's considering whether he can rip them off and use them as weapons.

"Okay. Hi. I'm Flux." His voice is flat, angry. "I'm here because my 'friend', Snowbird—" He makes aggressive air quotes. "—is a manipulative sociopath who collects people's deepest secrets like they're trading cards and then cashes them in for reality television content. Which, by the way, is probably illegal in at least twelve states. I've checked."

He glares at the camera, then past it, directly at whoever is behind it.

"Yeah, I see you back there, Snowbird. I know you're watching this. I hope you're enjoying yourself, you absolute menace. I hope the ratings are worth losing what little remained of your soul."

A beat. He shifts his glare slightly to the left.

"Rotation, I see you too. Don't think I don't notice you snickering. You're complicit in this. Accessory to emotional blackmail. That's a thing. I'll look it up."

He leans back, still radiating fury.

"So yeah. I'm here because Snowbird found out about something— something personal, something I've been very carefully keeping to myself for years— and he decided that information was worth exactly one six-week dating show appearance. No negotiation. No appeal. Just 'sign the contract or I tell him.'" He laughs, bitter and sharp. "Great friend, right? Really looks out for people."

Another pause, the anger shifting slightly into something more complicated.

"Thomas is here too, which is... actually the only good thing about this nightmare. At least I'm not suffering alone. He's already started making jokes at my expense, because that's what he does, but he's also got my back. That's Thomas. Annoying and loyal in equal measure. I'd kill for him. I'd also kill him, but that's just friendship."

He uncrosses his arms, leans forward.

"The thing is— the thing that's really going to make Snowbird's evil little producer heart happy— is that the person I've been trying to protect from finding out? The person whose opinion actually matters?" He pauses, jaw tightening. "He's going to find out anyway. Because that's how this works. Millions of people are going to watch me make a fool of myself on national television, and he's going to be one of them. And there's absolutely nothing I can do to stop it."

He stands abruptly, pacing the small room.

"You know what the worst part is? It's not even the show. It's not the cameras or the dates or having to pretend I'm interested in my best friend— sorry, Thomas, nothing personal. It's knowing that when he finds out, everything could change. Years of friendship. Years of being his person, him being mine. Gone. And all because I couldn't keep my stupid feelings in check."

He stops pacing, faces the camera directly.

"And Snowbird knows that. He knew exactly what he was doing when he put me here. He knew that forcing me into this situation, putting me in front of cameras, making me confront all of this publicly— it was the worst possible scenario for someone like me. And he did it anyway." His voice drops, cold and precise. "So if you're watching this, Snowbird— and I know you are— I want you to remember this moment. Because I am going to find a way to repay you for this. I don't know how yet. I don't know when. But it's coming. And it's going to be beautiful."

He heads for the door, then pauses, looking back.

"Oh, and Rotation? Your camera angle's slightly off. Just thought you should know." He smirks, sharp and satisfied. "Maybe spend less time laughing at my suffering and more time actually doing your job."

He leaves and the confessional ends.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The fourth limo begins its slow crawl up the driveway.

Thomas watches it approach, still processing the fact that his best friend is currently somewhere inside the mansion having a minor breakdown over a years-long crush on their mutual friend. It's the most Flux thing that could possibly happen, and also the most Snowbird thing to orchestrate.

"Okay," Thomas mutters to himself, straightening his terrible shirt. "You can do this. More pleasantries. More small talk. More pretending you're excited to be here."

The limo stops. The door opens.

And Thomas' brain, which has only just recovered from the Flux incident, starts connecting dots at an alarming rate.

Because stepping out of the limo, looking around with that familiar smirk— is Saps.

Saparata. Flux's best friend. Saps. The object of Flux's years of pining. The person Flux is currently terrified of finding out about his feelings.

Saps is here.

Thomas watches him take in the mansion— the plastered walls, the palm trees, the cameras— with an expression that's less 'boundless enthusiasm' and more 'amused assessment.' His white hair is tousled perfectly, his golden eyes sharp and observant, and there's a slight curve to his lips that suggests he's already finding the whole situation entertaining.

He hasn't seen Flux yet. He doesn't know Flux is here.

Thomas' brain, now running at approximately 300% capacity, starts connecting dots at an even more alarming rate.

Snowbird cast Flux. And then Snowbird also cast Saps. Snowbird knows about Flux's feelings. Snowbird probably knows about Saps' feelings too, because Snowbird knows everything about everyone.

This isn't just a coincidence. This isn't even simply blackmail.

This is orchestration.

Snowbird has deliberately put two people who are pining for each other on a dating show where they'll have to pretend to want to date someone else. That someone else being Thomas. Thomas— who is now going to have a front-row seat to the most elaborate mutual pining disaster in reality TV history.

The realisation hits Thomas with the force of a truck, and he has to physically stop himself from laughing out loud.

Snowbird is a genius. A terrible, manipulative, chaos-loving genius. And Thomas is going to enjoy every single second of watching this unfold.

Saps spots him at the end of the walkway and his smirk widens into something genuinely amused. He strolls over with the easy confidence of someone who's never met a situation he couldn't make worse in an entertaining way.

"Thomas." Saps pulls him into a quick, casual hug. "Didn't expect to see you here. Figured you had better things to do than get blackmailed onto reality TV."

Thomas hugs back, grinning. "Takes one to know one. You're here voluntarily?"

"Absolutely not." Saps' eyes sparkle with mischief. "I owed Snowbird some money. Well, he claimed I owed him money. Then claimed the debt would be cleared if I showed up. I'm pretty sure I got scammed, but here we are." He gestures around them. "Free mansion. Free food. Front-row seat to whatever chaos unfolds. I've been in worse situations."

"That's a terrifying thought."

"You have no idea." Saps glances toward the mansion, then back at Thomas. "So. You're the main event. How's that going so far?"

Thomas considers the question. "I've been here approximately forty-five minutes and I've already had my entire worldview challenged twice. So. Going great."

"Only twice? Rookie numbers. Give it time." Saps' grin widens. "Anyone interesting shown up yet? Besides me, obviously."

"Define interesting."

"Chaotic. Unpredictable. The kind of person who makes you question your life choices just by existing."

Thomas thinks of Flux, currently somewhere inside having a breakdown. "One or two, maybe."

"Excellent." Saps claps him on the shoulder. "I'm going to go find the snacks and scope out the competition. My brother's here somewhere too, I signed him up as a joke— Micro, you've heard me talk about him. He's the quiet one. Probably already found a corner to lurk in." He pauses, tilting his head. "You haven't met him, have you? Pale hair, grey eyes, perpetually looks like he's judging everyone but is actually just observing?"

Thomas shakes his head. "Not yet. But I'll keep an eye out."

"Do that. He's less annoying than me. Marginally." Saps winks and heads toward the mansion, his pace unhurried, his expression that of someone who's already planning approximately fourteen different kinds of mischief.

Thomas watches him go, the grin on his face threatening to split his cheeks.

Flux is inside, panicking about Saps finding out his feelings. Saps is about to walk in and discover his best friend is here. Neither of them knows the other is pining. Neither of them has any idea what's about to happen.

And Thomas gets to watch it all unfold from the perfect vantage point.

"This is going to be beautiful," he murmurs to himself. "Absolutely beautiful."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Saps sits in the confessional chair, but he's not bouncing with energy. He's lounging, one ankle crossed over his knee, expression caught somewhere between amused and thoughtful.

"So. Reality TV." He gestures vaguely. "Not my usual scene, but Snowbird made an offer I couldn't refuse. Well, could refuse, but the refusal would have involved more paperwork than I was willing to deal with." A slight smirk. "The mansion's nice. The snacks are adequate. And my friend Thomas is here, which is entertaining— I've known him for years through our mutual friend, and watching him be forced into emotional vulnerability is going to be hilarious."

He pauses, tilting his head.

"My brother Micro's here too. Somewhere. Probably reading. He's the quiet one—takes after our dad, who also communicates primarily through eyebrow raises and pointed silences. Don't let that fool you, though. He notices everything. Absolutely everything. If there's drama brewing, he's already clocked it." Another pause, softer. "I'm curious to see how he does here. He doesn't put himself out there much. This could be good for him. Or terrible. Either way, it'll be very entertaining."

He uncrosses his legs, leans forward.

"The producers keep asking if I'm here for love. The real question is: does anyone actually know what they want when they walk into a situation like this? I'm here to see what happens. To watch the chaos unfold. To maybe cause a little of my own." His grin sharpens, playful and mischievous. "If something real happens along the way? Cool. If not? Still got a free vacation and stories to tell. I call that a win."

He stands, heading for the door, then pauses, looking back.

"Oh, and Thomas? If you're watching this— which you will be, because you're nosy— try not to fall for me. I'm a lot to handle." The grin turns wicked. "Save yourself the trouble. Maybe try my brother— I hear he's single."

He winks and leaves before the words can fully land.

The confessional ends.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The next limo pulls up, and Thomas is still grinning about the impending chaos when the door opens and a woman steps out.

She's shorter than Thomas— not by much, but enough to notice— with hair split right down the middle, half purple and half black, falling in waves that look intentionally chaotic. She takes in the mansion, the cameras, the general production chaos, and her face lights up with something that looks suspiciously like genuine excitement.

Thomas blinks. That's not the look of someone who's been blackmailed— that's the look of someone who's here for a good time.

She spots him and grins, striding over with purpose.

"You must be Thomas!" Her voice is warm, amused, completely unbothered by the absurdity of the situation. "I'm Gray. This place is insane. I love it already."

Thomas extends a hand, cautiously. "Uh, hi. Welcome to... all this."

She shakes his hand firmly, still grinning. "Thanks! I'm so excited to be here. Snowbird pitched it to me a few weeks ago and I thought, why not? Free vacation, potential drama, maybe meet some interesting people? Sign me up."

Thomas stares at her. "You're here... voluntarily?"

"Absolutely." Gray's grin widens. "Is that weird?"

"No, it's just—" Thomas gestures vaguely at himself. "Most of the people I've met so far have been blackmailed. Including me. You're the first person who actually really wants to be here."

"Really? That's hilarious." Gray looks genuinely delighted. "So you're the main catch and even you don't want to be here?"

"Apparently so."

"That's even funnier." She tilts her head, studying him. "Okay, I have to know—what's with the shirt?"

Thomas looks down at himself, grimacing. "I don't want to talk about it."

"No, no, we're definitely talking about it." Gray's eyes sparkle with mischief. "That shirt is a choice. A bold choice. I respect bold choices, even when they're terrible."

"This shirt is not my choice. They made me wear it."

"Uh huh. Sure." She crosses her arms, clearly not believing him. "You're telling me you looked at that shirt and said 'yes, this is the one'?"

"I'm telling you I was physically placed in it by wardrobe professionals who did not care about my opinion."

Gray laughs— a real, genuine laugh. "Okay, I believe you. But only because your misery is entertaining." She glances toward the mansion. "So who else is here? Any other normal people, or is it just me and the blackmail victims?"

Thomas considers. "Define normal."

"Someone who won't bore me to death."

"Legacy's nice. Too nice, actually. It's suspicious. Kanukei's a maths teacher— seems relatively sane. My friend Flux is here— he was blackmailed, long story— and he's probably currently having a mental breakdown because his best friend just showed up also as a contestant."

Gray's eyebrows shoot up. "Drama already? I love it."

"Right? It's going to be a beautiful disaster." Thomas grins. "And I get to have front-row seats."

"You and me both." Gray's grin matches his. "Okay, I like you. You're funny. In a dry, vaguely annoyed way."

"I try."

"You succeed." She starts toward the mansion, then pauses, looking back. "Hey, Thomas?"

"Yeah?"

"During our mandatory date, I'm going to mess with you. Just so you know. It's going to be fun."

Thomas narrows his eyes. "Mess with me how?"

"I haven't decided yet. But I'll think of something." Her grin turns wicked. "Try not to be too easy of a target."

"Bold of you to assume I'll be any kind of target."

"Oh, you'll be a target alright." She winks. "See you around, main catch."

She disappears into the mansion, and Thomas watches her go with a mixture of amusement and apprehension. Gray is going to be trouble. The fun kind. The kind that keeps him on his toes.

And despite everything, he finds that he's looking forward to it.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

 Gray sits in the confessional chair, looking thoroughly entertained by the whole experience. She's cross-legged, relaxed, clearly enjoying herself.

"So I'm here because my friend Snowbird pitched it to me and I thought, you know what? Why not?" She shrugs, grinning. "Free mansion, free food, potential chaos, maybe some interesting people? Sign me up. Worst case scenario, I get a vacation out of it. Best case scenario, I make some friends and get to watch some drama unfold."

She leans forward, eyes sparkling. "The main guy, Thomas, is great. He's clearly been blackmailed into this— his words, not mine— and he's already got this dry, sarcastic energy that I really vibe with. He hates his shirt. He's aware of how ridiculous this all is. And he's got that look like he's just waiting for the other shoe to drop." She pauses, grin widening. "I'm going to have so much fun messing with him."

Another pause, softer. "There's apparently some kind of love triangle drama already brewing between two of the other contestants, which I'm very here for. Pure entertainment value. And everyone else seems... fine." She shrugs. "I'm just here for the ride. Whatever happens, I'm going to enjoy it."

She looks directly at the camera, expression bright. "Oh, and Snowbird? If you're watching this— which you definitely are— thanks for the invite. This is already more fun than I expected. You were right about the entertainment value."

She flashes a peace sign at the camera and leaves.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The next limo pulls up, and Thomas is still smiling about Gray when the door opens and a man steps out.

He's not what Thomas expected. Instead of the polished, put-together look most contestants seem to be going for, this guy is wearing ripped black jeans, a faded band t-shirt under an open flannel, and more jewellery than Thomas has ever owned in his life— rings on multiple fingers, a couple of chains, something that might be a earring catching the light. His hair is dark and slightly messy, falling across his forehead in a way that looks deliberately careless. He looks like he wandered off from a concert and accidentally ended up on a dating show.

He looks around at the mansion, the cameras, the production crew, and his expression flickers— something between discomfort and defiance. Like he's already decided he doesn't belong here but is determined to see it through anyway.

Thomas watches him approach and feels an inexplicable flicker of nerves. There's something about this guy that feels different. More guarded. Like he's waiting for someone to say the wrong thing.

"Thomas." The man extends a hand. His grip is quick, almost nervous, and he doesn't quite meet Thomas' eyes. "I'm Pili."

Thomas shakes his hand, trying to seem approachable. "Hey, welcome. Hope you're ready for... all this."

Pili shrugs, glancing around. "It's a lot. But I knew what I was signing up for. Mostly." A small, almost shy smile. "The mansion's nice. Very... big."

Thomas laughs, relieved that he seems normal. "Right? I've gotten lost twice already and I've only been here an hour."

Pili's smile widens slightly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "There's a fountain out front that looks like it costs more than my apartment."

"Probably does. I'm choosing not to think about it."

They stand there for a moment, and Thomas feels like maybe this is going okay. Maybe he's finally getting the hang of this whole 'meeting people' thing. Pili seems nice. A little awkward, maybe, but nice. The kind of person who's probably more comfortable in small groups than big productions.

And then Thomas opens his mouth.

"Oh, you're shorter than I thought."

The words are out before his brain can catch up. He doesn't even know why he said it— it's not like height was relevant to anything. It's just that Pili is standing closer now, and Thomas can see that he's definitely a few inches shorter, and his brain, apparently incapable of filtering anything today, just... offered that information out loud.

Silence.

Pili's smile drops. Completely. His expression goes from shy and approachable to closed off and defensive in less than a second.

Thomas freezes. "That came out wrong."

Pili stares at him, unimpressed. "Everything you say comes out wrong?"

"Yes," Thomas says instantly, because it's true and he's already in too deep to dig himself out. "Consistently. It's a whole thing. My brain and mouth have a very strained relationship."

Pili doesn't respond. He just looks at Thomas for a long moment, something flickering in his eyes— hurt, maybe, or disappointment. Then he turns and walks toward the mansion without another word.

Thomas watches him go, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

"Great," he mutters. "Fantastic. Offended someone in the first five minutes. New record."

From somewhere behind him, he hears Snowbird's voice, barely containing his amusement. "Yikes."

Thomas whirls around. "Did you just say 'yikes'?"

"I absolutely said 'yikes.'" Snowbird appears from behind a camera, not even trying to hide his grin. "That was rough, my friend. Really rough."

"I know it was rough! I was there!"

"And yet you still said it." Snowbird shakes his head, still grinning. "Impressive commitment to self-sabotage. Really leaning into your brand."

Thomas groans, running both hands through his hair. "I don't have a brand."

"Sure you don't." Snowbird pats him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. First impressions can be fixed. Probably. Maybe." He walks away, still chuckling.

Thomas turns back to the driveway, bracing himself for whatever disaster comes next.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Pili sits in the confessional chair, but he's not stiff or formal. He's curled slightly inward, arms wrapped around himself, expression caught between hurt and defensive anger. His alt style looks out of place against the plain background— ripped jeans, band shirt, silver rings catching the light.

"So. That happened." His voice is quiet, controlled, but there's an edge underneath. "First conversation with the main guy, and he leads with a comment about my height." He pauses, jaw tightening. "I'm used to it, honestly. People see the way I dress and hear my voice and they already have assumptions. Then they notice I'm short and it's like—" He stops, shakes his head. "Like that's all I am. A collection of physical traits they can comment on."

He uncrosses one arm to gesture vaguely. "I'm not here to be anyone's joke. I'm not here to be the short, weird guy who's fun to mock. I'm here because—" He stops again, softer. "I'm here because I wanted to try. To put myself out there. To see if someone could actually see me. The real me. Not the height or the clothes or any of the surface stuff."

Another pause, longer. "Thomas seemed... I don't know. Genuine, maybe. Awkward in a way that felt real. But then he said that, and it was like—" He shrugs, a small, hurt movement. "Like I was just another person to make assumptions about. Another first impression that went exactly the way they always go."

He looks at the camera, and there's something vulnerable in his dark eyes. "I just want to be seen. Is that too much to ask?"

He stands, shoving his hands in his pockets, and heads for the door. At the last second, he glances back.

"And for what it's worth? I'm 5'2". It's not a secret. It's just not the most interesting thing about me." A small, sad smile. "But I guess that's not the impression I made."

The door closes softly behind him.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Thomas is still mentally kicking himself over the Pili incident when the production assistant's voice crackles through someone's walkie-talkie.

"Last limo's approaching. Final contestant. Everyone ready?"

Thomas barely registers the words. He's too busy replaying the last five minutes in his head, cringing at every syllable that came out of his mouth. "Oh, you're shorter than I thought." Of all the possible conversation starters in the universe, his filterless mouth had chosen that?

He's so wrapped up in self-flagellation that he almost misses the limo pulling up.

Almost.

Because when that door opens, something shifts in the air. Thomas can't explain it— it's not logical, it's not rational, it's just a feeling. A prickle at the back of his neck. A sudden awareness that he hadn't had a moment before.

The door swings open.

And Thomas forgets how to breathe.

The man who steps out has hair the colour of fresh snow.

That's the first thing Thomas notices— can't help noticing— because it's so stark against the sunshine, so unexpected and beautiful and wrong in the best way possible. It's not white like an old person's white, not bleached like someone trying too hard. It's just... pale. Luminous. Like moonlight decided to take human form and forgot to change back. The strands catch the light and seem to glow, framing his face in something almost ethereal.

The man looks around, taking in the mansion, the cameras, the production chaos. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, like he has all the time in the world and he's choosing to spend some of it here. He doesn't fidget. Doesn't perform. Doesn't do any of the things Thomas has watched every other contestant do when faced with the reality of their situation.

He just... observes.

And then he turns.

And Thomas sees his face.

Thomas' brain, which has been running at approximately 40% capacity since the floral shirt incident, flatlines completely.

High cheekbones that catch the light and cast soft shadows. A straight nose, perfectly proportioned. A mouth that looks like it's used to smiling, lips curved in a way that suggests amusement even when it's not fully formed. Skin that's pale in a way that complements the hair, not contrasts with it— like porcelain, like marble, like something sculpted by an artist who refused to settle for anything less than perfection.

And his eyes—

His eyes are grey.

Not the flat, dull grey of concrete or storm clouds. Not the cold grey of steel or stone. Something else entirely. Something clear and luminous, like sunlight on winter water. Like the sky just before dawn when the world holds its breath. Like nothing Thomas has ever seen before and everything he wants to keep looking at forever. They're framed by pale lashes that catch the light, and when he blinks— slow, deliberate— Thomas feels it in his chest.

The man's gaze sweeps across the scene, taking in the producers, the cameras, the mansion. And then it lands on Thomas.

He doesn't smile. He just looks at Thomas with those impossible grey eyes, thoughtful and assessing. Thomas feels like he's being examined, catalogued, understood in a way that no one has ever understood him before. Like every wall he's ever built is suddenly transparent, and this stranger can see right through to the messy, hopeful person underneath.

And then one corner of that perfect mouth curves up. Just slightly. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk that does something catastrophic to Thomas' ability to function.

Thomas' heart does something in his chest that it has never done before. A lurch, a flip, a full-on acrobatic maneuver that leaves him breathless and dizzy and completely, utterly gone.

Oh no, his brain supplies weakly. Oh no no no no no.

The man starts walking toward him.

Thomas watches him approach, frozen in place, every sarcastic comment and witty observation evacuated from his brain like tenants fleeing a burning building. There's nothing left up there but static and the word beautiful repeating on an endless loop.

Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.

He takes in details he has no business noticing— the way his shirt fits perfectly across his shoulders, neither tight nor loose but right. The way his hands hang casually at his sides, fingers long and elegant, the kind of hands that could probably do incredible things. The way he moves, each step fluid and unhurried, like gravity is just a suggestion and he's decided to be polite about it.

The man stops in front of him. Close enough that Thomas can smell something clean and subtle— soap, maybe, or cold air, or the ghost of something woodsy. Close enough to see the individual strands of pale hair, the faint laugh lines at the corners of those grey eyes, the slight quirk of that still-smirking mouth. Close enough that if Thomas leaned forward just a few inches, he could—

"Hi." His voice is low and quiet, with a hint of amusement underneath. It's the kind of voice that would sound good reading a phone book. The kind of voice Thomas wants to hear saying his name over and over. "I'm Micro."

Thomas opens his mouth.

Nothing comes out.

He tries again.

Still nothing.

His name. His name is Thomas. He knows this. He's been saying it his entire life. It's a simple word, two syllables, not complicated. Thom-as. He can do this.

"I'm..." He swallows. Tries again. "I'm Thomas."

His voice sounds strangled. Far away. Like someone else is speaking through him while his actual brain is busy short-circuiting in the background.

Micro's smirk widens, just a fraction, and the mere sight of it makes Thomas' knees feel weak. "I know. They told me." He glances around, taking in the scene with those calm grey eyes. "Nice place. Very..." He pauses, searching for the right word.

"It's a lot of stucco," Thomas hears himself say.

He wants to die. Immediately. Right now. Stucco? Of all the things to say to the most beautiful person he's ever seen, he went with stucco? Building materials? Architecture critiques? This is how he's going to be remembered— as the guy who talked about wall texture to the literal incarnation of human beauty.

But Micro doesn't look confused or put off. His eyes light up with interest— actually light up, like Thomas has just said the most fascinating thing in the world— and he lets out a quiet chuckle. A sound that does something very strange to Thomas' internal organs. Something that feels like warmth spreading through his chest, like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning, like coming home after a long trip.

"Stucco," Micro repeats, like it's the most fascinating word he's heard all day. "That's exactly what it is. I've been trying to figure out what that texture reminded me of." He tilts his head, studying Thomas with renewed attention, and Thomas feels seen in a way he's never felt before. "You're observant."

"I'm... I notice things." Thomas' voice is still strange, but he's found a sliver of composure somewhere. "It's a curse, really. Can't look at anything without analysing it."

"A useful curse, in the right context." Micro's eyes crinkle slightly and Thomas wants to bottle that expression and keep it forever. "So you're the main one. The person everyone's supposed to fight over."

"Apparently." Thomas gestures vaguely at himself, suddenly hyper-aware of how terrible his shirt is, how rumpled he must look next to this vision of literal perfection. "Though I'm not sure what the prize is. A lifetime supply of awkward dates and therapy bills, maybe."

Micro laughs—a real laugh this time, short but genuine, and it transforms his whole face. Makes him look younger, softer, somehow even more beautiful. The sound wraps around Thomas like a warm blanket, and he wants to hear it again. Wants to be the reason for it. "Sounds like a steal. Maybe I'd like that." He pauses, those grey eyes still fixed on Thomas with that unnerving intensity. "Well, Thomas— I guess I'll see you around."

He gives a little nod—just a small inclination of his head—and then he's walking past Thomas toward the mansion, leaving a trail of subtle scent and absolute chaos in his wake.

Thomas watches him go.

Watches the way he moves, easy and unhurried, like he owns the world and is just being polite about letting everyone else share it. Watches the pale hair catch the sunlight, shimmering like spun silver. Watches the way his shoulders relax as he walks, comfortable in his own skin in a way Thomas has never been. Watches until he disappears through the mansion doors and there's nothing left to watch.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

Doesn't breathe, probably, based on the slight lightheadedness he's experiencing.

"Thomas?"

A producer's voice, somewhere in the distance.

"Thomas, we need you inside for orientation."

He doesn't respond.

"Thomas?"

"Give him a minute." That's Rotation's voice, closer, amused. "I think he's having a moment."

Thomas blinks. Turns slowly to find Rotation standing a few feet away, camera lowered, expression caught between amusement and sympathy.

"What," Thomas says. It's not a question. It's just a sound.

Rotation's mouth twitches. "That's Micro. Saps' brother. The quiet one."

"I know who he is." Thomas' voice still sounds strange. "I mean— I know of him. Saps talks about him constantly. But I didn't— he didn't—" He stops, runs a hand through his already-ruined hair. "What was that?"

"That, my friend, was what we in the television business call a 'moment.' A very camera-friendly moment, I might add." Rotation grins. "Snowbird's going to be thrilled. We got the whole thing. Your face when he got out of the limo? Priceless."

Thomas groans. "You're going to use that, aren't you?"

"Oh, absolutely. It's going in the trailer. Maybe the opening credits." Rotation pats him on the shoulder. "Welcome to reality TV, Thomas. Where your most embarrassing moments become entertainment for millions."

"I hate you."

"You love me. Come on. Orientation awaits." Rotation starts walking toward the mansion, then pauses, looking back. "Hey, Thomas?"

"What?"

"For what it's worth? That look on your face? That was real. Genuine. The kind of thing we can't manufacture no matter how hard we try." His expression softens, just slightly. "Whatever that was, it meant something. Might be worth paying attention to."

He disappears through the doors, leaving Thomas alone with his terrible shirt, his ruined hair, and the lingering ghost of grey eyes and a quiet laugh.

Thomas takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Takes another.

"Okay," he mutters to himself. "Okay. You can do this. You can go inside, attend orientation, pretend you're fine, pretend you're not completely losing your mind over a guy you talked to for approximately ninety seconds." He squares his shoulders. "You're fine. Everything's fine."

He heads toward the mansion, trying very hard not to think about pale hair and grey eyes and the way Micro had looked at him like he was the most interesting person in the world.

He fails completely.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Micro sits in the confessional chair with an ease that suggests he's done this before, or maybe just that he's comfortable in his own skin regardless of circumstances. His pale hair catches the light, making him look almost otherworldly. His grey eyes are calm, contemplative, with a hint of amusement lurking underneath.

"I'm here because my brother thought it would be hilarious to sign me up without telling me." A small smile. "He has a very broad definition of 'fun.' We were between jobs—well, I was between jobs; Saps is always between jobs— and he thought a 'free vacation with potential romance' would be good for me. His words not mine."

He pauses, tilting his head slightly. "I'm not complaining, though. It's already been more interesting than I expected."

Another pause, longer this time. His expression shifts—still calm, but with something softer underneath.

"The main contestant. Thomas." He says the name like he's tasting it. "He looked at me like I'd just asked him to solve a calculus problem while juggling. Like his brain had temporarily left his body and he was running on pure instinct. It was..." He searches for the right word. "Endearing. Most people try too hard to make an impression. They have their lines ready, their best angles, their practised smiles. He just stood there, looking horrified by his own existence, and talked about stucco."

Micro's smile widens, just slightly. "Stucco. Of all the things he could have said. It was genuine. Unpolished. Real." He meets the camera's gaze, those grey eyes clear and direct. "There's something about that. Something refreshing. I've spent most of my life around people who are performing— at work, in social situations, even with family sometimes. You learn to recognize the difference between someone who's putting on a show and someone who's just... being. He's just being. Awkward and sarcastic and completely unprepared for any of this. And somehow, that makes him more interesting than anyone else I've met here."

He pauses, and something flickers across his face— a moment of unfiltered thought that he probably meant to keep to himself.

"He's also genuinely handsome, which I noticed immediately—" Micro stops abruptly, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. He clears his throat, eyes darting slightly off-camera. "I mean. That's not— I wasn't supposed to—" He takes a breath, composing himself, but the damage is done.

From somewhere behind the camera, there's a distinct snicker. Then another. Snowbird and Rotation are definitely not being subtle about their amusement.

Micro's eyes narrow slightly at whoever is behind the lens, but there's no real heat in it. "Are you two finished?"

More snickering. Someone— definitely Snowbird— muffles what sounds like a laugh.

Micro sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly before regaining his composure. When he looks back at the camera, his expression is carefully neutral again, but the faint blush lingers on his cheeks.

"As I was saying." His voice is slightly dryer than before. "I don't know what's going to happen on this show. I don't know if I'm actually looking for romance, or just along for the ride because my brother thinks it's funny. But I do know that I want to talk to him again. Thomas. The stucco guy." A quiet laugh, warmer now despite the interruption. "That's not nothing."

He glances off-camera one more time, a small smirk playing at his lips.

"And for the record? If either of you mentions what I just accidentally said to anyone— especially Thomas— I will deny it. Vehemently. And then I will find a way to make your lives very difficult." He pauses, the smirk widening. "I know things about both of you. Don't test me."

He gives a little nod, the picture of calm control once more, and stands to leave.

Behind the camera, the snickering has stopped, replaced by a very pointed silence.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Thomas sits in the confessional chair, looking thoroughly wrung out. His hair is a disaster— he's been running his hands through it constantly. His terrible floral shirt is wrinkled from all the nervous fidgeting. He looks like someone who's been through an emotional wringer and come out the other side slightly broken.

"Okay. So. I've now met all seven contestants." He holds up a hand, ticking them off on his fingers. "Let's do this systematically. For my own sanity."

One finger goes up. "Legacy. First guy. Super nice. Like, aggressively nice. The kind of nice that makes you suspicious because no one is actually that nice all the time. But I think he might be? Genuinely? Which is somehow worse because then I just feel inadequate by comparison." He pauses. "He appreciated my fountain-based humour, though. Points for that."

Second finger. "Kanukei. Maths teacher. Seems completely normal and well-adjusted, which is suspicious in a different way. Like, what's a normal person doing on a reality dating show? But we bonded over mutual chaos recognition, and he wants to play cards, so. Friend material, probably. Romantic? Unclear. But I'd hang out with him outside this insanity, definitely."

Third finger. Thomas' expression shifts to something more complicated. "Flux. My best friend. Who is here because he was blackmailed. By Snowbird. With his secret crush on someone who is also here, though Flux doesn't know that yet." A grin breaks through his exhaustion. "I'm going to enjoy watching that unfold so much. It's going to be a beautiful disaster. And I get front-row seats. Best case scenario, honestly."

Fourth finger. "Saps. Flux's crush. Also my friend, separately— we've known each other through Flux for years. He's got this snarky, mischievous energy that I genuinely enjoy. The kind of person who will absolutely roast you but also have your back completely." Thomas shakes his head, grinning. "He made a comment about how I should 'save myself the trouble' of falling for him and hinted that his brother is single. Which was—" He stops, something flickering across his face. "Which was interesting. But anyway. Snowbird is a genius. A terrible, manipulative genius. He's set up a mutual pining situation so elaborate it deserves awards. I'm just here to watch it burn. Beautifully. With popcorn."

Fifth finger. Thomas' expression softens into something almost fond. "Gray. She's great. Genuinely great. She's here voluntarily— can you believe it? Someone who actually wants to be here? She's got this playful, mischievous energy and she's already warned me she's going to mess with me during our date." He grins. "I've been provoking her intentionally since she arrived, and she falls for it every single time. It's fantastic. We've got this dynamic down already where we insult each other constantly, make each other laugh, definitely help each other hide a body if needed. She's my person in this chaos."

Sixth finger. Thomas' expression shifts to something more complicated—guilt mixed with determination. "Pili. Okay, so. I messed this one up. Badly." He runs a hand through his hair. "He got out of the limo looking completely different from what I expected—ripped jeans, band shirt, all this jewellery. And he seemed nice. A little shy, maybe, but nice. And then I opened my mouth and said—" He winces. "I said 'oh, you're shorter than I thought.' Just... blurted it out. Like an absolute idiot."

 He drops his head into his hands for a moment, then looks back up. "He shut down immediately. Completely. Gave me this look like I'd confirmed every bad assumption he's ever dealt with. And honestly? I don't blame him. That was thoughtless and stupid and I'm genuinely upset with myself about it." He pauses. "I'm hoping I can fix this. Make it right. Show him I'm not actually a jerk— I'm just a guy with a broken brain-to-mouth filter who makes terrible first impressions. He deserves to be seen, really seen, and I failed that completely in our first interaction. So. Work to do there."

He stares at his sixth finger for a long moment, then takes a breath and moves to the seventh.

Seventh finger. Thomas' voice changes. Softens. Gets slightly strangled.

"Micro." He says the name like it's fragile. "Saps' brother. The last contestant." He pauses, clearly trying to gather himself. "I've heard about him for years— Saps talks about him constantly— but nothing could have prepared me for..." He trails off, shaking his head.

"When he got out of that limo, I literally forgot how to breathe. Not metaphorically. Literally. My lungs just stopped working." A helpless laugh. "He has this hair— it's white, but not like... not like old person white or bleached white. It's just... pale. Luminous. Like moonlight. And his eyes are grey, but not a flat grey— they're clear and bright, like winter sunlight on water. Like the sky just before dawn. I've never seen anything like them."

He's quiet for a moment, staring at nothing.

"And his face—" Another pause, longer. "High cheekbones. This perfect mouth that curves up like he's always privately amused by something. This way of moving like he's not in any hurry to be anywhere, like he owns the world and is just being polite about sharing it. He walked toward me and I couldn't move. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except stand there like an idiot and watch him get closer."

He swallows. "And then he said 'hi' and his voice—" Thomas makes a sound that's almost a groan. "His voice is like... like warm coffee on a cold morning. Like something you want to wake up to every day. And I opened my mouth and the only thing that came out was 'it's a lot of stucco.'"

He buries his face in his hands. "Stucco. I led with stucco. To the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my entire life."

When he looks up, there's something vulnerable in his expression. "But here's the thing. He laughed. Not at me— like, genuinely laughed, like he found it endearing. And he said I was observant. And he looked at me like I was actually interesting instead of just another person to perform for." Another pause, softer. "When he walked away, I stood there for I don't know how long, just... unable to move. Rotation had to come get me. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything except replay every second of that interaction in my head."

He looks at the camera, something helpless and hopeful in his eyes. "I've never had that before. That reaction. That complete short-circuiting of every normal function. It's terrifying. It's also..." He trails off, searching for the word. "It's also kind of amazing? In a 'what is happening to me' way?"

He leans back, running both hands through his hair, making it truly apocalyptic.

"So that's the lineup. Seven people. One is aggressively nice, one is suspiciously normal, one is my best friend who's about to have a romantic breakdown, one is my snarky friend who's definitely going to cause chaos, one is someone who I'm going to enjoy annoying so much, one thinks I'm a complete jerk and I don't blame him, and one..." He stops, a helpless smile crossing his face. "One has grey eyes and white hair and laughed at my stucco joke and I can't stop thinking about him. At all. Ever."

He looks at the camera, exhausted and bewildered and something else— something that might be hope.

"This is going to be a long six weeks."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The night before the first official dates, Thomas can't sleep.

This isn't unusual exactly— he's always been a terrible sleeper, his brain refusing to shut off even when his body is exhausted. But tonight is different. Tonight, his insomnia had a name. A cause. A face. A pair of grey eyes that keep appearing every time he closes his own.

He's been lying in bed for two hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying that ninety-second interaction over and over in his head. The way Micro had looked at him. The way he'd laughed. The way he'd said "observant" like it was a compliment instead of just a statement of fact.

It's ridiculous. Pathetic, even. He's a grown man, twenty-eight years old, and he's lying awake at night thinking about a guy he talked to for less than two minutes.

But here he is.

Finally, he gives up on sleep altogether. He throws on a sweatshirt over his sleep clothes and slips out of his room and into the night.

The mansion is quiet at this hour. No cameras, no producers, no contestants performing for an audience. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of the ocean.

Thomas wanders aimlessly for a while, not really going anywhere, just moving. He ends up at a set of glass doors he hadn't noticed before, leading out to a path that winds toward the beach.

The beach. Of course there's a private beach. Because this mansion apparently has everything.

He pushes through the doors and follows the path, the night air cool against his skin. The moon is bright enough to see by, casting everything in silver and shadow. The sound of waves grows louder as he walks, until finally he's standing on soft sand, looking out at an ocean that seems to go on forever.

It's peaceful. Calm. Exactly what he needs.

He's so focused on the water that he almost doesn't notice he's not alone.

Almost.

There's a figure sitting on a large piece of driftwood further down the beach, silhouetted against the moonlight. Thomas squints, trying to make out details. Pale hair. Relaxed posture. A book open in their lap, thought it's probably too dark to read.

Micro.

Thomas' heart does that thing again— that stupid lurching thing that he's going to have to get under control if he wants to survive the next six weeks.

He should go back inside. Leave Micro to his peaceful moonlit solitude. That would be the polite thing to do. The sensible thing.

Instead, his feet carry him forward, crunching softly through the sand.

Micro looks up as he approaches, and even in the dim light, Thomas can see the slight smile that crosses his face. "Couldn't sleep either?"

Thomas stops a few steps away, suddenly uncertain. "Yeah. Insomnia's a bitch to deal with. Didn't expect to find company out here."

"Neither did I." Micro gestures at the space beside him on the driftwood. "Want to join me? I promise I don't bite. Usually."

Thomas hesitates for approximately half a second before sitting down. The driftwood is large enough for two, but they're still close— close enough that Thomas can feel the warmth radiating from Micro's body, can catch that subtle scent of soap and something woodsy.

"What are you reading?" Thomas asks, nodding at the book in Micro's lap. "Or— attempting to read anyways. It's pretty dark out here."

Micro holds up the book so Thomas can see the cover. It's a well-worn paperback of a classic sci-fi novel— one Thomas recognises immediately.

"Escaping reality within reality," Micro says. "It's very meta."

Thomas grins. "I love that book. The part where the protagonist realises the whole situation is just a metaphor for capitalism? Genius."

Micro's eyes light up— actually light up, like Thomas has just said the most interesting thing in the world. "Yes! That's my favourite part. No one ever gets that. They just think it's about cool spaceship battles."

"The spaceship battles are cool too. But the subtext is everything." Thomas settles more comfortably on the driftwood. "I read it in college for a sci-fi literature class. Ended up writing my final paper on it. Got an A— if I remember correctly."

"Wow— show-off much."

"Accurate show-off, thank you very much."

Micro laughs— that quiet, wonderful sound that Thomas is already becoming addicted to. "Okay, since you're clearly qualified, what's your take on the ending? Because I have opinions— strong opinions."

They launch into a discussion that quickly becomes animated, passionate, exactly the kind of conversation Thomas has always wanted to have but never seemed to find the right person for. They debate the ending, the themes, the character arcs. They disagree on some points— Micro thinks the protagonist's final choice is inevitable; Thomas argues it's a cop out— but they disagree respectfully, passionately, with genuine interest in each other's perspectives.

At some point, Thomas is mid-sentence, explaining his theory about the author's use of colour symbolism, when he realises Micro isn't looking at the book anymore. He's looking at Thomas. Those grey eyes are foxed on his face with an intensity that makes his words die in his throat.

"What?" Thomas asks, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing." Micro smiles, that small private smile that seems reserved just for Thomas. "I just like listening to you talk. You get really animated. It's cute."

Thomas feels his face go hot. "I do not get animated. I'm a very calm, collected person."

"You're literally waving your hands around right now."

Thomas looks down. His hands are, indeed, waving. He quickly shoves them under his thighs. "That's… emphasis. It's a rhetorical device."

Micro laughs again, the sound warm in the night air. "Sure it is."

They fall into comfortable silence, watching the waves roll in and out. The moon has shifted position, lower in the sky now. They've been out here for hours, Thomas realises. Hours of talking and laughing and just… being together.

"Can I ask something?" Micro asks eventually.

"Sure."

"Why are you really here? On this show, I mean. You don't seem like the type who'd volunteer for something like this."

Thomas considers deflecting with a joke. It's his default, after all— laugh it off, change the subject, avoid vulnerability. But something about the night, the quiet, the way Micro is looking at him with those patient grey eyes— it makes him want to be honest.

"A friend blackmailed me," he admits. "Well, 'called in a favour' is the official term he used. A contestant dropped out last minute, and he needed a replacement. And I'm the sucker who said yes."

Micro nods slowly, like this confirms something he suspected. "That makes sense. You have the look of someone who's been voluntold."

"Exactly! That's the word. Voluntold." Thomas feels a rush of warmth at being understood. "What about you? Why are you here?"

"My brother signed us both up as a joke. He thought it would be hilarious." Micro's smile turns fond. "He didn't think the producers would actually accept two brothers, but apparently they're very open-minded— think the competition will make for good television. Or maybe they're desperate. Probably both." He shrugs. "I was between jobs and he promised me unlimited tiny sandwiches. So far, he's delivered."

Thomas laughs. "Your bother is… a lot."

"He's a human hurricane," Micro agrees. "But he means well. He just thinks everything is a grand adventure." He pauses, tilting his head. "You know him, right? Saps? He mentioned knowing you."

"Yeah, we're friends. He's friends with my best friend Flux, so we've hung out a bunch." Thomas hesitates, then decides to share. "Flux is here too, actually. Also blackmailed. Also having a complete meltdown about it."

Micro's eyebrows rise. "Flux is here? Saps' Flux?"

Somehow Thomas isn't surprised that that is how Micro recognises Flux's name. "The one and the same."

A slow smile spreads across Micro's face— not his usual small smile, but something wider, more amused. "Oh, this is going to be good. Saps has been talking about Flux for years. The way he talks about him..." He trails off, shaking his head. "My brother is not as subtle as he thinks he is."

Thomas grins. "Right? Flux is the same way. It's painful to watch, honestly. They're both completely oblivious."

"Mutual pining. Classic." Micro leans back, looking genuinely delighted. "And now they're both here, on a dating show, forced to watch each other compete for someone else's affection. Snowbird is either a genius or a monster."

"Bit of both, I think."

"A dangerous combination."

They share a look of perfect understanding— two people on the outside of a romantic disaster, united in their appreciation of the chaos.

"So," Micro says, "what's your role in all this? Besides being the prize everyone's supposed to fight over?"

Thomas shrugs. "I'm just here to get through it. Make some jokes, avoid emotional vulnerability, go home. That was the plan, anyway."

"Was?"

The question hangs in the air between them. Thomas looks at Micro— really looks at him— and feels something shift in his chest.

"I don't know anymore," he admits quietly. "The plan might need revising."

Micro holds his gaze for a long moment. Then he smiles, soft and genuine. "Good. Plans are overrated anyway."

They sit in comfortable silence as the first hints of dawn begin to lighten the sky. Neither of them mentions going back inside. Neither of them moves.

Eventually, Thomas' phone buzzes— a text from Rotation: Cameras start in 3 hours. Go to bed, idiot. I know you're not in your room.

He sighs. "Duty calls. Well, sleep calls. Then duty."

Micro nods, standing and offering a hand to help Thomas up. His grip is warm, firm, and he doesn't let go immediately.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asks. "If neither of us can sleep?"

Thomas' heart does that thing again. "Yeah. Same time tomorrow."

They walk back to the mansion together, parting ways at the entrance to their respective wings. Thomas watches Micro disappear down the hallway, then heads to his own room, suddenly exhausted in the best possible way.

He falls asleep almost immediately, dreaming of gray eyes and quiet laughs and the feeling of being truly seen.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Micro sits in the confessional chair, looking more relaxed than before. There's a softness around his eyes, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

"I ran into Thomas on the beach last night. Neither of us could sleep." He pauses, the smile widening slightly. "We talked for hours. About books, about the show, about our friends who are apparently in the middle of a mutual pining situation that's about to explode. It was... easy. Comfortable. The kind of conversation you don't have to work at."

He leans back, grey eyes thoughtful. "He's not what I expected. He's smarter than he lets on, funnier than he gives himself credit for, and underneath all the sarcasm, there's someone who genuinely cares about the people around him. He talked about his friend Flux with real affection. About Gray—they've already formed some kind of alliance. Even about Pili, who he apparently offended on arrival and feels terrible about."

Another pause, softer this time. "When he talks about things he cares about, he gets animated. Waves his hands around. Forgets to be self-deprecating for a few minutes. It's..." He searches for the word. "Endearing. Really endearing."

He meets the camera's gaze directly. "I don't know what's going to happen on this show. I don't know if I'm actually looking for romance, or if I'm just here because my brother thought it would be funny. But I do know that I want to keep talking to him. Thomas. The stucco guy. The one who stayed up all night on a beach with a stranger because neither of them could sleep." A quiet laugh. "That's something. That's definitely something."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Thomas looks slightly better than he did in his first confessional— less shell-shocked, more thoughtful. There are circles under his eyes, but he's smiling.

"I didn't sleep last night. Well— I slept eventually, but not until after I'd spent hours on the beach with Micro, talking about books and life and the absolute disaster that is our mutual friends." He shakes his head, still smiling. "It was... nice. Really nice. The kind of conversation where you don't notice time passing because you're too busy actually enjoying yourself."

He pauses, running a hand through his hair. "He gets it. The sarcasm, the deflections, the jokes. He sees through them, but he doesn't try to force me to be different. He just... lets me be. And somehow, that makes me want to be more real anyway." Another pause, longer. "I don't know what that means. I don't know what any of this means. But I know I'm looking forward to tonight. To seeing if he's there again."

A beat, then: "Also, for the record, Snowbird, if you're watching this— which I know you are— I'm aware that you're probably going to use this footage somehow. I'm aware that you're probably already planning the edit. I just want you to know that I will find a way to retaliate. I don't know how yet, but I will." He grins at the camera. "Consider this a formal warning."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The first official dates are announced the next morning over breakfast. Snowbird himself makes the announcement, standing at the head of the dining table with the kind of theatrical flair that suggests he's been waiting for this moment his whole life.

"Alright, everyone! Listen up!" He claps his hands, and the chatter dies down. "Today marks the beginning of your romantic journeys. Each of you will have a one-on-one date with Thomas, our main catch, designed to help you connect and determine if there's a spark."

Thomas, sitting between Gray and Flux, groans quietly. Gray immediately kicks him under the table— hard.

"Quit complaining," she mutters, but there's a grin tugging at her mouth. "You knew what you signed up for."

"I signed up for free food and the possibility of emotional trauma, not whatever this is."

"Same thing, different packaging." Gray steals a piece of toast from his plate. "Consider this payment for the entertainment you're about to provide me."

Thomas narrows his eyes at her. "You're going to be insufferable about this, aren't you?"

"Absolutely." She takes a triumphant bite of his toast. "I've already started a list of questions to ask you after each date. Very invasive ones. You're going to hate it."

"You do realise I'm going to retaliate, right?"

"Good luck." Gray grins, completely unfazed. "I'm immune to your nonsense."

"You cried during a card last night."

"That was strategic moisture expulsion. Very different."

Flux, on Thomas' other side, watches their exchange with the expression of someone observing particularly entertaining wildlife. "You two are exhausting."

"We're magnificent," Gray corrects. "There's a difference."

Snowbird continues, oblivious to their commentary. "Dates will be spread over the next few days. Some will be romantic, some adventurous, some designed to bring out your true personalities. We've put a lot of thought into these, so try to enjoy them." He pauses, grinning. "Or at least look like you're enjoying them. The cameras will be rolling."

Thomas catches Micro's eye across the table. Micro raises an eyebrow slightly, a silent question: You okay? Thomas gives a tiny nod, a small smile. I'm fine.

It's ridiculous, this silent communication they've already developed. But it feels natural. Easy.

Gray notices, because of course she does. "You're doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"That thing where you make heart eyes at Micro and forget the rest of us exist." She fake gags. "It's disgusting. Keep it up."

Thomas kicks her under the table. She kicks back, harder.

The first date is with Legacy.

The producers have set up a picnic in the vineyard— blankets, baskets of gourmet food, a stunning view of the rolling hills. It's disgustingly picturesque, the kind of scene that belongs on a postcard or in a rom-com montage.

Legacy is already there when Thomas arrives, arranged artfully on the blanket with the practised ease of someone who's never had an awkward moment in his life. He waves cheerfully as Thomas approaches.

"Thomas! This is beautiful! Have you seen the view?"

Thomas sits down across from him, trying to find a comfortable position on the blanket. "Hard to miss. It's basically a screensaver."

Legacy laughs, genuine and warm. "A screensaver. That's one way to put it." He hands Thomas a glass of wine. "So, first date. How are you feeling?"

"Terrified, honestly. You?"

"A little nervous, sure. But mostly excited." Legacy's smile softens. "I really believe in this process, you know? Putting yourself out there, being open to whatever happens. Life's too short to play it safe."

Thomas takes a sip of wine to buy himself time. Legacy is so genuinely, authentically nice that it's almost unsettling. There's no angle here, no performance— just a guy who honestly wants to connect.

"That's a really nice way to look at it," Thomas says. "I'm more of a 'brace for impact' kind of person, personally."

"Nothing wrong with that. Different approaches for different people." Legacy leans forward slightly. "Tell me about yourself. The real you, not the show version."

And somehow, despite his better judgment, Thomas does. He talks about his job— or lack of passion for it, anyway. About his friends, his family, his complicated relationship with both. About his love of bad movies and good books and the kind of late-night conversations that leave you feeling seen.

Legacy listens. Really listens. Asks questions, follows up, remembers details. By the end of the date, Thomas feels like he's been thoroughly, genuinely heard.

It's not romantic— not for Thomas, anyway— but it's something. Something valuable.

As they're packing up, Legacy touches his arm gently. "Hey, Thomas? I know we're not... I know this probably isn't going where the show wants it to. But I want you to know that I'm glad we did this. I'm glad I got to meet you. The real you."

Thomas smiles, genuinely touched. "Same, Legacy. Same."

They walk back to the mansion together, easy and comfortable. Friend energy, Thomas' brain supplies. Strong friend energy. But that's okay. Not every connection has to be romantic.

When Thomas walks through the mansion doors, Gray is waiting in the foyer, perched on a decorative chair like she's been there for a while. She has a notepad in her hand and a deeply suspicious grin on her face.

"Well, well, well." She taps her pen against the notepad. "How was the romantic picnic? Did you feed each other grapes? Stare longingly into each other's eyes? Discuss your future together?"

Thomas stops, crossing his arms. "You're really committed to this, aren't you?"

"Absolutely. I've been waiting for approximately two hours. That's two hours of my life I'll never get back. You owe me details."

"I owe you nothing."

"Wrong." Gray stands, advancing on him with the notepad. "We have an alliance. Alliances require transparency. Spill."

Thomas eyes the notepad. "Is that actually a list of questions or did you just grab the first piece of paper you found?"

Gray glances down at it. "It's... both. Mostly the second one. But I have a very good memory for invasive questions, so don't test me."

"You're ridiculous."

"And yet you're still dealing with me." She grins. "Come on, give me something. Was it romantic? Boring? Awkward? Did you say something embarrassing? You always say something embarrassing."

Thomas considers, then decides to mess with her. "It was incredible. Life-changing. I think I'm in love."

Gray's face falls. "Wait, really?"

"No."

She punches his arm. "I hate you."

"You love me. You just said so."

"That was before you lied about being in love." She narrows her eyes. "Okay, fine. Keep your secrets. But I'm going to find out anyway. I have my ways."

"Your ways being?"

"Watching the show like everyone else, probably." She shrugs. "I'm not above learning things the normal way. But it's less fun."

Thomas laughs, genuinely amused. "I'll give you one thing: Legacy is genuinely nice. Like, aggressively, suspiciously nice. But I think he's real about it."

Gray nods, pretending to take notes. "Noted. Aggressively nice. Suspicious. Anything else?"

"He laughed at my fountain joke."

"Ooh, important detail." She scribbles elaborately. "Sense of humour intact. Good to know." She looks up, eyes sparkling. "See? That wasn't so hard. Now next time, just tell me everything immediately and save us both time."

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Exactly." Gray grins. "Now go get ready for your next victim. I have more waiting to do."

Thomas heads toward his room, still laughing. Gray's voice follows him down the hallway.

"And I'm going to find out everything! You can't hide from me forever!"

He waves without turning around.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Legacy sits in the confessional chair, looking thoughtful but content.

"That went really well! I mean, not in a romantic fireworks kind of way— I don't think Thomas and I are headed in that direction— but in a genuine connection kind of way. He's a good guy. Interesting, funny, clearly carrying some walls around, but good." He pauses, considering. "I think we're going to be friends. Really good friends, actually. And that's a win. That's absolutely a win."

He grins at the camera. "Also, I have to say— the way he talks about certain other contestants? The way his face softens when he mentions Micro? It's adorable. I'm already rooting for them. Even if nothing happens with me, I want to see that happen for him. Everyone deserves someone who makes them look like that."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The second date is with Kanukei.

They're sent to a cooking class— a classic reality TV setup for "sparking chemistry" through shared activity. The kitchen is gleaming and professional, all stainless steel and bright lights. A cheerful instructor walks them through making pasta from scratch, which immediately goes about as well as you'd expect.

"I think I've created a monster," Kanukei says, holding up a lump of dough that resembles nothing so much as a sad, lumpy pancake. "This was supposed to be pasta. I'm not sure what this is."

Thomas laughs, genuinely amused. "Mine's not much better. I think I used too much flour? Or not enough? I'm not clear on the science."

"The science is apparently beyond both of us." Kanukei sets down his dough with a shrug. "Oh well. At least we're failing together."

They end up abandoning the pasta altogether and just chatting while the instructor quietly fixes their mistakes in the background. It's easy, natural— exactly the kind of low-pressure interaction Thomas needs after the intensity of the first day.

Kanukei talks about teaching, about the students who drive him crazy and the ones who make it all worth it. Thomas talks about his own college experience, the teachers who inspired him, the ones who didn't. They bond over shared stories of academic absurdity and the universal experience of surviving the education system.

"So," Kanukei says eventually, "what's the deal with you and Micro?"

Thomas nearly chokes on his wine. "What? There's no deal. We talked on the beach for a few hours after shooting. That's all."

"Uh huh." Kanukei's expression is knowing. "And that's why you've glanced at him approximately nineteen times since we sat down?"

"I have not—" Thomas stops, realises he has, in fact, been glancing toward where Micro is theoretically located. "Okay, maybe a few times. But that doesn't mean anything."

"It means something." Kanukei grins. "Don't worry, I'm not judging. I'm actually kind of invested now. You two have that thing— you know, the thing where you're both pretending you're not already gone for each other. It's cute."

"We are not—" Thomas sighs. "Is it that obvious?"

"To everyone except, apparently, the two of you." Kanukei pats his arm. "It's okay. These things take time. But for what it's worth? I think he's good for you. You're more relaxed when you talk about him. Less guarded."

Thomas considers this. It's true, he realises. When he's with Micro, or even just thinking about Micro, the walls come down a little. The jokes come less frequently. The real him comes out more.

That's terrifying. It's also kind of wonderful.

"Thanks," he says quietly. "For listening. For not making it weird."

"Making it weird is my speciality, but here, I'm choosing to restrain myself." Kanukei raises his glass. "To unexpected connections. However they turn out."

Thomas clinks his glass against Kanukei's. "To unexpected connections."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Kanukei looks thoroughly entertained, leaning back in the confessional chair with a grin.

"Thomas and I are definitely on the same wavelength. We spent most of the date failing at cooking and talking about life, which is exactly my kind of connection. Not romantic— I don't think that's where we're headed— but genuinely friendly. The kind of person you'd actually want to hang out with outside a reality show context." He pauses, grin widening. "Also, I got him to admit he's completely gone for Micro. Not in so many words, but definitely in all the ways that matter. The guy is gone. It's adorable. I'm fully invested now."

He leans forward slightly. "Here's the thing about Thomas— he's more transparent than he thinks he is. He does this thing where he tries to deflect with sarcasm, but if you actually pay attention, you can see exactly what he's feeling. And right now, what he's feeling is 'completely enamoured with a certain grey-eyed, white-haired individual and too scared to do anything about it.'" He shakes his head, still grinning. "I love it. This is better than any scripted drama."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The third date is with Flux.

They don't even bother pretending to be romantic about it. The producers have set them up on a "romantic" boat ride around a nearby lake, complete with champagne and a picnic basket. Thomas and Flux take one look at each other and burst out laughing.

"This is absurd," Flux says, settling onto the boat's cushioned seat. "We're on a date. A romantic date. On a boat."

"With champagne," Thomas adds, pouring them both glasses. "Don't forget the champagne. Very important for setting the mood."

"What mood? The mood of 'my best friend and I are trapped in a reality show and one of us is having a breakdown'?"

"Exactly that mood." Thomas hands him a glass. "To terrible life choices and the friends who enable them."

 Flux clinks his glass against Thomas'. "I'll drink to that. Fuck you Snowbird."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the gentle ripple of the water. The cameras are rolling, capturing every angle, but for now, they're just two friends sharing a moment of quiet in the middle of chaos.

"So," Thomas says eventually, keeping his voice low, "still avoiding him?"

Flux groans, tilting his head back. "I don't want to talk about it."

"And yet we're going to talk about it."

"Why? Why must we talk about it?"

"Because I'm your best friend and I enjoy watching you suffer." Thomas grins. "Also because I care about you, or whatever. Now spill."

Flux glares at him, but there's no heat in it. "Fine. Yes. I'm still avoiding him. It's been days. Every time I see him coming, I go the other way. I've become an expert at ducking behind furniture. I know the layout of this mansion better than the architects at this point."

"That's pathetic."

"I know it's pathetic!"

"And also kind of impressive." Thomas considers. "How many times have you hidden from him?"

"Seven. Eight times. I don't know— I've lost count." Flux runs a hand through his already-messy hair. "The worst was yesterday. I was in the kitchen, getting water, and he walked in. I literally dropped to the floor and crawled behind the island. Crawled, Thomas. On my hands and knees. Like a coward."

Thomas laughs so hard he nearly spills his champagne. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry— I know this is serious— but the image of you crawling across the kitchen floor—"

"It's not funny!"

"You have to admit, it's a little funny."

"A little funny, maybe." Flux's lips twitch despite himself. "Okay, it's a little funny. But mostly it's humiliating."

Thomas sobers, setting down his glass. "Flux. You can't keep doing this. You're going to give yourself an ulcer. Or get caught in an even more embarrassing position. Imagine if he'd seen you crawling. What would you have said?"

"I would have died. On the spot. Instant death."

"Exactly. So talk to him. Just... say hi. Be normal. You've been normal around him for years. This is no different."

Flux stares at him. "This is completely different and you know it."

"Is it, though? He's still the same person. You're still the same person. The only thing that's changed is that you're in a weird environment and your brain has decided to betray you." Thomas shrugs. "Talk to him. Get it over with. The avoiding is making it worse."

Flux is quiet for a long moment, staring at the water. When he speaks, his voice is smaller. "What if he figures it out?"

"Figures what out?"

"You know what."

"Oh, the years of pining? The secret crush? That thing?" Thomas waves a hand. "He's not going to figure it out from you saying 'hi.' He might figure it out if you keep acting like a weirdo who flees every time he enters a room."

Flux considers this. "That's... actually a fair point."

"I have those occasionally."

"Don't let it go to your head." Flux drains his champagne and holds out his glass for more. "Okay. Fine. I'll talk to him. Today. Probably. Maybe."

"That's the spirit."

They spend the rest of the boat ride actually attempting the date part— asking each other questions, sharing stories, giving the cameras something to work with. Flux talks about his job, his family, his complicated feelings about being here. Thomas talks about his own family, his fear of vulnerability, the strange hope he's started to feel despite himself.

It's not romantic. It's genuine. Two friends, navigating absurdity together.

As they're docking, Flux grabs Thomas' arm. "Hey. Thanks. For this. For being you."

Thomas smiles. "Always. Now go find him. Before you lose your nerve."

Flux nods, takes a deep breath, and heads off toward the mansion with the determined expression of a man walking toward his own execution.

Thomas watches him go, hoping it works out. Hoping they both get what they want, even if they're too scared to admit what that is.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Flux sits in the confessional chair, looking better than before—less panicked, more focused. There are still circles under his eyes, but there's also a spark of something that might be determination.

"So Thomas and I had our date. It was..." He pauses, searching for the right word. "Therapeutic, actually. He talked some sense into me. Made me realise I can't keep hiding forever."

He runs a hand through his hair. "Saps is here. My best friend. The person I've been—" He stops, clears his throat. "The person I care about. A lot. And I've been avoiding him because I'm terrified he'll figure out how much. Which is ridiculous, because he's not going to figure it out from me saying 'hi.' He's going to figure it out from me crawling across kitchen floors like a malfunctioning Roomba."

A beat. "Thomas pointed that out. He's annoyingly right sometimes."

He leans forward, expression shifting into something sharper. "And Snowbird? If you're watching this— and I know you are, because you're probably editing it right now with that stupid smirk on your face— I want you to know that I haven't forgotten. I haven't forgotten that this is your fault. That you blackmailed me here. That you knew exactly what you were doing when you put both of us in this situation."

His eyes narrow at the camera. "I hope you're proud of yourself. I hope the ratings are worth it. And I hope you're ready for whatever I come up with in retaliation, because I have ideas. Thomas and I are already planning. You think you're safe because you're behind the camera? You're not. Sleep with one eye open, Snowbird. Revenge is coming."

He pauses, the anger softening slightly. "That said... I'm also kind of glad I'm here? Not because of you— don't get it twisted— but because... I don't know. Because maybe this will force me to actually do something. To stop hiding. To finally..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Whatever. The point is, I'm going to talk to him. Today. Probably. For real this time."

He stands, heading for the door, then pauses, looking back.

"Oh, and Rotation? I see you back there. I know you're enjoying this. Your time will come too."

He leaves. The confessional ends. 

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The fourth date is with Saps.

Saps grins, but it's not his usual overwhelming energy— it's sharper, more amused. "What's wrong? Scared of heights?"

"Terrified of heights. Also terrified of falling. Also terrified of looking stupid in front of cameras while attempting both." Thomas eyes the wall warily. "This is basically my nightmare scenario."

"Good." Saps claps him on the shoulder. "Nightmare scenarios build character. Also, if you fall, I get to laugh at you. Win-win."

"You're a terrible friend."

"Your friend, not mine. Flux is my friend. You're just the guy I tolerate because you're attached to him." Saps' eyes sparkle with mischief. "Speaking of which—"

"Here it comes."

"What? I didn't say anything."

"You were about to." Thomas accepts the harness from the climbing instructor, examining it like it might bite him. "You've got that look. The 'I'm about to ask something invasive but pretend it's casual' look."

Saps pauses, genuinely impressed. "Okay, that's actually a good read. Maybe you are more observant than you look."

"Thanks. I think."

They get harnessed up, receive instructions from a very patient professional, and start climbing. Thomas discovers two things very quickly: one, he is spectacularly terrible at rock climbing; two, watching Saps try to climb while also trying to have a conversation is absolutely hilarious.

"So," Saps grunts, reaching for a hold that's definitely too far away, "you and Flux. Best friends, right?"

"For like a decade, yeah." Thomas clings to the wall like a very anxious starfish. "Why?"

"Just curious." Saps misses the hold, swings slightly, recovers with a grunt. "He ever talk about me?"

Thomas bites back a grin. "Occasionally."

"Occasionally? That's it?"

"He's a private person. You know that."

Saps mutters something under his breath that might be "private is one word for it" and focuses on the climb for a moment. Then: "Has he seemed... different? Lately, I mean. Before the show."

Thomas considers this. "Define different."

"I don't know. Distracted? Weird around me? Like he's hiding something?" Saps' voice is carefully casual, but Thomas can hear the undercurrent of genuine concern. "He's been avoiding me since we got here. Like, actively ducking out of rooms when I enter. I caught him hiding behind a plant yesterday. A plant, Thomas. It was a small plant. He wasn't even fully covered."

Thomas laughs so hard he almost loses his grip. "He told me about the kitchen crawl but not the plant. That's incredible."

"The kitchen crawl?" Saps' eyebrows shoot up. "What kitchen crawl?"

"Nothing. Forget I said anything."

"Absolutely not. You're telling me later." Saps hauls himself up to the next hold, clearly stronger than he looks. "But yeah. The avoiding. It's... I don't know. It's messing with my head a little."

Thomas is quiet for a moment, focusing on not falling to his death. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "Maybe he's just overwhelmed. This is a lot, being here. Cameras, strangers, the whole situation. Maybe he's processing."

"Maybe." Saps doesn't sound convinced. "Or maybe he's avoiding me specifically. Which would be—" He stops, shakes his head. "Never mind."

They climb in silence for a while. Thomas' arms are burning, and he's pretty sure he's only made it about twelve feet up the wall, but there's something oddly peaceful about the physical focus. Saps is a few feet away, moving with more confidence now, his earlier distraction fading into concentration.

Eventually, they both give up and descend, collapsing onto a bench at the bottom.

"I'm going to feel that tomorrow," Thomas groans, rubbing his shoulders.

"Same. My arms are already planning their revenge." Saps stretches, then glances at Thomas sideways. "Hey. Thanks for not pushing. About Flux, I mean. I know you probably have opinions."

"I have many opinions. I'm choosing to keep most of them to myself."

"Appreciated." Saps is quiet for a moment. "Can I ask you something? Something actually real, not the casual bullshit?"

Thomas nods.

"Do you think he's happy? Like, genuinely happy? Not just going through the motions?" Saps' voice is soft, vulnerable in a way Thomas has never heard from him. "I've known him for years, and I feel like lately I can't tell anymore. Like there's this wall up that wasn't there before, and I don't know how to get through it."

Thomas looks at him— really looks at him. Sees the worry underneath the usual snark, the genuine care that's been there all along, hidden behind jokes and mischief.

"I think," Thomas says carefully, "that he's been dealing with some things. Things he's not great at talking about. And I think being here, in this situation, has made all of it more complicated." He pauses. "But I also think he's figuring it out. Slowly. Painfully. But figuring it out."

Saps absorbs this, nodding slowly. "So the avoiding—"

"Is probably him being an idiot. Which he is, regularly. You know this."

"I do know this." A small smile. "He's the biggest idiot I've ever met. Bar none."

"And yet."

"And yet." Saps' smile softens into something almost tender. "Yeah."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the crew pack up the climbing equipment. Then Saps turns to Thomas, something determined in his expression.

"I'm going to talk to him. Today. Corner him somewhere he can't hide behind furniture or plants."

"Good plan."

"Wish me luck?"

"You don't need luck." Thomas stands, offering a hand. "You just need to stop being an idiot too. Both of you, apparently."

Saps takes his hand, standing. "Pot calling the kettle black. I've seen the way you look at my brother."

Thomas freezes. "I don't— that's not—"

"Relax." Saps grins, the mischief returning. "I think it's cute. And for the record? He looks at you the same way. So maybe take your own advice and talk to him."

Before Thomas can respond, Saps claps him on the shoulder and heads toward the mansion, his pace quick and determined.

Thomas watches him go, heart pounding for entirely different reasons now.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Saps sits in the confessional chair, but he's not lounging or smirking. He's leaning forward, elbows on his knees, expression open and vulnerable in a way the cameras haven't captured before.

"So. Thomas and I climbed a wall. Almost died a few times. Standard date stuff." A small, self-deprecating smile. "But we also talked. Really talked. About Flux."

He pauses, running a hand through his hair.

"Here's the thing. I've known Flux for years. He's my best friend. The person I go to with everything, the person who gets my jokes, the person who's always just... there. And somewhere along the way, I think—" He stops, shakes his head. "I think I stopped seeing him as just my friend. I think maybe I started seeing him as more. And I was too stupid to realize it until now."

Another pause, longer.

"He's been avoiding me since we got here. Hiding behind furniture, ducking out of rooms, the whole thing. And it's been driving me crazy because I didn't understand why. But Thomas said something— said Flux has been dealing with things, figuring things out. And I keep thinking about that. About what he might be figuring out."

He looks at the camera, and there's hope in his eyes. Real, vulnerable hope.

"What if it's the same thing I'm figuring out? What if we've both been idiots, pining separately for years without saying anything?" A quiet laugh. "That would be so stupid. So perfectly, painfully stupid. And also kind of beautiful?"

He stands, squaring his shoulders.

"I'm going to find him. Right now. I'm going to talk to him, and I'm going to stop hiding behind jokes and deflection." He pauses at the door, glancing back. "Wish me luck. I have a feeling I'm going to need it."

He leaves, and there's something lighter in the way he moves. Something like hope.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The fifth date is with Gray.

The producers, clearly having given up on traditional romance for this pairing, have sent them to a spa for couples' massages. Gray refuses to take off her shoes. Thomas won't stop commenting on the "relaxing" pan-flute music that's driving them both crazy. The massage therapists look deeply confused.

"This is the worst date I've ever been on," Gray announces, flat on her table, fully clothed, shoes still on. "And I once had a guy take me to a taxidermy museum."

Thomas laughs so hard he nearly falls off his own table. "A taxidermy museum? As a date?"

"In his defence, he really liked taxidermy. It was his passion." Gray pauses, deadpan. "We did not have a second date."

"I'm shocked. Shocked, I tell you." Thomas wipes his eyes. "You know, for someone who claims to be here voluntarily, you're really committed to making this as difficult as possible for production."

Gray turns her head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "And for someone who claims to hate being here, you're really committed to enjoying yourself."

"Touché."

"Also, I'm not making it difficult. I'm simply refusing to participate in the illusion that any of this is relaxing." She gestures vaguely at the room. "Pan flutes, Thomas. Pan flutes. Who thought this was a good idea?"

"Someone who's never met either of us, clearly."

"Clearly."

They spend the rest of the "massage" gossiping about the other contestants and making increasingly ridiculous observations about the decor. Thomas points out that the essential oil diffuser looks like a prop from a low-budget sci-fi movie. Gray counters that the "zen garden" in the corner has approximately three grains of sand in it. By the end, the therapists have given up entirely and are just sitting in the corner, scrolling through their phones with the resigned expressions of people who've seen everything.

"So," Gray says as they're finally leaving, having thoroughly traumatized the spa staff, "you and Micro."

Thomas groans. "Not you too."

"Me too, absolutely." Gray grins, clearly delighted by his discomfort. "I've been waiting for the right moment to bring it up. This seems perfect."

"There's nothing to bring up."

"Sure there isn't." She nudges him with her elbow. "That's why you get that stupid soft look on your face every time someone mentions his name. That's why you were making heart eyes at him across the breakfast table this morning. That's why you just spent the last hour avoiding the topic like a professional."

Thomas opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Absolutely. It's the best entertainment I've gotten all week." She pats his arm. "For what it's worth, I think it's cute. Nauseating, but cute. You two have that whole 'obviously meant for each other but too dumb to do anything about it' thing going on."

"We're not— there's nothing to—" Thomas sighs, defeated. "It's complicated."

"It's really not. You like him. He clearly likes you. The only complication is your mutual inability to use your words." She pauses, tilting her head. "Actually, that's kind of adorable too. In a frustrating way."

Thomas narrows his eyes at her. "You know, for someone so invested in my love life, you're really bad at giving advice."

"My advice is perfect. Use your words. Tell him you like him. Kiss his face off." She shrugs. "What more do you want?"

"A step-by-step guide? Emotional support? Someone to hold my hand?"

"I'll hold your hand if you want, but it's going to cost you."

"Cost me what?"

"Snacks. And the satisfaction of watching me tease you about this forever." She grins. "Deal?"

Thomas laughs despite himself. "Deal."

They walk back toward the mansion together, easy and comfortable. Gray nudges him again.

"Hey, Thomas?"

"Yeah?"

"For what it's worth? I'm glad you're here. Even if you are a disaster." She glances at him, something softer in her expression. "You're my favourite disaster."

Thomas feels warmth spread through his chest. "Same, Gray. Same."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Gray sits in the confessional chair, legs crossed, holding a cup of coffee and looking thoroughly unimpressed with the entire setup. There's a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth, though.

"Yes, yes, I know. I have to do these. Contractual obligations, et cetera, et cetera." She takes a long sip of coffee. "Thomas and I had our date. It was terrible in the best way possible. We spent the whole time making fun of the pan flute music and gossiping about everyone else. The massage therapists gave up on us entirely. It was perfect."

She pauses, the smile widening. "He's so easy to provoke, you guys. It's almost too easy. I made one comment about his whole 'thing' with Micro and he got all flustered and defensive. It was beautiful." Another pause, softer. "He's good people, Thomas. Annoying, but good. He's got this whole romantic subplot happening that he refuses to acknowledge, and I'm fully invested now. I need to see how it ends."

She takes another sip of coffee, considering the camera.

"The thing about Thomas is, he thinks he's being subtle. He thinks no one notices the way he looks at Micro, or the way he lights up when Micro enters a room, or the way he gets all soft and gooey inside whenever someone mentions his name." She shakes her head, grinning. "He's not subtle. At all. It's actually kind of endearing how bad he is at hiding it."

A beat, her expression shifting to something more thoughtful. "I'm happy for him, though. Genuinely. He deserves someone who sees him— really sees him— and Micro seems like that person. They're both idiots about it, but they're cute idiots. I'm rooting for them."

She finishes her coffee, sets the cup aside, and stands.

"That's it. That's my contribution. I'm going to go find snacks now and maybe bother Flux about his own romantic disaster. I hear there's drama there too, and I'm not about to miss out." She pauses at the door, glancing back with a wicked grin. "Oh, and Thomas? If you're watching this— and you will be, because you're nosy—use your words. Kiss the pretty one. Stop being a coward. You'll thank me later."

She leaves, cackling quietly to herself.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The sixth date is with Pili.

Thomas approaches it with genuine dread, still replaying their disastrous first interaction in his head. He's spent the last few days trying to figure out how to fix it, how to apologise in a way that actually lands, how to show Pili that he's not actually a thoughtless jerk. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees that hurt flicker across Pili's face, the way he'd curled in on himself like he was expecting the blow.

The producers have set them up for a cooking class— again, apparently the default "spark chemistry" activity. Thomas arrives early, determined to make this right.

Pili is already there when he walks in, leaning against the counter in ripped jeans and a band shirt, silver rings catching the light. His arms are crossed, his expression carefully guarded. He looks like he's prepared for the worst.

"Pili." Thomas approaches slowly, hands slightly raised like he's approaching a skittish animal. "Hey. I'm glad we have this time to talk."

Pili's expression doesn't change. "The producers scheduled it. I didn't have a choice."

"I know. But I'm still glad." Thomas stops a few feet away, giving him space. "Look, I wanted to apologise. Properly. For that first meeting. What I said was thoughtless and stupid and I've been kicking myself ever since."

Pili's jaw tightens. "It was just a comment about my height. Everyone makes comments about my height."

"It was dismissive. It was reductive. It was the kind of comment that reduces you to one physical trait instead of seeing you as a whole person." Thomas meets his eyes, willing him to understand. "And you deserve better than that. You deserve to be seen. Really seen. Not just as 'the shorter guy' or whatever my stupid brain latched onto in the moment. I have no excuse except that I'm an idiot who says the wrong thing when he's nervous, and I'm genuinely sorry."

For a long moment, Pili doesn't respond. His dark eyes search Thomas' face, looking for something— insincerity, maybe, or a trick. Then something in his expression shifts. Cracks, just slightly.

"Why?" he asks quietly. "Why do you care? You don't know me. I could be a terrible person for all you know."

"Because first impressions matter. And I made a bad one. And I don't want that to be the only thing you remember about me." Thomas shrugs. "Also, I'm not a terrible person. Usually. I make jokes when I'm nervous, and sometimes those jokes are bad, but I'm not malicious. I want you to know that. I want a chance to actually meet you. The real you. Not the version my stupid brain created in five seconds."

Pili studies him for a long moment. Then, slowly, the tension in his shoulders relaxes. His arms uncross, falling to his sides.

"You're really bad at this, you know that?" he says. "Apologising. You ramble."

Thomas laughs, relief flooding through him. "I know. It's a problem. My brain and mouth have a very strained relationship."

"It's actually kind of endearing." Pili's mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Okay. Apology accepted. But if you ever comment on my height again—"

"I won't. I promise."

"—I'll use my chef's knife on something other than vegetables."

"Duly noted." Thomas grins. "Also, for what it's worth, I'm 5'11" and I still can't reach the top shelf in my own kitchen. Height is a lie."

Pili snorts, a real laugh escaping. "That's actually pathetic."

"I know. I have to climb on counters like a feral raccoon. It's humiliating."

They stand there for a moment, the awkwardness finally dissolving into something almost comfortable. Then the cooking instructor bustles in, all bright energy and enthusiasm, and they're both rescued from having to figure out what to say next.

The cooking itself is a disaster in the best way. They're supposed to be making pasta from scratch, but Pili keeps getting distracted by Thomas' complete inability to follow simple instructions.

"No, you have to knead it longer. It's not going to become pasta just because you glare at it."

"I'm not glaring. I'm focusing."

"You're glaring. The dough is terrified."

Thomas looks down at the lump in front of him. "It does look scared, actually."

"That's because you've been attacking it instead of working with it. Here—" Pili moves closer, his hands covering Thomas' on the dough. "Like this. Gentle but firm. You're not fighting it, you're convincing it."

Thomas follows his lead, and somehow, miraculously, the dough starts to come together. "Oh. Oh, that's—"

"Magic, I know." Pili steps back, a genuine smile on his face. "Cooking is just alchemy with better hygiene."

"I'm never going to be able to do this without you."

"Good. That means you have to keep me around."

They share a look, something warm passing between them. Not romantic— Thomas is pretty sure about that now— but friendly. Genuine. The beginning of something that could be real.

As they're waiting for the pasta to rest, Pili leans against the counter, studying Thomas with renewed interest. "Okay, I have to ask. You and Micro."

Thomas nearly knocks over the flour. "What about me and Micro?"

"The way you look at him. The way your entire face changes when someone mentions his name." Pili's eyes sparkle with amusement. "It's very obvious. And very cute."

"We're not— I mean, we haven't—" Thomas runs a hand through his hair. "Is it really that obvious?"

"To everyone except, apparently, the two of you." Pili grins. "It's okay. I'm not judging. I'm actually kind of invested now."

"You're the third person today who's said that."

"Good. You need people rooting for you." Pili pauses, and his grin widens into something almost mischievous. "I love watching other people get together. It's my favourite thing. The pining, the tension, the eventual resolution—it's better than any scripted drama."

Thomas stares at him. "You're a secret romantic."

"I'm a secret shipper. There's a difference." Pili's eyes sparkle. "And I ship you and Micro hard. You're both clearly gone for each other. It's adorable."

"I don't know what to do with any of this information."

"You don't have to do anything. Just let it happen." Pili pats his arm. "I'll be here, watching from the sidelines, living vicariously through your romantic tension. It's going to be great."

Thomas laughs, genuinely surprised by this turn of events. "You're nothing like I expected."

"Neither are you." Pili's smile softens into something genuine. "I'm glad we talked. I'm glad you apologised. I think... I think we could be friends. Maybe."

"Definitely." Thomas holds out his hand. "Friends?"

Pili shakes it, firm and warm. "Friends. And also your number one shipper. That's non-negotiable."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Pili sits in the confessional chair, but he's not guarded or defensive anymore. He's relaxed, legs crossed, a genuine smile on his face. His style looks perfectly at home here now— ripped jeans, band shirt, silver rings catching the light.

"So Thomas and I had our date. And he apologised. Genuinely apologised, not just going through the motions." He pauses, considering. "He's not what I thought at all. He's awkward and he makes terrible jokes when he's nervous and he clearly has no idea what he's doing here ninety percent of the time. But he's also genuine. Kind. The kind of person who actually cares about how he makes other people feel. He noticed I was upset and he actually tried to fix it. That's... that's rare."

Another pause, the smile widening. "Also, he's completely, utterly gone for Micro. It's the most obvious thing in the world. The way he talks about him, the way his face softens, the way he gets all flustered when someone mentions his name— it's adorable. I'm fully invested now. I'm going to be their biggest supporter. Their number one shipper."

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. "I came here looking for love. I don't know if I'll find that. But I found something else— a front-row seat to a genuinely adorable slow-burn romance, and maybe some real friendships along the way." He grins at the camera. "Honestly? This is better than I expected. Way better."

He stands, heading for the door, then pauses, looking back.

"Oh, and Micro? If you're watching this— which you probably will be, because you seem like the type— stop being subtle. Go talk to him. He's clearly waiting for you to make a move." He winks. "You're welcome for the advice."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The seventh date is with Micro.

Thomas has been looking forward to this all week— and also dreading it with every fibre of his being. What if the beach conversations were a fluke? What if they don't have chemistry in a "real" date setting? What if the cameras make everything feel performative and fake? What if Micro realises Thomas is actually kind of a mess and decides he's not worth the trouble?

His brain has been running these scenarios on a loop for days, and now, standing at the edge of the launch site, he's pretty sure he's about to vibrate out of his skin.

The producers have gone all out. Of course they have. A hot air balloon ride at sunset, because apparently subtlety is not in their vocabulary. The massive balloon is already inflated, a giant canvas of colour against the darkening sky, and the basket— the very small basket— sways gently in the evening breeze.

And then Thomas sees Micro.

He's already there, standing by the basket, looking unfairly beautiful in the golden light. The setting sun catches his pale hair and sets it aglow, turning it to something almost incandescent. He's wearing a simple dark sweater that should be unremarkable but somehow makes him look like he stepped out of a carefully composed photograph. His grey eyes are soft, warm, and when they land on Thomas, that small private smile appears— the one that makes Thomas' heart do stupid acrobatic things in his chest.

Thomas' feet carry him forward before his brain can catch up.

"Hey," he says, and his voice comes out slightly strangled. Great. Fantastic start.

"Hey yourself." Micro's smile widens just a fraction. "Ready to be very high up in a very small basket?"

Thomas glances at the basket. It's definitely small. Definitely high up. Definitely a terrible idea for someone with even a hint of fear of heights.

"Terrified," he admits. "You?"

"Same." Micro's eyes crinkle at the corners. "But hey— at least we'll be terrified together."

Together. The word settles in Thomas' chest like something warm and precious.

They climb into the basket— which is, as advertised, extremely small. There's barely room for two people, which means they're standing close, close enough that Thomas can feel the warmth radiating from Micro's body, can catch that subtle clean scent that he's started associating with safety and home and other terrifying concepts.

The balloon lifts off.

Thomas grips the edge of the basket, knuckles white, trying very hard not to think about the rapidly shrinking ground below them. His breathing is slightly too fast, his heart rate slightly too elevated, and not all of it is because of the height.

Micro's hand finds his on the edge of the basket. Warm. Steady. Grounding.

"I've got you," Micro says quietly. "I'm not going to let you fall."

Thomas looks at him— really looks at him— and something in his chest loosens. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Micro squeezes his hand. "Just look at me. Don't look down. Look at me."

So Thomas does.

He looks at Micro—a t the way the sunset paints his skin in shades of gold and rose, at the way his grey eyes reflect the colors of the sky, at the small reassuring smile that seems meant just for Thomas. He looks and looks and keeps looking, and gradually, the fear fades into something else. Something warmer.

"It's beautiful," Micro says quietly, glancing out at the landscape spread beneath them.

Thomas isn't looking at the landscape.

"Yeah," he agrees, voice soft. "Beautiful."

Micro turns, catches him looking, and raises an eyebrow. There's amusement there, but also something softer. "Were you even looking at the view?"

"No." Thomas doesn't look away. He's done hiding, done deflecting, done pretending. "I was looking at you."

It's bold. Terrifyingly bold. But something about being this high up, this isolated from the rest of the world, makes him brave. Or stupid. Possibly both.

Micro's expression softens, his eyes going warm and bright. "Smooth, Thomas. Really smooth."

"I have my moments." Thomas' voice is steadier now. "Rare ones. But they happen."

"Then I'll make sure to cherish this one."

They float in comfortable silence for a while, hands still loosely intertwined on the edge of the basket. The sunset paints the sky in layers of orange and pink and gold, bleeding into deep purple at the edges. The world spreads out beneath them, small and distant and somehow less real than the person standing inches away.

The camera crew is in a separate basket, keeping their distance. Thomas is vaguely aware of them— the whir of equipment, the occasional direction shouted between pilots— but it all feels far away, unimportant. There's only this. Only them.

"Can I ask you something?" Micro says eventually.

"Sure."

"That night on the beach. What you said about your plan changing." He turns to face Thomas fully, and there's something vulnerable in his expression now. Open. Hopeful. "Has it? Changed, I mean?"

Thomas considers lying. It's what he does, after all— protect himself with jokes and deflections, keep people at arm's length where they can't hurt him. But Micro is looking at him with those grey eyes, patient and open and safe, and Thomas finds he doesn't want to hide. Not anymore. Not from him.

"Yeah," he admits quietly. "It has."

"Because of someone?"

"Because of someone." Thomas takes a breath, steadying himself. "Someone who laughed at my stucco joke. Who stayed up all night talking to me on a beach. Who looks at me like I'm actually interesting instead of just another person to perform for." He meets Micro's eyes, pouring everything he has into the words. "Someone who makes me want to stop hiding. To stop making jokes. To just... be real. Be myself. Because for the first time in my life, that feels like enough."

Micro's breath catches. Audibly. His hand tightens around Thomas'. "Thomas..."

"I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other for a few days. I know this whole situation is insane— the cameras, the show, all of it." Thomas shakes his head, a helpless smile crossing his face. "But I also know that I've never felt this way before. Never wanted to just be around someone this much. Never wanted to wake up next to someone, fall asleep next to someone, share all the boring ordinary moments with someone. Never wanted to let someone in like this."

He swallows, suddenly aware of how exposed he is. How vulnerable. But Micro is still looking at him, still holding his hand, still here.

"So yeah," Thomas finishes quietly. "My plan changed. Completely. And it's because of you."

Micro reaches out with his free hand, cups Thomas' face gently. His thumb traces over Thomas' cheekbone, feather-light, and his eyes are bright with something that looks almost like tears.

"I know what you mean," he whispers. "I've spent my whole life watching. Observing. Never really participating because it was easier, safer. And then you got out of that limo—" A small, wondering laugh. "You got out of that limo in that terrible shirt, looking like you'd rather be anywhere else, and you talked about stucco, and I couldn't stop watching. Not because I had to, but because I wanted to. Because you were real in a way no one else here is. Because you made me want to stop watching and start actually living."

"Yeah?" Thomas' voice is barely a whisper.

"Yeah." Micro's smile is radiant. "I've never felt this way either. Never wanted to just be with someone this much. Never wanted to share the quiet moments and the loud ones and everything in between. And I know it's fast. I know it's crazy. But I also know that I don't want to waste another second pretending I don't feel it."

Thomas leans into his touch, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. When he opens them, Micro is still there, still looking at him like he's something precious.

"So what do we do about it?" Thomas asks. "About... this? Us?"

"I don't know." Micro's smile softens into something almost shy. "But I'd like to figure it out together. If you want."

"I want that." The words tumble out, urgent and true. "I definitely want that. More than I've wanted anything in a long time."

They stand there, foreheads almost touching, hands intertwined, wrapped in the golden light of the setting sun. The world feels distant, irrelevant. There's only this moment. Only them.

"I should probably warn you," Micro murmurs, "I'm not great at this. The whole... feelings thing. I'm better at observing than participating."

"Same." Thomas laughs quietly. "I've spent years deflecting with jokes. I'm probably going to be terrible at this."

"Then we'll be terrible together."

"Together." Thomas tests the word, feels it settle into place. "I like the sound of that."

Micro's eyes sparkle. "Me too."

They don't kiss. Not yet. But something shifts between them— an understanding, a promise. Whatever this is, it's real. It's growing. And they're both choosing to let it.

The balloon drifts on, carrying them through the fading light. The camera crew captures it all from their separate basket, but Thomas can't bring himself to care. Let them film. Let the whole world watch. This moment is theirs— real and unscripted and completely, utterly genuine.

For the first time in a long time, Thomas is exactly where he wants to be.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Snowbird is in what looks like a production booth, surrounded by monitors showing various angles of the mansion, grinning from ear to ear.

"So. Thomas and Micro." He leans back, clearly pleased with himself. "I'm not going to say I planned this, because I didn't. Not exactly. But I definitely saw the potential. The moment Micro's casting tape crossed my desk, I knew. Because have you seen that guy— Micro is the textbook definition of Thomas' type. These two were going to be trouble for each other. The good kind."

He glances at one of the monitors, where a replay of the balloon date is frozen. "They're adorable, honestly. It's sickening. I love it." A pause, softer. "Thomas deserves this. He's been hiding behind jokes for years, never letting anyone in. And now there's someone who actually sees him. Who makes him want to stop hiding. That's..." He trails off, something genuine flickering across his face. "That's what I wanted for him. Even if I had to blackmail half his friends to make it happen."

He grins at the camera. "That said, I did leave them a very subtle note about keeping things camera-appropriate. I'm a producer, not a monster. They want private moments? Fine. Just give me enough good footage to work with." He pauses. "Also, Rotation is furious about having to turn off hallway cameras. He's already calculating how many 'romantic moments' he missed. Poor guy."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The first elimination ceremony is held in the main hall, all dramatic lighting and nervous energy. The remaining contestants stand in a semicircle, waiting. Thomas holds a single rose, knowing that whoever doesn't get it will be going home.

He's thought about this carefully. Weighed options. Considered connections. In the end, the choice is clear.

"Legacy." Thomas steps forward, meets his eyes. "You're an incredible person. Genuinely kind, genuinely good. Anyone would be lucky to have you in their life." He pauses. "But I don't think we're romantic matches. And I think you deserve someone who's fully there for you, not just going through the motions. So I'm not giving you this rose."

Legacy nods, a sad smile on his face. "I understand. I really do." He steps forward, pulls Thomas into a hug. "But I meant what I said. I'm glad I met you. I hope we stay friends when this is over."

"Definitely." Thomas hugs back. "Absolutely."

Legacy pulls away, waves to the group, and heads out with more grace than Thomas could ever muster. The cameras follow him, capturing his dignified exit.

The remaining contestants shift, processing. Thomas looks at each of them in turn— Kanukei, Flux, Saps, Gray, Pili, and finally Micro.

Micro meets his eyes and smiles. Small. Private. Just for Thomas.

Thomas smiles back.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The days after the first elimination settle into a strange rhythm. The mansion feels different now— smaller, somehow, with Legacy gone. Not in a bad way, just... more intimate. The remaining seven have formed their own little ecosystem, complete with alliances, inside jokes, and the kind of easy familiarity that comes from shared absurdity.

Thomas has never been part of anything quite like it.

He spends his days going through the motions of the show— group activities, dates, confessionals, the endless performance of being "open to love" for the cameras. But his nights belong to Micro.

It starts simply enough. The night after the elimination, Thomas finds himself on the beach again, unable to sleep, hoping. And Micro is there, sitting on the same driftwood, a different book in his hands.

"You came," Micro says, and there's something in his voice that makes Thomas' heart stutter.

"You're here," Thomas replies, sitting beside him. "Figured it was worth a shot."

That first night, they talk until dawn. About everything and nothing— childhood memories, secret fears, the absurdity of finding something real in such a manufactured environment. Micro tells him about growing up with Saps, about being the quiet one in a family of loud people, about the pressure to always be perfect despite being an absolute mess. Thomas talks about his parents, his complicated relationship with them, the way he learned to use humour as a shield.

"It's not that I don't want to be vulnerable," Thomas finds himself admitting, somewhere around three in the morning. "It's that every time I try, my brain just... defaults. Makes a joke. Changes the subject. It's like a reflex I can't control."

Micro considers this, grey eyes thoughtful in the moonlight. "But you're not doing that now."

"Now is different."

"Why?"

Thomas looks at him— really looks at him—and tells the truth. "Because you don't laugh at the jokes. Not the defensive ones, anyway. You just... wait. Like you know there's something real underneath and you're patient enough to let it come out."

Micro's smile is soft. "Maybe there is. Maybe I am."

They don't kiss. Don't declare anything. But something shifts between them that night— a understanding, a promise. Whatever this is, it's real. It's growing. And they're both choosing to let it.

The next night, Thomas brings snacks stolen from the production kitchen. Micro brings his sketchbook and shows Thomas his illustrations— fantastical creatures, dreamlike landscapes, things that exist only in his imagination.

"These are incredible," Thomas says, genuinely awed. "You're really talented."

Micro shrugs, slightly embarrassed. "It's just a hobby. Something to do when I can't sleep."

"These aren't 'just a hobby.' These are..." Thomas trails off, searching for the right word. "They're beautiful. You're beautiful. I mean—" He stops, face heating. "The art. The art is beautiful."

Micro laughs, that quiet wonderful sound. "Smooth, Thomas. Nice save."

"I'm going to stop talking now."

"Please don't." Micro's hand finds his in the darkness. "I like listening to you. Even when you're embarrassing yourself."

They sit like that, hands intertwined, until the sky starts to lighten.

The third night, they don't talk much at all. They just sit together, watching the waves, comfortable in the silence. Thomas leans his head on Micro's shoulder. Micro rests his cheek against Thomas' hair. It's simple. Perfect.

Neither of them mentions what's happening during the day— the way they catch each other's eyes across rooms, the way Thomas' gaze automatically seeks Micro out whenever they're in the same space, the way Micro's small private smiles have become more frequent, more directed. Everyone notices. Pili is practically vibrating with shipping energy. Gray rolls her eyes but smiles. Kanukei keeps making knowing comments that Thomas pretends to ignore.

But they don't talk about it. Not yet. The nights are theirs, private and unspoken. The days belong to the show.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Thomas looks different in this confessional— softer, more relaxed, with a smile that keeps threatening to break through despite his best efforts to look composed. There are circles under his eyes, but they're the good kind. The staying-up-too-late-talking kind.

"So. The nights." He pauses, runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to say about the nights. We meet on the beach. We talk. We don't talk. We sit there until the sun comes up, and somehow that's better than any date the producers have planned." Another pause, the smile winning. "He showed me his art. His art. He draws these incredible things— fantasy worlds, creatures, landscapes— and he acts like it's no big deal. Like it's just something he does when he can't sleep." He shakes his head. "I'm in so much trouble."

He looks at the camera, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be. "We haven't said anything. Haven't defined anything. But every night, I find myself on that beach, hoping he'll be there. And he always is. That's... that's something, right? That's not nothing."

A beat. "Also, I'm exhausted. Permanently. But it's worth it. It's absolutely worth it."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Micro sits in the confessional chair with that same calm ease, but there's something warmer in his expression now. More present.

"Thomas brings snacks to the beach. Stolen from the production kitchen. He's very proud of this, as if he's pulling one over on the show runners— probably part of his elaborate revenge plan on Snowbird. I haven't told him that Snowbird definitely knows and is just choosing to ignore it." A small smile. "It's endearing. The way he tries to take care of things. Of me. He doesn't even realise he's doing it half the time."

He pauses, grey eyes thoughtful. "I showed him my sketches last night. I don't show those to anyone. They're too personal, too raw. But with him, it felt... natural. Safe. He looked at them like they mattered. Like I mattered." Another pause, softer. "I don't know what this is yet. I don't know where it's going. But I know I want to find out. With him."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The announcement comes at breakfast, delivered by Snowbird with his usual theatrical flair.

"Alright, everyone! Today's activity is a classic: volleyball on the beach!" He grins around the table. "We'll be splitting into two teams. Thomas, as our main catch, you'll be team captain. You get to choose your teammates."

Thomas looks around the table, suddenly aware of seven pairs of eyes on him. Seven. Right. Legacy's gone, but everyone else is still here— Kanukei, Flux, Saps, Gray, Pili, and Micro. All watching him. All waiting.

"Micro," he says, before he can stop himself. The name is out of his mouth before his brain can filter it, which seems to be a recurring theme in his life now. "I pick Micro."

A ripple of amusement travels around the table. Gray kicks him under it—hard enough to sting, but her grin is delighted. Kanukei hides a smile behind his coffee cup, eyes dancing. Pili looks absolutely delighted, practically vibrating with excitement.

 Saps, across the table, raises an eyebrow at his brother. Micro, to his credit, doesn't react except for the faintest hint of pink colouring his cheeks.

Snowbird's grin widens to something almost predatory. "Interesting choice. Micro, you're on Thomas' team. The rest of you will be on the opposing team, captained by..." He scans the table, letting the tension build. His eyes land on Flux. "Flux. You seem like you have competitive energy. You're captain."

Flux chokes on his orange juice. Actually chokes—coughing, sputtering, pounding his chest. "What? Me? I'm not— I don't—there must be a mistake—"

"You're captain," Snowbird repeats firmly, clearly enjoying every second of Flux's suffering. "Congratulations. Activity starts in two hours. Be ready. I expect maximum effort and minimum emotional breakdowns." He pauses, then adds with a wink, "Actually, scratch that. Emotional breakdowns are great for ratings. Have at it."

He sweeps out of the room, leaving chaos in his wake.

Thomas looks at Flux, who is still red-faced and spluttering. He looks at Saps, who is watching Flux with an expression Thomas can't quite read— something intense and focused underneath the usual mischief. Then he looks back at Flux.

This is either going to be amazing or a complete disaster. Probably both.

Two hours later, Thomas stands on the beach, squinting at the volleyball net that has been set up with suspicious precision. The sand is pristine, the lines are straight, and there are cameras positioned at approximately twenty different angles. Of course there are.

His team consists of himself, Micro, and— after some strategic picking— Gray and Pili. The opposing team is Flux, Saps, and Kanukei.

"I can't believe you didn't pick me," Gray says, but she's grinning. "I'm wounded. Truly. My heart may never recover."

"You're also terrifyingly competitive. I've seen you play cards. You tried to flip the table when you lost."

"That was one time, and the rules were unclear."

"You were playing Go Fish."

Gray waves a hand dismissively. "Details." She stretches elaborately, not at all afraid of the cameras. "Also, I get to be on the same team as the adorable almost-couple, which means front-row seats to the pining. I win either way."

Thomas groans. "You're impossible."

"And yet you love me."

"Debatable. Highly debatable."

"Not debatable. It's an established fact." She grins and wanders off to do some truly ridiculous warm-up stretches that seem designed mostly to be distracting.

Pili appears at Thomas' elbow, looking surprisingly athletic in proper volleyball gear— which, on him, still manages to look effortlessly cool. "I played in college. Just so you know. Intramural, but still."

Thomas stares at him. "You're full of surprises."

"I try." Pili glances at Micro, who is doing some very gentle, very calm stretching nearby, then back at Thomas, with a knowing smile. "Also, I'm very invested in this team's success. For reasons."

"Please stop."

"Nope." Pili's smile softens into something almost warm. "For what it's worth? I think you two are good together. Even if you did make a terrible first impression on me."

Thomas winces. "I'm still really sorry about that."

"I know. You've apologised approximately thirty times. I've lost count." Pili pats his arm. "Let it go. I have. Mostly." He heads toward his position on the court, leaving Thomas feeling slightly lighter.

Across the net, the other team is warming up. Kanukei is doing what looks like actual stretches— the kind that suggest he knows what he's doing and has done this before. Flux is bouncing on his heels, looking nervous and determined in equal measure, his eyes darting everywhere except at Saps. And Saps—

Saps is looking at Flux.

Not in the casual, mischievous way he looks at everyone. Something else. Something focused, intense, like he's seeing Flux for the first time. Like he's memorising the way Flux moves, the way the sunlight catches his hair, the way his brow furrows in concentration.

Flux, for his part, is very deliberately not looking at Saps. Which means he's looking everywhere but Saps— at the net, at the sand, at Kanukei, at the cameras, at the horizon. His gaze skitters away every time it gets too close to the person he's actually trying to avoid.

Thomas nudges Micro, who has come to stand beside him. "They haven't talked yet, have they?"

"Not that I've seen." Micro's expression is knowing, fond. "But my brother has been... different lately. Quieter. More thoughtful. He asked me some questions last night that were very telling."

"What kind of questions?"

"The kind that start with 'how do you know if you're in love with someone' and end with 'never mind, don't answer that, I don't want to know.'" Micro shakes his head, but he's smiling. "He's figuring it out. Slowly. Painfully. But figuring it out."

Thomas watches Saps watch Flux, and feels a surge of hope for his friend— for both of them. "They're both idiots."

"Beautiful, tragic idiots." Micro's hand brushes against Thomas', just for a second. Casual, accidental, definitely on purpose. "Sound familiar?"

Thomas turns to find Micro looking at him with those grey eyes, warm and amused and full of something that makes Thomas' heart do flips. "Are we calling ourselves idiots now?"

"If the shoe fits." Micro's smile widens. "Come on. Let's go lose at volleyball."

"Who says we're losing?"

"Have you seen my brother play? He's terrifying when he's competitive. And Flux looks like he's got something to prove— to Saps, to himself, to everyone." Micro shrugs, completely unbothered. "We're losing. But at least we'll lose together."

Thomas grins, warmth spreading through his chest. "That's surprisingly romantic."

"I have my moments." Micro's eyes sparkle. "Also, I've accepted my athletic limitations. They're extensive."

"Same. Very, very same."

The game starts chaotically and somehow gets more chaotic from there.

Saps serves first, and Thomas immediately understands what Micro meant about terrifying. The ball rockets over the net with terrifying speed, curving just enough to make it nearly impossible to return. Gray dives for it, hits the sand hard, and comes up sputtering with a mouthful of grit.

"What was that?!" she yells across the net, sand dripping from her hair.

Saps grins, but it's different from his usual playful smile— sharper, more focused, more intense. "That was me winning. Get used to it."

Flux, standing behind him, looks slightly stunned. Whether it's by the serve or by Saps' sudden intensity, Thomas can't tell. Probably both.

"Okay," Thomas says, clapping his hands. "New plan. Pili, you're our secret weapon. Gray, you're defence. Micro and I will... try not to die."

"A solid strategy," Micro agrees. "Very well thought out."

"Shut up."

"Never— you like me loud."

The next point is a blur of movement. Pili, true to his word, is surprisingly good— quick reflexes, accurate serves, the kind of focus that suggests he's played competitively before. Gray is a terror at the net, blocking everything that comes her way with a ferocity that makes Thomas glad they're on the same team. Micro is... Micro. Not terrible, not amazing, just playing for fun with that small smile on his face that makes Thomas' heart do stupid things every time he glances over.

Thomas himself is a disaster.

He misses the balls. He runs into teammates. He completely whiffs on a serve that somehow goes backward instead of forward. At one point he tries to spike and instead hits himself in the face with the ball— hard enough that his eyes water.

"You okay?" Micro asks, trying very hard not to laugh. His voice is strained with the effort.

"Fine. Great. This is fine." Thomas rubs his cheek, mortified beyond words. "I'm very coordinated usually. This is an anomaly."

"Sure you are."

"I am! This is just... sand. Sand is throwing off my depth perception. And the sun is in my eyes. And the ball is a different colour than I'm used to." He's grasping at straws and he knows it.

Micro's laugh breaks free, warm and wonderful and completely unguarded. "You're adorable when you're making excuses."

Thomas' face heats, and it has nothing to do with the sun or the embarrassment of hitting himself in the face. "I'm not adorable. I'm a grown man."

"You're an adorable grown man." Micro's eyes crinkle. "Those aren't mutually exclusive."

Across the net, the other team is finding their rhythm. Kanukei is steady and reliable, returning everything that comes his way with the calm efficiency of someone who's played for years. Flux has shed his nervous energy and replaced it with pure, focused athleticism— moving with a grace and speed Thomas has never seen from him before. He's good. Really good.

And Saps—

Saps is on fire.

Every serve is deadly accurate. Every return is brutal. He's playing like the game matters more than anything, like every point is personal, like the outcome will determine something fundamental about his existence. But as Thomas watches, he gradually realises it's not about winning at all.

It's about Flux.

Every time Flux makes a good play, Saps is there— grinning, congratulating, his hand finding Flux's shoulder or arm or back. Every time Flux messes up, Saps is there— encouraging, reassuring, finding ways to touch him, to be near him. He's playing with Flux, not against Thomas' team. He's using the game as an excuse to bridge the gap that's existed between them since they arrived.

Flux, for his part, seems to be slowly realising this. His glances toward Saps are getting longer, more frequent. Confusion and hope war on his face with every point. He's not pulling away anymore. He's leaning in, just slightly, testing the waters.

Thomas catches Micro's eye and nods toward the other side of the net. Micro follows his gaze, watches his brother for a long moment, and smiles.

"He's trying," Micro says quietly. "In his own chaotic, overly competitive way."

"He is." Thomas feels absurdly proud of both of them. "Flux is trying too. Look at him— he's not running away anymore."

"He's running toward. Just very, very slowly."

"Progress is progress."

They share a look of perfect understanding— two people on the outside of a slow-motion romantic disaster, united in their hope that it works out.

Then Gray's voice cuts through the moment. "Hey! Idiots! The ball is coming."

Thomas snaps back to attention just in time to completely miss the ball. It hits the sand at his feet with a sad little thump.

Gray stares at him. "You're useless."

"I know."

"At least own it."

"I do own it. Fully. Completely." Thomas picks up the ball, tosses it back. "I'm a useless teammate and I accept that."

Gray shakes her head, but she's smiling. "I can't believe I'm on your side."

"Best decision you ever made."

"Debatable."

"Not debatable. Established fact."

Gray laughs, and Thomas feels something warm settle in his chest. This— this chaos, this ridiculous game, this group of people who've become something like family— it's not what he expected. It's so much more.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Flux is slightly out of breath, hair even more chaotic than usual, but there's something different in his expression—something almost hopeful. He's clutching a water bottle like a lifeline, but his grip is looser than before.

"Saps is..." He trails off, a helpless smile tugging at his mouth. "I don't know what Saps is doing. He keeps touching me. Like, casually, like it's nothing. A hand on my shoulder after a good play. A pat on the back when I mess up. He pulled me up when I fell and just... didn't let go for a few seconds. And every single time, I forget how to breathe. My brain just—" He makes a static noise. "Gone. Completely gone."

He runs a hand through his already-messy hair, making it worse. "Is he doing it on purpose? Does he know what it does to me? Is he—" He stops, takes a breath. Lets it out. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore. But I know I don't want him to stop. Which is terrifying, because wanting things is how you get hurt. But also..." Another pause, softer. "Also, it feels kind of good? To want something this much? Even if it's scary?"

He stares at the water bottle for a moment. "He's looking at me differently today. Like I matter. Like I'm not just his friend, but something more. Or maybe I'm imagining it. Maybe I want it so badly that I'm seeing things that aren't there." He laughs, a quiet, wondering sound. "Thomas says I should talk to him. Thomas is an idiot who hasn't talked to Micro yet—I've seen them making heart eyes at each other all game—so I'm not sure he's qualified to give advice. But also..." He trails off, considering. "Maybe he's right. Maybe I should just say something. Before it's too late."

He looks at the camera, and there's something vulnerable in his eyes. "Or maybe I'll just keep letting him touch me and pretending it doesn't mean anything. That's also an option. A much safer option." A beat. "I'm not going to take the safer option, am I?"

He doesn't wait for an answer. He just shakes his head, still smiling that helpless smile, and leaves.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Saps is glowing with exertion, his hair damp with sweat, but there's something focused underneath the usual mischievous energy. He's not bouncing or grinning—he's still, thoughtful, staring at nothing.

"Flux is really good at volleyball." He says it like he's discovering something. "Did you know that? I didn't know that. We've known each other for years. I've seen him do a lot of things. I've never seen him play volleyball." A pause. "He's really, really good. The way he moves— quick, focused, completely in the zone. I couldn't stop watching him."

He pauses, something soft crossing his face. "He's beautiful when he's focused. Not that he's not beautiful normally, but—" He stops, shakes his head, a self-deprecating laugh escaping. "Beautiful. That's a weird word to use about your best friend. That's a weird word to use about anyone, actually. I don't usually think in 'beautiful.' I think in 'funny' and 'annoying' and 'did you see that thing that just happened.' Not... beautiful."

Another pause, longer this time. "But it's the right word. He's beautiful. When he's focused, when he's laughing, when he's doing that thing where he runs his hand through his hair and makes it even messier. All of it." He looks at the camera, and there's no hiding the vulnerability in his expression. "I've been watching him all game. Can't seem to stop. Every time he moves, I want to watch. Every time he smiles, I want to be the reason. Every time he gets touched by someone else—" He stops, jaw tightening. "I don't like that. At all. Which is stupid, because he's not mine. He's not anything to me except my best friend. But I still don't like it."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "That's... that's something, right? That's not nothing?" A quiet, wondering laugh. "I think I might be in trouble. The good kind. The terrifying kind. The kind that makes you want to say things you can't take back."

He stares at the camera for a long moment, then stands abruptly. "I'm going to go find him. After the game. I'm going to—" He stops, shakes his head. "I don't know what I'm going to do. But I'm going to do something."

He leaves, and there's determination in every line of his body.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The game continues, and the gap widens. Thomas' team is losing badly— the scoreboard is genuinely embarrassing at this point— but he can't bring himself to care. Not when Micro keeps finding excuses to brush against him as they move around the court. Not when they keep catching each other's eyes across the net and smiling like idiots. Not when the whole ridiculous situation feels like the most fun he's had in years.

At one point, they're both reaching for the same ball—a desperate attempt to keep it in play— and their hands collide. Thomas expects Micro to pull away immediately, to pretend it didn't happen. Instead, Micro's fingers curl around his, just for a second, warm and deliberate, before letting go.

"Sorry," Micro says, but he's smiling that small private smile.

"Sure you are." Thomas is grinning so hard his face hurts.

"Completely devastated by the accidental contact." Micro's eyes sparkle. "Might need a moment to recover."

"Take all the time you need."

From the sidelines, Rotation's camera is definitely, absolutely pointed directly at them. Thomas should care. He should be self-conscious, should be performing, should be thinking about how this will look on television.

But he finds that he doesn't care at all.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Gray is covered in sand, her split-dyed hair escaping from its ponytail in approximately seventeen directions, but she's grinning like she's having the time of her life.

"This is ridiculous." She gestures vaguely at the court behind her. "We're losing so badly. Embarrassingly badly. Thomas can't play at all— he literally hit himself in the face with the ball earlier. In the face. Pili's carrying us on his back, and Micro is too busy making heart eyes at Thomas to actually focus on the game." She shakes her head, still grinning. "I should be annoyed. I should be furious. But I'm not. This is the most entertaining thing I've seen all week."

She leans forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Also, the other team is a disaster in a completely different way. Saps keeps touching Flux— like, constantly. A hand on his shoulder, a pat on his back, pulling him up when he falls. And Flux—" She laughs. "Flux looks like he's about to pass out every single time. His face goes all soft and his ears turn red and he forgets how to function. It's beautiful."

She sits back, thoroughly pleased with herself. "I'm getting front-row seats to two different romantic dramas unfolding simultaneously. The slow-burn pining of Thomas and Micro, and the mutual 'are they or aren't they' disaster of Flux and Saps. Best reality show ever, and I'm not even watching it on TV. I'm in it." She pauses, grin widening. "Snowbird owes me so much for this. I'm going to collect."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Pili looks slightly smug, which is a good look on him. His style is even more dishevelled than usual— ripped jeans now covered in sand, shirt clinging with sweat, silver rings catching the light as he gestures.

"I'm the best player on this team, by far." He pauses, smile widening. "Not that I'm keeping track. That would be unsportsmanlike." Another pause. "Okay, I'm definitely keeping track. I like winning. Sue me."

He adjusts his position, clearly enjoying himself. "But honestly? The game is secondary. The real entertainment is watching Thomas and Micro be absolutely, completely, painfully obvious about their feelings for each other." He shakes his head, amused. "They think they're being subtle. They're not. Every time they think no one's looking, they do this thing—this little smile, this little glance, this little moment— that basically screams 'I'm completely gone for you.' It's adorable. It's nauseating. It's the best thing I've seen since I got here."

He leans forward, eyes sparkling. "I called it, by the way. First day. I told Thomas I was invested. I told him I was going to be their biggest supporter. And look at them now." He gestures vaguely toward the court. "Making heart eyes across the net. Holding hands 'accidentally.' Forgetting the rest of us exist. It's perfect."

Another pause, softer. "I'm going to be insufferable about this when they finally figure it out. When they finally stop dancing around each other and actually do something about it. I'm going to say 'I told you so' approximately seventeen thousand times. They're going to hate it." He grins. "I can't wait."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The game ends with Thomas' team losing spectacularly. The final score is something embarrassing— Thomas stopped counting after the first ten points against them.

Saps and Flux are on the other side of the net, both breathing hard, both grinning. They look at each other, and something passes between them— an understanding, maybe, or just the acknowledgement of a moment shared.

"Good game," Saps says, and his voice is soft in a way Thomas has never heard before.

"Good game," Flux replies, and he's not running away.

Thomas watches them, hope blooming in his chest. Then Micro's hand finds his, just for a moment, and he forgets about everyone else.

"Walk with me?" Micro asks quietly. "Before the cameras descend?"

Thomas nods, and they slip away from the group, down the beach toward their usual spot. The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. It's beautiful. Not as beautiful as the person beside him, but close.

They sit on the driftwood, close enough to touch but not quite touching. The silence is comfortable, familiar.

"Today was fun," Micro says eventually.

"Was it? We lost."

"We lost together." Micro's smile is soft. "That's the important part."

Thomas looks at him— really looks at him— and feels the words building in his chest. I like you. I want this. I want you. But something holds him back. Not fear, exactly. Just... timing. They're not there yet. Not quite.

"Same time tonight?" he asks instead.

Micro's eyes crinkle. "Same time tonight."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

That night, they meet on the beach as promised. Thomas brings snacks— stolen from the production kitchen, as always. Micro brings a blanket, because the nights are getting cooler.

They spread the blanket on the sand and lie side by side, looking up at the stars. The sky is clear, millions of pinpricks of light scattered across the darkness.

"I used to do this as a kid," Micro says quietly. "Lie in the backyard and stare at the stars. My parents thought it was weird."

"It's not weird. It's peaceful."

"Yeah." Micro turns his head to look at Thomas. "It is."

They're close enough that Thomas can see the reflection of starlight in Micro's eyes. Close enough to count his eyelashes. Close enough to—

"I want to tell you something," Thomas says, before he can lose his nerve. "Something real."

Micro waits. Patient. Present.

"I've spent my whole life making jokes. Deflecting. Keeping people at arm's length because it's safer that way." Thomas' voice is quiet, steady. "But with you, I don't want to do that. I don't want to be safe. I want to be real."

Micro reaches out, takes his hand. "Me too."

"I don't know what happens next. I don't know how this works with cameras and producers and all the rest of it. But I know I want to find out. With you."

Micro squeezes his hand. "That's all I needed to hear."

They lie there, hands intertwined, watching the stars. No declarations. No labels. Just the quiet certainty of something growing between them.

It's enough. For now, it's more than enough.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The next morning brings another elimination.

Thomas stands in the main hall, holding a single rose, looking at the six people before him. Kanukei, who's become a genuine friend. Gray, his partner in crime. Pili, his newest ally and biggest support. Flux, his best friend. Saps, his friend and maybe-soon-to-be more. And Micro.

Micro, who's looking at him with those grey eyes, patient and trusting.

Thomas takes a breath.

"Kanukei." He steps forward, meets his friend's eyes. "You're one of the most grounded people here. You've kept me sane more times than I can count. And I genuinely hope we stay friends after this." He pauses. "But I don't think we're romantic matches. So I'm not giving you this rose."

Kanukei nods, a sad smile on his face. "I figured. It's okay, Thomas. Really." He steps forward, pulls Thomas into a hug. "Take care of yourself. And take care of—" He glances at Micro, then back. "You know. Take care of things."

Thomas hugs back. "I will."

Kanukei steps back, waves to the group, and heads out with the same easy grace he's had since day one.

Thomas turns to Gray.

"Gray." He can't help the smile that crosses his face. "My partner in crime. The only person here who gets my sense of humour completely." He pauses. "You're also not getting this rose."

Gray giggles. "Obviously. We'd kill each other within a week."

"Probably. But I'm still going to miss you."

"Miss you too, idiot." She steps forward, pulls him into a brief, fierce hug. "Keep me updated on the Micro situation. I'm invested."

"Always."

Gray pulls back, grins at the group, and heads out with her head held high. No drama, no tears— just Gray, being Gray.

Thomas looks at the remaining four. Pili, Flux, Saps, and Micro.

Four people he genuinely cares about. Four people he wants to keep around.

He doesn't have to choose between them tonight. The rose in his hand is for show— everyone left is safe, at least for now. But the weight of it feels significant anyway.

"I'm not giving this to anyone tonight," he says quietly. "Because everyone here matters to me. Everyone here I want to keep getting to know." His eyes find Micro's, just for a second. "So let's just... keep going. Together."

Pili smiles. Flux looks relieved. Saps nods, serious for once.

And Micro—

Micro smiles, small and private, just for Thomas.

Whatever happens next, they'll figure it out. Together.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Kanukei sits in what appears to be an airport lounge, already moved on from the mansion. He looks comfortable, at peace, a cup of coffee in hand.

"I'm not surprised I got eliminated. Thomas and I had a great connection— as friends. That's all it was ever going to be." He shrugs, smiling. "I'm okay with that. I came here hoping to make friends, and I did. Thomas, Legacy, Gray, Pili, even Flux and Saps— they're good people. I'll keep in touch with them."

He pauses, grin widening. "Also, I got front-row seats to the Thomas-Micro slow-burn romance. That alone was worth the trip. Those two are going to be insufferably cute when they finally figure it out. I can't wait to watch from afar."

He takes a sip of coffee, eyes sparkling. "Gray's going to give him hell about it for years. I'm here for that too."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Gray is also in an airport lounge, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the airport experience but somehow managing to make it look stylish. Her split-coloured hair is pulled back, and she's holding a snack she definitely stole from somewhere.

"Eliminated. Finally. Now I can go home and sleep in my own bed and not have to deal with cameras in my face every time I want to eat breakfast." She pauses, something softer flickering across her face. "I'm going to miss that idiot, though. Thomas. He's annoying and he annoys me constantly and I fall for it every single time—" She catches herself, eyes narrowing. "Okay, I don't fall for it. I choose to engage. There's a difference."

A beat. "He's also one of the best friends I've made in years. Genuinely. He's annoying and terrible and I love him. In a sibling way. A very aggressive, 'I-will-murder-anyone-who-hurts-you' type of way."

She looks directly at the camera, expression dead serious. "If you're watching this, Thomas— which you definitely will be, because you're nosy and you're going to want to see what everyone said about you— don't screw things up with Micro. He's good for you. He makes you stop shielding yourself for five minutes and actually feel things. That's important."

She leans closer to the camera. "And if you do screw it up? I will find out. And I will come back. And I will personally kick your ass. Consider this a formal warning."

She leans back, the serious expression breaking into a grin. "Also, send me updates constantly. I'm not joking about being invested. Text me. Call me. Carrier pigeon. I don't care. I need to know everything."

She waves at the camera, already standing. "Okay, I'm done. I have a flight to catch and approximately seventeen snacks to acquire before boarding. Bye-bye TV!"

She leaves, and the confessional ends.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The days after the second elimination blur together in a haze of manufactured activities and genuine moments. Thomas goes through the motions— group dates, confessionals, the endless performance of being "open to love"— but his mind is always elsewhere. Always on the beach. Always on Micro.

The group activities become background noise. The volleyball game where he'd watched Flux and Saps finally start to figure things out. The "romantic" hike where Pili had pulled him aside to whisper, "You're doing that thing again. The thing where you stare off into the distance with a stupid soft expression. It's Micro, isn't it?" The cooking class where Saps had deliberately ruined his dish and then blamed him for it, just to see him squirm.

Through all of it, Micro is there. A quiet presence at the edge of every group shot, every group activity. Their eyes meet across rooms. Their hands brush in hallways. Small smiles exchanged when no one else is looking.

And every night, they meet on the beach.

It's become as natural as breathing now. Thomas finishes whatever manufactured activity the producers have planned, makes it through dinner and the obligatory socialising that follows, and then, when the cameras finally go dark, he finds himself on that path to the shore. And Micro is always there. Waiting. A blanket spread on the sand, that small private smile on his face.

Thomas brings snacks— stolen from the production kitchen, wrapped in napkins, smuggled in his pockets like a teenager sneaking out. Micro brings the blanket and sometimes his sketchbook, and they talk until the sky starts to lighten.

About everything. About nothing.

Some nights they talk for hours. Other nights they sit in comfortable silence, watching the waves, Micro's head on Thomas' shoulder, Thomas' arm around him. Those silences feel just as meaningful as the conversations. Just as intimate.

But Thomas hasn't said the words.

Every night, he gets close. Every night, he feels them building in his chest— I love you, I want you, this is real— and every night, something holds him back.

It's not fear of Micro's response. He's pretty sure he knows what that would be. The way Micro looks at him, the way he leans into Thomas' touch, the way he says "same time tomorrow?" like it's the most important question in the world— all of it points to the same conclusion.

It's the cameras.

The knowledge that anything he says, anything he does, could end up on television. Could be edited, packaged, sold. Their most private moments turned into content for millions of strangers to consume and critique. The thought makes his stomach turn.

He doesn't want that. He wants this— whatever this is—to be theirs. Just theirs. Not a storyline, not a product, not something to be analysed by people who don't know them and never will.

But how do you say that to someone? How do you explain that you're holding back not because you don't feel it, but because you feel it too much to share?

So instead, he steals snacks and meets Micro on the beach and talks about everything except the one thing that matters most. And Micro, patient and understanding, never pushes. Never asks for more than Thomas is ready to give.

But sometimes, in the quiet moments between words, Thomas catches Micro looking at him with an expression that says I know. I'm waiting. Take your time.

It makes Thomas want to be brave. It makes him want to throw caution to the wind and just say it, cameras be damned.

But he doesn't. Not yet.

One night, about a week after the second elimination, they're lying on the blanket, staring up at the stars. Micro's hand is in Thomas', their fingers loosely intertwined. The waves provide a gentle rhythm in the background.

"Can I ask you something?" Micro says quietly.

"Sure."

"What are you scared of?"

Thomas turns his head to look at him. Micro is already looking back, those grey eyes soft in the moonlight.

"Besides heights, public speaking, and the possibility that I accidentally signed away my firstborn in the show's contract?"

Micro smiles. "Besides those."

Thomas considers the question. Really considers it. "I'm scared of... wasting time. Of getting to the end of my life and realising I spent it all hiding." He pauses. "You?"

"Same." Micro squeezes his hand. "Also, I'm scared of saying something important in the wrong moment. Or the wrong place. Or with cameras watching."

Thomas' heart stutters. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Micro's voice is barely above a whisper. "I want things to be... real. Not performed. Not packaged. Just... ours."

Thomas feels something loosen in his chest. "Me too."

They lie there for a long moment, the understanding settling between them like a promise.

"Then we wait," Micro says. "Until we can say it right. However long that takes."

Thomas turns, a soft smile on his face. "Thank you. For understanding."

Micro smiles against his skin. "Always."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Thomas sits in the confessional chair, looking more agitated than usual. He's running his hands through his hair constantly, a tell that means he's spiralling.

"I don't know what to do." He says it flatly, staring at the camera. "I know what I feel. I'm pretty sure I know what he feels. But every time I try to say something, I freeze. Because it's not just us— it's never just us. It's cameras and producers and millions of people who are going to watch this and have opinions and I don't want that. I don't want our first 'I love you' to be a sound bite."

He pauses, frustration evident. "How do you say something real when you're never really alone? How do you trust that the moment is yours when there's always someone watching?" Another pause, softer. "I need to figure this out. I need to—" He stops, shakes his head. "I don't know what I need. I just know I can't keep going like this."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

That night, Thomas can't sleep.

He lies in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, running through every conversation he's had with Micro in his head. The beach at 3 AM, wrapped in blankets and starlight. The balloon at sunset, hands intertwined, the world spread out beneath them. The stolen moments between takes— quick glances, soft smiles, the brush of fingers when no one was looking. All of it pointing toward the same conclusion: this is real. This matters. This is worth fighting for.

But how do you fight for something when you're not sure the battlefield is yours?

How do you say "I love you" when you know it might end up as a sound bite? When your most private moment could be edited, packaged, and sold to millions? When the person you're falling for exists partly in the real world and partly on a screen, and you don't know which version will be left when the cameras stop rolling?

Thomas has spent his whole life making jokes to avoid moments like this. Deflecting. Hiding. Keeping people at arm's length because it's safer, easier, less terrifying. But Micro makes him want to be unsafe. Makes him want to stop hiding. Makes him want to be real in a way he's never been with anyone.

And that's exactly why he's so terrified.

So at 2 AM, he makes a decision.

He throws off the covers, pulls on jeans and a hoodie, and heads out into the hallway. The mansion is quiet at this hour— no producers, no contestants, no cameras rolling. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the distant sound of the ocean.

Thomas has never been to the production wing before. Contestants aren't really supposed to go there— it's off-limits, full of sensitive equipment and private footage and the inner workings of the machine that's been controlling their lives for weeks. But he knows roughly where it is. And he knows who he'll find there at this hour.

Snowbird and Rotation are night owls by necessity. Editing happens when the contestants are asleep, when the day's footage can be reviewed and shaped and moulded into something resembling coherent television. Thomas has heard them talk about it— the endless hours in the editing bay, the coffee-fuelled debates about which shots to use, the strange camaraderie of creating something from chaos.

He follows the dim corridor lights until he reaches a door marked "PRODUCTION ONLY - NO CONTESTANTS." The door is slightly ajar, warm light spilling out along with the murmur of voices.

Thomas pushes it open.

The room inside is exactly what he expected and nothing like what he expected at the same time. It's cluttered— monitors covering every available surface, each showing different angles of the mansion. Empty coffee cups form small constellations on every flat surface. Cables snake across the floor like technological vines. And in the middle of it all, surrounded by chaos, sit Snowbird and Rotation, deep in the throes of late-night editing.

Snowbird looks up first. His eyebrows rise almost to his hairline.

"Thomas." He says it flatly, not quite a question. "This is a surprise. And by 'surprise,' I mean 'definitely against the rules.' Like, multiple rules. I'm pretty sure you just broke at least five production guidelines by standing in that doorway."

"I don't care about the rules." Thomas steps inside, letting the door click shut behind him. "I need to talk to you. Both of you. As friends. Not as producers. As friends."

Rotation glances at Snowbird, then back at Thomas. His expression is unreadable, but he sets down the footage he was reviewing. "About?"

Thomas opens his mouth. Closes it. Runs a hand through his already-messy hair.

"About Micro." The name feels heavy, important. "About the cameras. About how I'm supposed to—" He stops, frustration evident. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to tell him how I feel without it becoming content. Without it being something you guys can use. Without my most private moment ending up on television for millions of people to analyse."

Snowbird's expression shifts. The producer mask—the one he wears constantly, the one that says "I'm always working, always scheming, always thinking about the show"—slips away, revealing something more genuine underneath. He sets down his clipboard, gestures to a chair.

"Sit down. Talk to us."

Thomas sits. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. The words are there, tangled up in his chest, but getting them out feels like pulling teeth.

"I've never felt this way about anyone." The admission comes out quiet, raw. "Ever. And I've spent my whole life making jokes, deflecting, keeping people at arm's length because it's safer. Because if you don't let anyone in, they can't hurt you. That's been my whole strategy." He laughs, a broken sound. "Great strategy, right? Really working out for me."

Snowbird and Rotation are quiet, listening.

"But with him, I don't want to be safe." Thomas' voice gains strength. "I want to be real. I want to stop hiding. I want to actually let someone in for the first time in my life. And that's terrifying, but it's also the best thing I've ever felt." He looks at them, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be. "But every time I try to say something— every time I get close— I freeze. Because I know you're watching. I know this could end up on television. And I don't want our first 'I love you' to be a product. I don't want it to be content. I want it to be ours. Just ours."

The room is silent for a long moment. The monitors flicker silently, showing empty hallways and dark rooms. Somewhere in the distance, the ocean hums its endless song.

Snowbird is the first to speak. When he does, his voice is softer than Thomas has ever heard it.

"Thomas. Look at me."

Thomas looks.

"You're my friend." Snowbird says it simply, without any of his usual theatrical flair. "Have been for years. Through terrible life decisions and questionable fashion choices and all of it. And yeah, I'm also a producer. And yeah, I need this show to be good— for my career, for the network, for all of it. But I need you to be okay more than I need good television. Do you understand that?"

Thomas swallows. "I... yeah. I think so."

"Good." Snowbird leans forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "So here's the thing. The cameras in the contestant hallways? They go offline at midnight every night. For 'maintenance.'" He makes aggressive air quotes. "And they don't come back online until 6 AM. Funny how that works, isn't it? Almost like someone planned it."

Thomas stares at him. "You're saying—"

"I'm saying that if you wanted to have a private conversation in your room, or outside your room, or anywhere in the contestant wing between midnight and 6 AM, no one would know. No cameras. No microphones. No producers watching." Snowbird shrugs, but there's warmth in his eyes. "Hypothetically, of course. I'm not actually telling you to do anything. That would be against the rules."

Rotation chimes in, his usual gruffness softened by something that might be affection. "Also, hypothetically, if someone were to, say, sneak into another contestant's room during those hours, we might not have footage of that either. It's a real gap in our coverage. Very frustrating for production." He pauses. "We've mentioned it in meetings. Multiple times. Nothing we can do about it."

Thomas looks between them, something swelling in his chest. Gratitude. Hope. The overwhelming realisation that his friends— because that's what they are, underneath all the producer bullshit and the show runner responsibilities— are on his side. Have always been on his side.

"Why?" he asks quietly. "Why would you do this? You could use this. This exact conversation, even. Me coming to you, being vulnerable, asking for help— that would make great TV. You could film it, edit it, put it in the finale. People would eat it up."

Snowbird's smile is genuine. Open. Nothing like his usual producer grin.

"Because some things are more important than TV." He says it simply, like it's obvious. "And you, Thomas, are one of those things. You're my friend. You've been my friend for years. And I've watched you hide from every genuine connection that's ever come your way. I've watched you make jokes to avoid being real. And now, finally, there's someone who makes you want to stop hiding." He pauses. "I'm not going to let cameras get in the way of that."

Rotation nods. "What he said. Minus the emotional stuff. Too many feelings for this hour."

Thomas laughs— unexpected, genuine, warm. "You're both impossible."

"And yet you love us." Snowbird grins. "Now get out of here. It's almost midnight. Go find your guy. Use your words. Tell him how you feel. And for god's sake, try not to be too embarrassing about it— we still have to film the finale, and I need you to be able to look at a camera without crying."

Thomas stands, something lighter in his chest than he's felt in days. Weeks, maybe. Years.

At the door, he pauses, looking back.

"Thank you." His voice is quiet, but it's full of everything he can't say. "Really. For everything. For being my friends. For... this."

Snowbird waves him off. "Go. Before I change my mind and decide to use this footage after all."

Rotation snorts. "You're not going to use it."

"I might."

"You won't."

"...I won't. But he doesn't need to know that." Snowbird grins at Thomas. "Seriously, go. We'll talk later. Bring Micro to the finale after-party. We're all going to have opinions."

Thomas grins back and slips out the door, heart pounding with something that might be hope.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The walk back to the contestant wing feels both too long and not long enough. Thomas' mind is racing, trying to find the right words, the right approach, the right way to say everything he's been holding back for weeks.

He rounds the corner to his hallway and stops dead.

Micro is standing outside his door.

He's in sleep clothes— soft pants and a t-shirt, his pale hair slightly mussed— and he's leaning against the wall like he's been there for a while. When he sees Thomas, something in his expression shifts. Relief. Hope. The same vulnerability Thomas has been feeling.

"Hey," Micro says quietly.

"Hey yourself." Thomas approaches slowly, heart hammering. "What are you doing here?"

"Couldn't sleep. Thought you might be in the same boat." Micro's grey eyes are steady on his. "Also, I saw you go into the production wing. Wanted to make sure you were okay."

Thomas stops in front of him, close enough to touch. "I'm fine. Better than fine, actually." He takes a breath. "Can we talk? Inside? Privately?"

Micro's eyes search his face for a moment, then soften. "Yeah. Yeah, we can talk."

Thomas unlocks his door, pushes it open, and gestures Micro inside. The door clicks shut behind them, and suddenly they're alone— truly alone— for the first time since this whole thing started.

The room is dark except for moonlight through the balcony doors. It paints everything in silver and shadow, casting Micro in an ethereal glow that makes him look even more beautiful than usual.

Thomas turns to face him.

"I need to say something," he starts. "And I need you to know that this is just for you. Not for the cameras, not for the show, not for anyone else. Just you."

Micro nods, waiting. Patient. Present.

"I love you." The words come out soft, sure, without hesitation. "I've loved you since the beach. Since you laughed at my stucco joke. Since you looked at me like I was actually interesting instead of just another person to perform for. I love your quiet and your humour and the way you see through my defences without trying to tear them down. I love the way you make me want to be real, even when being real is terrifying."

He steps closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Micro's body.

"I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other for weeks. But I also know that I've never felt this way about anyone. Never wanted to be around someone this much. Never wanted to stop hiding and just... be." He reaches up, slowly, giving Micro time to pull away. Micro doesn't. Thomas' hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. "So that's it. That's the truth. I love you, Micro. All of you."

For a long moment, Micro doesn't respond. He just looks at Thomas with those grey eyes, bright and soft and full of everything Thomas has been hoping to see.

Then he speaks.

"You idiot." His voice is thick with emotion. "You complete and utter idiot. I've been waiting weeks for you to say that." He reaches up, covers Thomas' hand with his own. "I love you too. I love your sarcasm and your vulnerability and the way you pretend to be cynical when you're actually one of the most hopeful people I've ever met. I love the way you make jokes to protect yourself, and the way you let me see past them. I love you, Thomas. All of you."

Thomas' breath catches. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Micro smiles, that small private smile that's only for Thomas. "I've known since the balloon. Maybe before. Maybe since the beach. You—" He laughs, soft and wondering. "You wrecked me, Thomas. Completely wrecked me. And I don't want to be put back together."

Thomas leans in. Micro meets him halfway.

The first kiss is soft.

It's barely there, really— just a brush of lips, a whisper of contact that could almost be accidental if it weren't so deliberate. Thomas feels it everywhere. From the point where their mouths meet, warmth radiates outward like ripples in still water, spreading through his chest, his stomach, his fingertips, down to his toes. It's gentle. Tentative. A question asked with no words: Is this real? Do you feel it too?

And Micro answers.

He tilts his head, angles himself closer, presses back with equal softness. His lips are warm— warmer than Thomas expected— and impossibly soft. They move against Thomas' like they've done this a thousand times before, like they were always meant to. Like every awkward conversation, every stolen glance, every night on the beach was leading here.

Thomas' eyes flutter closed. His hands, which have been frozen at his sides, rise on instinct— one to Micro's waist, one to the side of his neck, fingers brushing against that pale hair. Every nerve ending in his body is suddenly awake, hyper-aware, focused entirely on this moment. The sound of their breathing, soft and quick. The scent of Micro— clean soap and something woodsy, familiar now, like home. The feeling of his heartbeat, fast and strong, matching Thomas' own.

Years of loneliness. Years of hiding behind jokes and deflections, keeping everyone at arm's length because it was safer that way. Years of convincing himself he was fine alone, that he didn't need this, didn't want it.

All of it melts away in a single point of contact.

They break apart slowly, reluctantly, foreheads resting together. Their breath mingles in the small space between them, warm and shared. Thomas can feel Micro's eyelashes brush against his skin when he blinks.

"Wow," Thomas whispers. It's not a word, really— just a sound. The only sound his brain can manage.

Micro's laugh is soft, warm against his lips. "Wow."

And then they're kissing again.

This time it's different. Deeper. Hungrier. All that pent-up tension, all those weeks of wanting and waiting and almost-saying, pours into it. Thomas' hands slide fully into Micro's hair— that impossibly soft pale hair, like silk slipping through his fingers— and Micro's arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer until there's no space left between them. Thomas can feel every line of Micro's body pressed against his, can feel the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, can feel the way he sighs into the kiss like he's been holding his breath for years.

There's no distance now. No barriers. No walls. Just warmth and want and the overwhelming rightness of finally, finally being here.

Micro's mouth trails from his lips to his jaw, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the sharp line of it. Thomas' head falls back, a sound escaping him— something between a gasp and a something that he would definitely consider embarrassing if he had the brain capacity to be embarrassed right now. But Micro seems to take it as encouragement, because his lips find Thomas' neck, the sensitive spot just below his ear, and Thomas' knees actually go weak.

"You have no idea," Micro murmurs against his skin, voice rough in a way Thomas has never heard before, "how long I've wanted to do this."

"Same." Thomas' voice comes out strangled, breathless. "Definitely same. Every night on the beach. Every time you looked at me. Every—" He breaks off as Micro finds another sensitive spot. "God."

Micro laughs against his neck, the vibration sending shivers down Thomas' spine. "Eloquent. A man of many words."

"Oh, shut up."

"Make me."

And Thomas does. He pulls Micro back up, captures his mouth again, pours everything he has into it. Micro makes a sound— a small, desperate sound— and Thomas feels it in his chest like fireworks.

They stumble toward the bed, not breaking contact, not willing to let go even for a second. Thomas' legs hit the edge and they tumble down together in a tangle of limbs and laughter. The laughter is important, Thomas thinks vaguely. It's not just passion—it's joy. Pure, unfiltered joy at finally being here, finally having this.

Micro ends up half on top of him, propped up on his elbows, looking down at Thomas with those grey eyes that have haunted his dreams for weeks. His hair is thoroughly dishevelled now, falling across his forehead in pale waves. His lips are slightly swollen, slightly red. His cheeks are flushed. He's the most beautiful thing Thomas has ever seen.

"I love you," Thomas says.

The words just... come out. No filter, no deflection, no joke to soften them. They hang in the air between them, naked and true.

Micro's eyes go bright—bright with something that looks almost like tears, but happy tears, the good kind. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Thomas reaches up, cups his face, thumb tracing over his cheekbone. "I know it's fast. I know we haven't known each other long. But I've never felt this way about anyone. Never wanted to just be with someone this much. Never wanted to stop hiding and just... be real. You make me want to be real, Micro. You make me feel like being real is enough."

Micro's breath shudders out of him. He leans down, presses his forehead to Thomas', closes his eyes. "I love you too." The words are quiet, fierce, absolutely certain. "I've loved you since the beach. Since you talked about stucco like it was the most important observation in the world. Since you looked at me like I was worth seeing."

"I love you."

"I love you."

"I love you more."

"Impossible."

They're both laughing now, giddy and overwhelmed and so full of feeling it's spilling out of them in every direction. Thomas pulls Micro down into another kiss— slower this time, sweeter, full of promises.

They kiss for what feels like hours. Time loses meaning. There's only this: the shape of Micro's smile against his mouth, the way it curves up whenever Thomas does something he likes. The sound of his quiet laughs, muffled against Thomas' lips. The way he sighs when Thomas finds a particularly good spot, the way his breath hitches, the way he says Thomas' name like it's something precious.

Every kiss is a confession. Every touch is a promise. Thomas learns the map of Micro's body— the places that make him shiver, the places that make him laugh, the places that make him go quiet and still with want. And Micro learns him just the same, patient and curious, exploring like they have all the time in the world.

At some point, they pause, just looking at each other in the moonlight. The room is silver and shadow, and Micro looks ethereal—pale hair glowing, grey eyes soft and warm, a small satisfied smile on his perfect mouth.

"Hey," Micro whispers.

"Hey yourself."

"This is real, right?" There's a vulnerability in his voice that makes Thomas' heart ache. "I'm not dreaming?"

Thomas reaches up, brushes the hair back from his forehead, lets his hand rest there. "Does this feel like a dream?"

Micro considers. "No. Dreams aren't this detailed. I wouldn't remember the way you're looking at me right now."

"And how's that?"

"Like I'm something precious." Micro's voice is soft. "Like you can't believe I'm real."

Thomas pulls him down, kisses him slow and deep. When they break apart, he says, "That's because I can't. You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen. You're smart and funny and you actually see me. Of course I can't believe you're real."

Micro's smile is radiant. "You're such an idiot."

"Your idiot."

"Mine." The word is fierce, possessive, wonderful. "Definitely mine."

They settle into each other, shifting until they're comfortable— Micro's head on Thomas' chest, Thomas' arm wrapped around him, legs tangled together under the sheets. Micro's hand rests over Thomas' heart, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his shirt.

"I should probably go back to my room," Micro murmurs. His voice is drowsy, content, not going anywhere. "Before someone notices."

"Stay." The word is out before Thomas can think about it. "Just for tonight. Please."

Micro tilts his head up, meets his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

Micro's smile could light up the whole room. "Okay. I'll stay."

They lie there in comfortable silence, watching the moonlight shift across the ceiling. Thomas' heart is so full it feels like it might burst.

"I love you," he says again. He can't help it. The words just keep coming, and he doesn't want to stop them. "I know I keep saying it. I just— I've never had anyone to say it to before. Not like this."

Micro presses a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Keep saying it. I'll never get tired of hearing it."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"I love you more."

"Impossible."

"Try me."

They're both laughing now, giddy with it. Thomas can feel Micro's laughter vibrating against his side, can feel his own shaking through his chest. It's ridiculous. It's wonderful. It's everything.

Eventually, the laughter fades into comfortable silence. Micro's breathing evens out, slow and steady, and Thomas realises he's fallen asleep. Right there, on his chest, completely at peace. His hand is still curled over Thomas' heart. His face is relaxed, soft, younger in sleep. The tension that's always lurking in his shoulders is gone.

Thomas watches him for a long moment, memorising every detail. The sweep of pale lashes against his cheeks. The slight part of his lips. The way his hair falls across his forehead, silver in the moonlight. The steady rise and fall of his breathing.

This is real. This is his. This beautiful, wonderful person chose him.

"I love you," Thomas whispers one more time, just for himself. Just because he can. Just because it's true.

He closes his eyes and lets sleep take him, more content than he's been in years.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Morning comes gently, sunlight creeping through the balcony doors. Thomas wakes slowly, awareness returning in pieces. The warmth beside him. The weight on his chest. The soft sound of breathing.

He opens his eyes and finds Micro watching him, grey eyes soft and warm.

"Hey," Micro whispers.

"Hi." Thomas' voice is rough with sleep, but he's smiling. "I could get used to waking up to this view. How long have you been awake?"

"A while. Just... watching you sleep." Micro's cheeks flush slightly. "That's not creepy, is it?"

"It's a little creepy." Thomas pulls him closer, kissing his forehead. "But I love it."

Micro laughs, burying his face against Thomas' neck. "You're ridiculous."

"Your ridiculous."

"Mine." The word is muffled, but Thomas hears it. Hears it and holds it close.

They lie there for a while longer, just being. No cameras, no producers, no performance. Just two people who found each other in the most unlikely place, holding on.

Eventually, Thomas' phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. Then a third time.

He reaches for it, squinting at the screen. Three texts, all from Snowbird.

Text one: I know Micro stayed over. Before you panic:

Text two: The cameras were off. You're fine. Also, finally.

Text three: There's a note under your door. Read it. Then come to breakfast. We have dates to film.

Thomas laughs, showing the phone to Micro. "He knows. Of course he knows."

Micro reads the texts, smiling. "Your producer is a menace."

"Our producer. And yeah, he is." Thomas kisses him quickly. "Stay here. Let me get the note."

He slips out of bed, crosses to the door, and finds a single sheet of paper on the floor. Handwritten, in Snowbird's chaotic scrawl.

Thomas,

I'm not going to say I told you so, but I totally told you so.

Seriously though— I'm happy for you. Both of you. You deserve this.

Now don't screw it up. Talk to each other. Be honest. And for god's sake, try to focus during today's dates. We still have a show to film.

— Snowbird

P.S. Rotation says congrats but also next time give him a heads-up so he can make sure the hallway cameras stay off longer. Apparently "romantic sleepovers" are "easier to log when we know about them in advance."

Thomas reads it twice, grinning. Then he hands it to Micro, who reads it and grins too.

"He's subtle," Micro says.

"He's a menace. But he's our menace." Thomas sits back on the bed. "So. Today. Last dates before the finale."

Micro nods, expression sobering slightly. "How are we going to do this? Pretend to be interested in other people when we've just—" He gestures between them. "When we've just done this?"

Thomas considers. "We pretend. We go through the motions. We give them good footage." He takes Micro's hand. "And then, at the finale, I give you the rose and we stop pretending."

Micro squeezes his hand. "That sounds like a plan."

"A terrible plan?"

"The best kind." Micro leans in, kisses him softly. "Now go get ready. We have a show to do."

Thomas kisses him back, then pulls away reluctantly. "Same time tonight?"

"Same time tonight." Micro smiles. "I love you."

Thomas' heart does that thing— that stupid, wonderful thing. "I love you too."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Snowbird is in the production booth, surrounded by monitors, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

"So. Thomas and Micro finally figured it out. Took them long enough." He leans back, grinning. "I left them a very subtle note this morning. Very supportive. Very producer-appropriate."

He pauses, expression softening. "I'm happy for them. Genuinely. Thomas deserves this— someone who sees him, who loves him, who makes him want to stop hiding. And Micro is good for him. Solid. Patient. The kind of person who'll stick around."

Another pause, the grin returning. "That said, I'm absolutely going to use this for the finale. Not the private stuff— I'm not a monster— but the public stuff? The longing glances, the almost-confessions, the whole slow-burn romance? Gold. Pure gold. The audience is going to lose their minds."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Rotation is also in the production booth, looking slightly less pleased but still amused.

"I've been informed that there was a 'romantic sleepover' last night that I was not notified about in advance. This is unacceptable. I need to know these things so I can plan my camera coverage accordingly." He pauses, a small smile breaking through. "That said, good for them. Thomas has been insufferable about this for weeks. It's about time something happened."

He glances off-camera, then back. "Also, I've already started planning the highlight reel for their wedding. Snowbird thinks I'm joking. I'm not. This is going in the speech. Still can't believe we both lost the bet though— I guess Thomas is just a lot more stupid than we gave him credit for."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The last dates are a blur of manufactured romance and genuine moments.

Thomas approaches each one with a new perspective—not as someone looking for love, but as someone who's already found it. It makes everything easier. Less pressure. More room for actual connection. The desperation is gone, replaced by something softer. He's not searching anymore. He's just... being. And it's the most freeing thing he's felt in years.

Pili's date is first— a wine tasting in the vineyard, because apparently the producers have given up on creativity. Thomas arrives to find Pili already seated at a small table surrounded by rolling hills and carefully placed cameras. He's dressed in his usual alt style— ripped jeans, a band shirt under an open flannel, silver rings catching the afternoon light— and he looks more relaxed than Thomas has ever seen him.

"Hey," Thomas says, sitting down across from him. "Ready to drink expensive wine and pretend we know what we're talking about?"

Pili's mouth twitches. "I actually know quite a bit about wine. My uncle owns a vineyard."

"Of course you do." Thomas groans. "Now I'm going to look like even more of an amateur."

"You already look like an amateur. That ship has sailed." Pili pours them both glasses, his expression shifting into something knowing. "So. You and Micro."

Thomas, who had been mid-sip, nearly chokes. Wine goes everywhere. He spends a solid ten seconds coughing while Pili watches with barely concealed amusement.

"I'm sorry," Thomas manages, voice hoarse. "What?"

"Please." Pili's smile is the most insufferable thing Thomas has ever seen. "It's obvious to everyone. The way you look at him across rooms. The way he looks at you when you're not paying attention. The way you've both been glowing for the past few days. You're not subtle."

Thomas wipes his mouth with a napkin, face heating. "We haven't even— I mean, we're not— it's complicated."

"Is it?" Pili tilts his head. "Two people like each other. They spend time together. They make heart eyes at each other constantly. Sounds pretty straightforward to me."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is." Pili's voice softens, the teasing edge fading. "But I'm happy for you. Genuinely. You deserve something real, Thomas. And he looks at you like you're the only person in the room. That's not nothing."

Thomas feels warmth spread through his chest. "Thanks, Pili. That means a lot coming from you, considering I started this whole thing by being a complete idiot."

"You did." Pili's grin returns. "You were terrible. Absolutely terrible. I've never been more offended by a first impression in my life."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"You should be." Pili takes a sip of wine, eyes sparkling. "But you made up for it. Eventually. After much groveling."

"I don't grovel."

"You absolutely grovel. It was very satisfying to watch."

Thomas laughs, the sound genuine and warm. "You're impossible."

Pili chuckles and sets down his glass. "Seriously though— he's good for you. You're more relaxed around him. More yourself. Less like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop." He pauses. "It's nice to see."

Thomas considers this. It's true, he realises. With Micro, the walls come down. The jokes come less frequently. The real him comes out more. It's terrifying. It's also the best thing that's ever happened to him.

"Thanks," he says quietly. "For saying that. For being... I don't know. For being you."

Pili waves a hand dismissively, but there's warmth in his eyes. "Don't get sappy on me. We still have wine to drink and cameras to perform for." He raises his glass. "To unexpected friendships."

Thomas clinks his glass against Pili's. "To unexpected friendships."

They spend the rest of the date actually enjoying themselves— talking about life, about their plans after the show, about the absurdity of finding genuine connections in such a manufactured environment. Pili talks about his band, his love of music, the way he uses lyrics to process emotions he can't otherwise express. Thomas talks about his writing, his fear of failure, the strange hope that's started blooming in his chest.

By the end, Thomas is genuinely glad Pili is still here. Not as a romantic prospect, but as a friend. A good one. The kind you keep for years.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Pili sits in the confessional chair, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. His usual guardedness is completely gone, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated delight.

"Thomas and I had our last date today. It was lovely—genuinely lovely. We talked, we laughed, we drank expensive wine that I definitely knew more about than he did." He pauses, grin widening. "And he confirmed what everyone already knew: he and Micro are together. Or getting together. Or whatever stage they're at where they make heart eyes at each other constantly and think no one notices."

He leans forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "I'm so happy. This is the best outcome possible. I came here looking for love and instead I got front-row seats to the most adorable slow-burn romance I've ever witnessed. I win. I literally win at reality TV."

Another pause, softer. "For real though? They're good together. He's good for Thomas— makes him stop deflecting, stop hiding. And Thomas is good for him— makes him actually participate instead of just observing. It's beautiful. I'm going to be insufferable about this for the rest of my life."

He grins at the camera. "If you're watching this, you two—and you will be, because Thomas is nosy and Micro indulges him—I expect updates. Constantly. I'm invested now. You can't escape me."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Flux's date is next— a simple walk on the beach, because the producers have apparently decided that's romantic enough. Thomas and Flux walk side by side, shoes off, feet in the cool water, cameras trailing at a respectful distance. The sun is starting its descent, painting the sky in soft pastels.

They don't speak for a while, just enjoying the comfortable silence that comes with years of friendship. Then Flux glances sideways, a knowing smile on his face.

"So," he says. "You and Micro."

Thomas sighs dramatically. "Is it really that obvious?"

"To everyone except, apparently, the two of you." Flux grins. "Gray has a betting pool. Pili is your biggest supporter. Even Rotation mentioned it, and Rotation never mentions anything that isn't about camera angles."

Thomas stops walking. "There's a betting pool?"

"Fifty bucks on you confessing by the finale. I'm invested, so don't prove me wrong."

Thomas groans, but he's laughing. "I can't believe this."

"You can't believe people are invested in your love life? You're on a dating show, Thomas. That's literally the point."

"I hate when you're right."

"I'm always right. You just hate admitting it." Flux's expression softens. "Seriously though? I'm happy for you. He's good for you. You're different around him. Better."

Thomas feels warmth spread through his chest. "Thanks. That means a lot." He pauses. "What about you and Saps? You two have been... different lately."

Flux's face does something complicated— hope and fear and wonder all mixed together. "We talked. Finally. After the volleyball game." He runs a hand through his hair, making it even more chaotic. "It was... intense. He said things. I said things. We're still figuring it out."

Thomas stops walking, turning to face him fully. "Good things? Bad things? Give me something, I've been waiting for this for years."

"Good things." Flux's smile is uncertain but hopeful. "Really good things, actually. He said he's been confused about his feelings. That watching me here, competing for someone else, made him realise he didn't want me to be with anyone else. That he's been—" He stops, shakes his head. "It's a lot. We're taking it slow."

Thomas pulls him into a hug, tight and fierce. "I'm so happy for you. Both of you. You have no idea."

Flux hugs back, just as tight. "Thanks. For everything. For being here. For being you. For not making fun of me too much."

"I absolutely made fun of you. Regularly. It was hilarious."

"I know. I'm choosing to ignore that part." Flux pulls back, grinning. "But seriously. Thank you."

"Always." Thomas grins. "Now go find your disaster of an almost-boyfriend and figure it out. I need a happy ending here, and you two are part of it."

Flux laughs, the sound lighter than Thomas has heard in weeks. "Same to you. Go find your quiet, grey-eyed disaster and stop pining already."

They walk back to the mansion together, shoulders bumping, the easy comfort of old friendship wrapping around them like a warm blanket.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Flux sits in the confessional chair, and he looks different—lighter, happier, the permanent tension gone from his shoulders. His hair is still a mess, but it's a happy mess now.

"Thomas and I had our last date. Walk on the beach. Very romantic." He pauses, grinning. "Not for us, obviously— that would be weird— but for him and Micro? Definitely. He spent half the time trying not to talk about him and failing spectacularly."

He leans back, expression softening. "We talked about Saps too. About how we're figuring things out. Taking it slow. Actually talking instead of just pining from a distance." He shakes his head, wonder in his eyes. "I didn't think this was possible. I didn't think we'd ever get here. And now we're... here. Together. Figuring it out."

Another pause, softer. "Thomas is happy for me. Really happy. He pulled me into a hug and everything— and Thomas doesn't hug. Like, ever. So that means something."

He looks at the camera, and there's gratitude in his expression. "I know this whole situation started because Snowbird is a manipulative chaos demon who blackmailed me here. And I'm still going to make him pay for that. Slowly. Painfully. But..." He shrugs. "I'm also kind of glad it happened? Because if it hadn't, I might never have said anything. Might never have found out that Saps feels the same way. So. Thanks, I guess? Don't let it go to your head."

He stands, heading for the door, then pauses. "Oh, and Snowbird? You owe me fifty bucks when Thomas finally confesses. Don't you forget that."

He leaves, grinning.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Saps' date is chaotic in the best way.

The producers have set up a "romantic" picnic in a meadow— blankets, baskets, the whole production— but Saps takes one look at it and immediately commandeers the situation.

"This is boring," he announces. "We're not sitting on a blanket like civilised people. We're going to do something actually fun."

Before Thomas can respond, Saps has produced a frisbee from somewhere— Thomas doesn't want to know where— and is already running toward an open field.

"Come on, slowpoke!" Saps yells over his shoulder. "I'm not doing this alone!"

Thomas sighs, but he's grinning. He jogs after Saps, and for the next hour, they do nothing but throw a frisbee back and forth, laughing when it goes wildly off course, trash-talking each other's clearly terrible skills, and generally ignoring every romantic expectation the producers had.

At some point, they collapse onto the grass, both breathing hard, sand and grass clinging to their clothes.

"You're impossible," Thomas laughs, brushing a leaf off his shirt.

"I prefer 'delightfully chaotic.'" Saps grins, but there's something softer underneath. "Hey, Thomas? Can I ask you something? Something real?"

Thomas nods, turning to face him.

"Flux." Saps says the name like it's precious. "He's my best friend. Has been for years. And I think—" He stops, searching for words. "I think I've been in love with him for a long time and didn't know it. Is that stupid? Is that even possible?"

Thomas' heart aches for him— for both of them, really, for all the years they wasted being scared. "It's not stupid. It's actually pretty common. And yeah, it's possible. More possible than you think."

Saps' eyes are hopeful, vulnerable in a way Thomas has never seen from him. "You think so?"

"I know so." Thomas pauses, letting the words land. "And for what it's worth? He feels the same way. He's just as scared as you are. Has been for years."

Saps' face lights up— genuinely lights up, like the sun coming out from behind clouds. His whole expression transforms, hope and wonder and disbelief all mixed together. "Really?"

"Really. Talk to him. Figure it out." Thomas grins. "I need a happy ending here, and you two are part of it."

Saps is quiet for a long moment, processing. Then he pulls Thomas into a hug— tight and warm and slightly awkward because they're both lying on the grass.

"Thanks, Thomas." His voice is muffled against Thomas' shoulder. "For everything. For being cool about all of this. For not making it weird."

"Anytime." Thomas pats his back. "Now go. Find him. Before you lose your nerve."

Saps pulls back, nods, and takes off toward the mansion at a pace that's almost a run. Thomas watches him go, hope blooming in his chest.

They're going to be okay. All of them. 

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Saps sits in the confessional chair, and he's different—calmer than usual, but with an energy underneath that's more focused than chaotic. His eyes are bright, determined.

"Thomas and I had our date. We played frisbee. Got covered in grass and sand. It was perfect." A small smile. "And we talked. Really talked. About Flux."

He pauses, running a hand through his hair. "I told him I think I've been in love with my best friend for years and didn't know it. And he said—" He stops, shakes his head in wonder. "He said Flux feels the same way. That he's just as scared as I am. I didn't know that was possible. I didn't know—"

Another pause, longer. "All this time. All these years of being best friends, of being each other's person, and we were both just... too scared to say anything. Too scared to risk it." A quiet laugh. "We're idiots. Complete idiots."

He looks at the camera, and there's something raw in his expression. "But we're not going to be idiots anymore. I'm going to find him. Tonight. Before the finale. I'm going to tell him everything— how I feel, how long I've felt it, how terrified I am but how much more terrified I am of not saying anything."

He stands, squaring his shoulders. "Wish me luck. I'm going to need it."

He heads for the door, then pauses, looking back. "Oh, and Thomas? If you're watching this—you're a good friend. A really good friend. I'm glad you're part of this chaos. Be good to my brother."

He leaves, and there's something lighter in the way he moves. Something like hope.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The last date before the finale is, of course, with Micro.

The producers have gone all out—a candlelit dinner on the beach, private and intimate, with cameras positioned just close enough to capture everything without intruding. Strings of fairy lights wind through driftwood arches. A small table draped in white linen holds an array of dishes that probably cost more than Thomas' monthly rent. The sunset paints the sky in shades of gold and rose, reflecting off the gentle waves.

It's disgustingly romantic. It's perfect.

Thomas arrives to find Micro already there, standing by the water's edge, watching the waves. The soft light catches his pale hair and turns it to spun silver, and for a moment, Thomas just stops and looks at him. Really looks. Commits every detail to memory—the way his shoulders relax when he thinks no one's watching, the slight curve of his lips, the grey eyes that reflect the colours of the sky.

Micro turns, as if sensing him there, and that small private smile appears— the one that's just for Thomas.

"Hey," Thomas says, crossing the sand toward him.

"Hi." Micro's voice is warm. "You're late."

"I'm exactly on time. You're just early."

"Same thing."

"Different thing entirely."

Micro laughs, that quiet wonderful sound, and they stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. Then Micro gestures toward the table.

"Should we? Before the food gets cold?"

"Probably." Thomas doesn't move. "In a minute. Just... let me have this minute."

Micro's expression softens. He reaches out, takes Thomas' hand. "Take all the minutes you need."

They stand there, hands intertwined, watching the sunset together. The cameras capture it from their careful distance, but Thomas barely notices. There's only this. Only them.

Eventually, they sit. Thomas reaches across the table and takes Micro's hand again immediately, unwilling to lose the connection even for a moment.

"So," Micro says, smiling. "Last date. How are you feeling?"

"Terrified." Thomas admits it freely. "Excited. Ready. All of it at once." He squeezes Micro's hand. "You?"

"Same." Micro's thumb traces circles on Thomas' skin. "But also... peaceful? Like no matter what happens tomorrow, this—" He gestures vaguely between them. "This is real. This is ours. And that's enough."

Thomas feels warmth spread through his chest. "Yeah. That's exactly it."

They eat, they talk, they laugh. It's easy in a way it never was with the others— not because those dates were bad, but because this is different. There's no performance here, no trying to make an impression. Just two people who've found something real, enjoying being together.

Micro tells him about his illustrations, the children's book he's been working on, the way he sees the world in colours and shapes. Thomas talks about his writing, the half-finished novel in his laptop, the fear that he's not good enough. Micro listens, really listens, and when Thomas finishes, he just squeezes his hand and says, "You are. Good enough, I mean. More than good enough."

It's such a simple thing to say. It means everything.

At some point, Thomas glances at the cameras— small dark shapes in the distance— then back at Micro.

"I wish we could just skip to the end," he admits. "Be done with all this. No cameras, no producers, no show. Just us."

"Soon." Micro's voice is soft, certain. "One more day. One more rose ceremony. And then it's just us. Together. For as long as we want."

Thomas' heart does that thing. "For as long as we want sounds perfect."

"It does." Micro pauses, something flickering in his eyes. "Thomas? Can I tell you something? Something I've been thinking about?"

"Always."

Micro takes a breath. "Before this show, I spent my whole life watching. Observing. Never really participating because it was easier, safer. I told myself I was content with that—with being the quiet one in the corner, the observer rather than the participant." He shakes his head slowly. "But then I got out of that limo in saw you that terrible shirt—"

"The shirt wasn't my choice."

"I know. That's what makes it perfect." Micro smiles. "And I saw you looking like you'd rather be anywhere else, and you talked about stucco, and I couldn't look away. Not because you were performing, not because you were trying to impress anyone. Because you were just... you. Real and awkward and completely, genuinely yourself."

Thomas feels his eyes sting slightly. "Micro..."

"And I realised— maybe for the first time—that watching wasn't enough. That I wanted to participate. That I wanted to be part of something real with someone real." Micro's grip on his hand tightens. "With you."

Thomas is quiet for a long moment, letting the words sink in. Then he lifts Micro's hand to his lips and kisses it, soft and slow.

"I'm glad you decided to participate," he whispers. "I'm glad it's with me."

Micro's eyes are bright. "Me too."

They share a look full of promise, then turn back to their dinner. The food is excellent, the wine is perfect, the setting is straight out of a dream. But Thomas barely notices any of it. He's too focused on the person across from him— the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, the way his hand feels in Thomas', the way every moment together feels like coming home.

The cameras keep rolling, capturing it all. But underneath the footage, underneath the production, there's something they can't capture—the quiet certainty of two people who've found exactly what they were looking for.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

The finale arrives faster than Thomas expects.

One moment he's on the beach with Micro, watching the stars come out. The next, he's standing in the main hall, surrounded by flowers and cameras and the remaining contestants. The room has been transformed— twinkling lights, dramatic lighting, an audience of production crew watching from the shadows.

Pili, Flux, Saps, and Micro. Four people who've become important to him in ways he never anticipated.

Snowbird gives a dramatic introduction, his producer voice in full effect. The cameras roll. Thomas holds the final rose, and it feels heavier than it should.

He looks at each of them in turn.

Pili, who went from defensive stranger to genuine friend to biggest supporter. Who looked at Thomas' disastrous first impression and still gave him a chance. Who now stands there with a knowing smile, clearly already aware of how this is going to go.

Flux, his best friend, who's been through the wringer and come out the other side. Who's finally figuring out his own heart, finally letting himself want something real. He's standing slightly closer to Saps than strictly necessary, and they keep glancing at each other like they can't help it.

Saps, the chaos demon, who's calmer now, more focused. Who looks at Flux like he's the centre of the universe and is only just realising it. Who caught Thomas' eye earlier and mouthed "thank you" with devastating sincerity.

And Micro.

Micro, with his grey eyes and quiet smile. Micro, who's looking at Thomas like he's the only person in the room. Micro, who knows everything— every fear, every hope, every hidden corner of Thomas' heart— and loves him anyway.

Thomas takes a breath.

"Pili." He steps forward, meets his friend's eyes. "You're one of the most surprising people I've ever met. We started rough— really rough, I'm still sorry about that— but you've become one of my favourite people here. Someone I trust. Someone I'm genuinely glad to have in my life." He pauses, smiling. "But I'm not giving you this rose."

Pili nods, his grin widening. "I know. It's okay, Thomas. Really." He steps forward, pulls Thomas into a hug. "Go get him. And I want updates. Constantly."

Thomas hugs back, laughing. "Always."

Pili steps back, still grinning, and Thomas turns to Flux and Saps together.

"You two." He shakes his head, overwhelmed with affection for both of them. "You're both idiots. Beautiful, wonderful, completely oblivious idiots who've been pining for each other for years without realising it. And I'm so happy you finally figured it out."

Flux laughs, eyes bright with unshed tears. Saps grabs his hand, squeezing tight.

Thomas holds up the rose. "I'm not giving this to either of you. Because you don't need it. You have each other."

Flux pulls him into a hug first, fierce and warm. "Thank you. For everything. For being my best friend. For putting up with me."

"Always." Thomas hugs back, then pulls Saps in too. "Both of you. Be happy. That's all I want."

They hug him together— a chaotic, wonderful group hug— and then step back, hands intertwined, finally where they belong.

That leaves one person.

Micro.

Thomas walks toward him, the rose feeling lighter than it ever has. The room seems to fade away— the cameras, the crew, the other contestants. There's only this. Only them.

He stops in front of Micro, close enough to touch. Close enough to see the way his grey eyes have gone soft and bright, the way his lips are curved in that small private smile.

"Micro." Thomas' voice is steady, sure. "From the moment you got out of that limo and laughed at my stucco joke, I was gone. Completely and utterly gone. You looked at me like I was actually interesting instead of just another person to perform for, and I haven't been the same since."

Micro's breath catches.

"You've seen me," Thomas continues, pouring everything he has into the words. "Really seen me. The sarcasm, the jokes, the walls— you saw through all of it and you stayed anyway. You made me want to stop hiding. You made me want to be real. For the first time in my life, with you, I don't feel like I have to perform. I can just... be. And that's the greatest gift anyone has ever given me."

He holds out the rose.

"This is for you. Not because the show says I have to choose someone. Not because the cameras are watching. Because I choose you. I will always choose you. In front of cameras or away from them. On this show or in the real world. It's you. It's only ever been you."

Micro takes the rose, and his eyes are shining. "It's about time," he whispers, voice thick with emotion. "I've been waiting weeks for you to say that."

Then he pulls Thomas into a kiss.

It's soft at first— gentle, questioning. Then deeper, surer, months of longing and fear and hope pouring into a single moment. Micro's hands come up to cup Thomas' face. Thomas' arms wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. The world falls away completely.

The mansion erupts around them. Pili is cheering loudly enough to be heard over everything. Flux and Saps are wrapped around each other, finally, finally where they belong. The cameras capture it all— every angle, every moment, every beautiful second.

Thomas doesn't care.

He's kissing Micro, and that's all that matters.

When they finally break apart, foreheads resting together, breathing the same air, Micro laughs quietly.

"We're going to be so embarrassing about this."

"Probably." Thomas grins. "Worth it."

"Definitely worth it." Micro kisses him again, quick and soft. "I love you."

Thomas' heart soars. "I love you too."

The cameras keep rolling. The producers are ecstatic. The other contestants are losing their minds with joy. But for Thomas and Micro, none of that matters.

They've found each other. In the middle of a manufactured reality show, surrounded by cameras and chaos and the absurdity of it all, they've found something real.

And that's worth everything.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Snowbird is in the production booth, surrounded by monitors showing the aftermath of the finale. He's grinning like a cat who's found a cream factory.

"They did it. The idiots actually did it." He shakes his head, still grinning. "I've known Thomas for years. Watched him deflect every genuine connection with a joke. Watched him build walls higher than anyone should have to. And now—" He gestures at the monitors. "Now he's kissing someone on national television, not caring who sees, because for the first time in his life, he's not hiding."

He pauses, expression softening. "I'm proud of him. Genuinely. And I'm proud of Micro too—for being patient, for seeing through the walls, for sticking around." Another pause, the grin returning. "Also, I have approximately fifty hours of footage of them being adorable, and I'm going to use every second of it in the finale edit. The audience is going to lose their minds."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Rotation is packing up equipment, looking exhausted but satisfied.

"It's a wrap. Finally. I can go home and sleep for a week." He pauses, a small smile breaking through. "It was worth it, though. Watching those two figure it out— Thomas and Micro, I mean— that was something special. Real. The kind of thing you can't manufacture no matter how hard you try."

He glances at the camera. "Snowbird and I have already started planning how we're going to make fun of Thomas for this. For the rest of our lives. Every family gathering, every holiday, every time he gets too full of himself— we're going to bring up the way he looked at Micro on that first day. The way he forgot how to speak. The way he talked about stucco of all things." He grins. "It's going to be beautiful."

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Later that night, after the cameras have stopped rolling and the mansion has gone quiet, Thomas and Micro lie on their beach—their spot— watching the stars.

"So," Micro says, "we did it."

"We did it." Thomas turns his head to look at him. "How are you feeling?"

"Happy. Tired. Ready to go home and actually start living." Micro smiles. "You?"

"Same." Thomas reaches for his hand. "Same time tomorrow?"

Micro laughs. "We don't have to sneak around anymore. The show's over."

"I know. But I like this. Our spot. Our time." Thomas squeezes his hand. "I want to keep it. Even without the cameras."

Micro's eyes soften. "Yeah. Me too."

They lie there, hands intertwined, watching the stars. The future is wide open, full of possibilities. Scary. Exciting. Exactly what they both want.

"I love you," Thomas says, because he can. Because it's true. Because he'll never get tired of saying it.

"I love you too." Micro turns, kisses him softly. "Now take me back to our room. I'm tired, and I want to fall asleep next to you."

Thomas grins. "Our room?"

"Our room." Micro's smile is warm. "If you want."

"I want that." Thomas stands, pulls Micro up with him. "I definitely want that."

They walk back to the mansion together, hands linked, ready for whatever comes next. The show is over. The real story is just beginning.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Six Months Later

 The apartment is a disaster.

Not in a chaotic, garbage-everywhere way— Thomas is many things, but a slob isn't one of them. It's more of a lived-in disaster. Books stacked on every available surface, some with bookmark ribbons trailing out, others open face-down because Thomas is a monster who refuses to use proper bookmarks. Art supplies threaten to overtake the coffee table— sketchbooks, charcoal pencils, watercolour sets that Micro leaves out because he likes to draw during their movie nights. A collection of takeout menus magnetised to the fridge in a rainbow of culinary options, each one annotated with handwritten notes: "Saps approved," "too much garlic," "delivery guy is cute, tip extra."

Two mugs on the nightstand, both half-full, because neither of them can remember to finish their coffee before bed. A hoodie thrown over the chair in the corner— Micro's, because Thomas stole it three months ago and hasn't given it back. Micro knows. Micro doesn't care.

It's perfect. It's theirs.

Thomas stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, staring at his phone with an expression that can only be described as absolutely, completely, devastatingly gone.

The text from Micro is simple enough: On my way back. Traffic's a nightmare but I should be there in twenty. Save me some snacks.

It's not romantic. It's not even particularly clever. It's just Micro, being Micro, checking in because he knows Thomas worries when he's late. Because Thomas has a bad habit of imagining worst-case scenarios, and Micro has learned to preemptively soothe them with stupid little updates about traffic and estimated arrival times.

Thomas reads it three times. Then a fourth. A stupid smile spreads across his face, the kind he can't control no matter how hard he tries. The kind that makes his cheeks hurt and his eyes crinkle and completely ruins any attempt at looking cool or collected.

He types back: I know you're smiling at this text. Stop being cute.

His phone buzzes almost immediately. Can't. It's genetic. Love you.

Thomas' heart does that thing— that stupid, wonderful flip it's been doing for six months now, the one he hopes never goes away. Love you too. Drive safe. Dinosaur watch is appreciated. Because Micro loves telling Thomas when he passes by the gas stop with the stupid dinosaur in front of it.

Thomas is still staring at the screen, smiling like an absolute idiot, when the front door swings open and Flux walks in.

Flux stops dead in the doorway, takes one look at Thomas' expression, and gags dramatically.

"Oh my god." Flux drops his bag on the floor, clutching his chest like he's been mortally wounded. He staggers backward, hand over his heart, hamming it up for an audience of one. "Oh my god, Thomas. You're doing it again. You're making the face."

Thomas finally manages to school his expression into something resembling neutral, though the smile keeps trying to creep back. "I'm not making a face."

"You're absolutely making a face." Flux advances into the apartment, pointing accusingly. "The 'I'm thinking about my boyfriend and I've forgotten how to be a person' face. The 'Micro exists and I'm dying' face. The face that says you're mentally composing poetry about his eyes and his hair while standing in your own kitchen." He shudders dramatically. "It's disgusting. I'm going to be sick. Someone get a bucket."

"You have a key to my apartment for emergencies only." Thomas crosses his arms, but he's fighting a losing battle against his own amusement. "This is not an emergency."

"You texted the group chat that you had snacks." Flux heads for the kitchen, completely at home, and starts rummaging through cabinets with the familiarity of someone who's done this a hundred times. "Snacks are always an emergency. It's in the friend handbook. Chapter four, section B."

"There's no friend handbook."

"There should be. I'm writing one. You're in it. Mostly as a cautionary tale." Flux yanks open the pantry door. "Where did you put the good chips? The ones Saps likes? The spicy ones he pretends are too hot but then eats the whole bag?"

Thomas points without looking. "Behind the flour we never use. Third shelf."

Flux finds them, pulls them out triumphantly, and starts tearing open the bag before he's even left the kitchen. The crunch echoes through the apartment as he shoves a handful into his mouth. "Saps is on his way, by the way. He's bringing Snowbird and Rotation. Apparently Snowbird demanded we all watch the premiere together. Something about 'shared trauma bonding' and 'witnessing the fruits of his manipulation.'"

Thomas groans, tilting his head back. "He's never going to let us forget this, is he? Any of it? Ever?"

"Never." Flux grins around a mouthful of chips, completely unrepentant. "We're going to be sixty years old at a family barbecue, grey-haired and ancient, and he's still going to bring up the way you forgot how to speak when Micro first got out of that limo. He's going to show the clip at our weddings. He's going to have it playing on a loop at our funerals." He crunches happily. "I, for one, cannot wait."

Thomas' phone buzzes again. He glances down, and despite everything— despite Flux standing right there making gagging faces, despite knowing he's about to be relentlessly mocked— the smile returns.

Micro: Just passed that weird gas station with the giant dinosaur. You know the one. The T-Rex with the googly eyes someone added. ETA fifteen. Also I'm bringing ice cream because I know you've been stress-eating the good stuff and we're out. Don't deny it. I saw the empty containers in the recycling.

Thomas types back, still smiling: I haven't been stress-eating. I've been... preemptively consuming. There's a difference.

Micro: Sure there is. Love you, preemptive consumer.

Thomas: Love you too. Drive safe. Give the dinosaur my regards.

Micro: The dinosaur says you're cute.

Thomas: The dinosaur is correct.

Flux appears at his elbow, reading over his shoulder with zero shame. His crunching has gotten louder, probably intentionally.

"You two are nauseating." Flux says it flatly, like he's stating an objective fact. "You know that, right? Scientifically nauseating. If nausea were measured on a scale, you'd be off the charts."

Thomas pockets his phone, grin still firmly in place. "I'm aware."

"It's been six months." Flux holds up six fingers for emphasis, then goes back to crunching. "Six months of this. Of you making heart eyes at your phone like it's your first week together. Of you two being disgustingly cute in public. Of Micro looking at you like you personally hung the moon and you looking at him like you're still surprised he exists." He shakes his head. "When does it wear off? When do you get normal?"

"Some of us are capable of sustained romantic feeling." Thomas starts rearranging the snacks on the counter, mostly to have something to do with his hands. "Some of us don't become emotionally constipated the moment a relationship becomes official."

"Some of us are capable of putting our phones down for five minutes." Flux counters, popping another chip. "Some of us don't need constant validation from our boyfriends via text message."

"You text Saps approximately forty-seven times a day."

"That's different. That's strategic communication."

Thomas snorts. "Strategic communication about what? Which takeout place to order from? Whether raccoons actually exist or are just a government conspiracy?"

Flux pauses, genuinely considering. "That second one was a legitimate debate. We still don't have conclusive evidence."

"You're impossible."

"And yet you love me." Flux grins, completely unbothered. "You and Micro have approximately a million inside jokes by now, by the way. The dinosaur thing. The stucco thing. The thing about the fountain and its emotional purposes. I have to hear about all of them. Constantly. It's exhausting."

"You and Saps have inside jokes."

"Yeah, but ours are actually funny." Flux's grin turns wicked. "Like the time he accidentally locked himself out of his apartment and had to wait for me to come let him in. That was comedy gold."

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "That's not funny, that's traumatic."

"Exactly." Flux crunches triumphantly. "Traumatic is funny. Romantic is not. There's a clear hierarchy."

Thomas opens his mouth to retort, but the doorbell cuts him off. Flux, being closest, yanks it open to reveal Saps, who's holding approximately four different bags and grinning like a maniac who's just been let off his leash.

"Delivery!" Saps announces, pushing past Flux into the apartment without waiting for an invitation. He deposits bags on every available surface— snacks on the coffee table, wine on the kitchen counter, a suspiciously large container of something that smells amazing on the dining table. "I brought provisions. Snacks, drinks, and also Snowbird and Rotation, who were lurking outside like absolute creeps instead of just ringing the bell like normal people."

Snowbird appears in the doorway, looking deeply offended. "We weren't lurking. We were arriving dramatically. There's a difference. Lurking implies stealth. We were very obviously standing there waiting to be noticed."

Rotation follows, carrying what appears to be a small camera already recording. "I'm documenting this for posterity. Don't look at me, don't try to hide, just pretend I'm not here."

Thomas sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of six months of this exact energy. "Rotation. You're in my apartment. For a casual game night with friends. Why do you have a camera?"

"Because Snowbird said there would be snacks and I don't trust either of you to remember your reactions to this moment without visual aids." Rotation pans the camera slowly around the room, capturing the chaos. "Also, I'm contractually obligated to document anything involving the cast of Hearts Entwined for at least a year after filming. It's in the fine print."

"There's no such clause."

"There should be. I'm adding it retroactively."

Thomas gives up. It's easier that way.

They settle into the living room amidst a chaos of snacks and drinks and the kind of easy banter that comes from months of friendship. Flux immediately commandeers the couch, stretching out like a cat claiming territory, and Saps drops down next to him with the casual possessiveness of someone who still can't quite believe this is real. He curls into Flux's side, tucking his feet up, and Flux's arm automatically wraps around him, thumb tracing absent patterns on his shoulder.

Thomas watches them for a moment, a warm feeling spreading through his chest.

Six months ago, they were a disaster. Pining and awkward and completely oblivious, dancing around each other while the whole world watched. Now they're... this. Easy. Comfortable. Playful in a way that reminds Thomas of something— the way couples who've been together for years move around each other, anticipating needs, fitting together like puzzle pieces.

Saps steals a chip from the bag in Flux's hand. Flux retaliates by stealing one back and then, instead of anything aggressive, just leans over and kisses Saps' cheek in apology. Saps laughs, bright and free, and turns to kiss him properly— quick, soft, natural.

Flux looks at him like he's the centre of the universe. It's disgustingly cute. Thomas loves it.

"Stop staring," Flux mutters, catching his eye even while Saps is still tucked against his side. "It's weird."

"I'm not staring. I'm appreciating."

"Same thing."

"Different thing entirely." Thomas grins. "I'm just happy for you. Both of you. You deserve this."

Flux's expression softens, just for a moment, before the usual sarcasm slides back into place. "Yeah, well. You too, idiot."

Snowbird drops onto the armchair, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl on the coffee table. "So!" He says it loudly, drawing everyone's attention. "Everyone ready for the premiere?"

A chorus of groans answers him.

Flux throws a chip at him. Saps hides his face in Flux's shoulder. Rotation zooms in on Thomas' expression, which has shifted from warm to mildly terrified.

"That's what I thought." Snowbird grins, completely unbothered. "Rotation, cameras ready?"

Rotation, who has indeed set up his small camera on the bookshelf for a wider shot, gives a thumbs up without looking away from his viewfinder. "Ready to capture every cringe-worthy moment for posterity. This is going in the blooper reel. This is going in the DVD extras. This might go in my personal highlight reel that I watch when I need something to cheer me up."

"You're a terrible friend," Thomas tells him.

"I'm an excellent friend. I'm preserving memories." Rotation pans to Flux and Saps. "Speaking of memories, you two ready to watch yourselves be absolutely oblivious on national television?"

Flux flips him off. Saps laughs.

Thomas' phone buzzes. He checks it automatically— can't help it, not anymore— and the smile returns.

Micro: Pulling into the parking lot now. Tell Flux to stop making fun of you. I can sense it from across town at this point.

Thomas laughs, typing back: How do you sense it? Is it a superpower?

Micro: Boyfriend intuition. Also he's probably making the gagging face. He always makes the gagging face when you talk about me. It's his love language.

Thomas looks up. Flux is, indeed, making the gagging face, complete with finger-down-throat gesture for emphasis.

"Micro says stop making fun of me."

"Micro can't stop me." Flux grins. "Micro's not here yet."

"He's in the parking lot. He'll be here any second."

Flux's expression shifts to something almost impressed. "You two have some kind of psychic connection, don't you? It's been six months and you're still like this. It's gross."

"It's romantic."

"Same thing."

"Different thing entirely."

The door opens— not with a knock, but with a key turning in the lock. The sound is familiar now, comforting, the signal that Thomas has been unconsciously waiting for since the moment Micro left this morning.

Thomas' heart does that thing.

Micro walks in, looking slightly windswept and absolutely beautiful. His pale hair is mussed from the wind, a few strands falling across his forehead. His grey eyes are warm, scanning the room until they find Thomas, and then they soften in that way that still makes Thomas' breath catch.

He's carrying a bag of ice cream in one hand and his work bag in the other. He's wearing the sweater that Thomas loves—the soft one that makes him look touchable, huggable, like home.

"Hey," Micro says, dropping his bag by the door.

Thomas is across the room before he can think about it.

He pulls Micro into a kiss that's probably too intense for company, too desperate for someone who's only been gone a few hours. But Micro laughs against his mouth, the sound warm and familiar, and his hands come up to cup Thomas' face like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"Missed you," Thomas murmurs against his lips.

"It's been three hours." Micro's voice is amused, fond, full of warmth.

"Too long."

Micro's smile could light up the whole apartment. "You're ridiculous."

"Your ridiculous."

"Mhm, mine." Micro kisses him again, softer this time, lingering. "Now feed me. I'm starving, traffic was hell, and I've been thinking about those snacks all the way home."

Thomas pulls back, grinning, and leads him toward the couch by the hand.

Flux has made the gagging face approximately thirty times during their reunion. Saps is watching with barely concealed delight. Snowbird looks like a proud parent. Rotation is definitely getting all of this on camera.

Thomas ignores them completely.

Micro settles onto the couch, and Thomas immediately curls into his side— a position that's become second nature over the past six months, as natural as breathing. Micro's arm wraps around him automatically, pulling him closer, thumb tracing absent patterns on his shoulder. The familiar warmth settles something in Thomas' chest, some anxious part of him that only quiets when Micro is near.

"Snacks?" Micro asks, glancing at the coffee table.

"On the coffee table. Saps brought approximately four bags of chips, so we're set for the apocalypse."

"The chip apocalypse." Micro's voice is dry, amused. "My favourite."

"The wine apocalypse is also well-represented." Thomas nods toward the bottles Saps deposited earlier. "Snowbird brought three bottles, which is either optimistic or a cry for help."

"Bit of both, probably."

Saps leans over from his spot on Flux's other side, stealing a chip from the bag nearest him. "I brought the good ones, by the way. The ones Flux pretends he doesn't like but secretly devours when he thinks no one's watching."

Flux sputters indignantly. "I do not secretly devour anything. I have a healthy relationship with snacks. I'm a moderate consumer."

"You literally ate an entire bag last week and tried to blame it on the raccoons." Saps' eyes are sparkling with mischief. "The raccoons, Flux. In our third-floor apartment."

"We have very athletic raccoons in this city. It's a known fact."

"We have a Flux-shaped raccoon who loves sour cream and onion." Saps pokes him in the chest. "Admit it. You have a problem."

Flux grabs his hand, holding it hostage. "I have a problem with you stealing my chips."

"Your chips? They're our chips. We live together. Communal property."

"Since when?"

"Since always. It's in the boyfriend handbook."

Flux's expression shifts to something caught between exasperated and deeply fond. "There's no boyfriend handbook."

"There should be. I'm writing one. You're in it."

"Mostly as a cautionary tale?"

"Obviously."

They're both laughing now, tangled together on the couch, and Thomas watches them with something warm and full in his chest. Six months ago, they couldn't even look at each other without panicking. Now they're like this— easy, playful, completely themselves.

"You two are ridiculous," Thomas says.

"Takes one to know one," Flux shoots back without missing a beat.

Thomas looks at Micro and feels his heart do a little flip. "Fair point."

Rotation checks his watch, then glances at the TV. "Ten minutes till air. Everyone ready to watch themselves be embarrassing on national television?"

Another chorus of groans, louder this time.

Flux throws another chip, this time at Rotation. It bounces off his camera and lands on the floor. Saps howls with laughter. Snowbird looks deeply pleased with himself.

"I've been waiting for this moment for six months," Snowbird announces, settling more comfortably into his chair. "The premiere's going to be huge. Record-breaking, probably. The network is already talking about a second season. And you all get to watch it together, surrounded by snacks and friendship and the beautiful chaos I orchestrated."

"You're terrifying," Thomas tells him, but there's no heat in it.

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"I'm taking it as one anyway."

The TV is on, tuned to the network airing the show. Commercials play— loud, obnoxious, completely ignorable. Thomas focuses on Micro instead, on the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his thumb hasn't stopped tracing those patterns on Thomas' shoulder.

"Nervous?" Micro asks quietly, for just the two of them.

"Terrified." Thomas admits it easily. "You?"

"Same." Micro's hand finds his, squeezes. "But at least we're terrified together."

Thomas smiles. "Together."

The commercials end. The screen goes dark. Then the familiar opening credits roll— dramatic music, sweeping shots of the mansion, quick cuts of each contestant's face. Thomas sees himself for a split second, looking slightly shell-shocked in that terrible floral shirt.

"Oh god." He hides his face in Micro's shoulder. "I forgot about the shirt. I blocked it out. Traumatic amnesia."

"The shirt is iconic," Snowbird says firmly. "Embrace it."

"I will never embrace that shirt. That shirt is going in a landfill somewhere never to be seen again."

"You can't. It's going to the Smithsonian. Reality TV history."

"I'll burn it first."

The episode begins.

Thomas watches himself meet Legacy, then Kanukei, then— Flux's arrival. On screen, his own face goes through approximately multiple different expressions of shock. Off screen, Flux groans audibly.

"I forgot how panicked I looked." Flux runs a hand through his hair. "I look like a deer in headlights. A very anxious deer."

"You looked like you were about to pass out," Saps offers, but his voice is fond. "It's kind of cute, actually."

"It is not cute. It's humiliating."

"It's a little cute." Saps kisses his cheek. "Very cute. The cutest."

Flux's face does something complicated— embarrassment and pleasure mixed together. "Shut up."

"Make me."

"Later."

Thomas grins at them, then turns back to the screen as his on-screen self processes Flux's presence.

They watch as Saps arrives, as Thomas' internal monologue about Snowbird's machinations plays out in voiceover. Snowbird preens visibly. Thomas throws a pillow at him— the third one tonight, he's keeping count.

"You're a genius," Thomas says flatly. "A terrible, manipulative genius."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"Still taking it as one."

Gray appears on screen, her split-coloured hair bright, her expression perfect. Thomas feels a genuine pang of missing her— they text, group chat constantly, but it's not the same as having her here, making fun of him in person. She'd called earlier to say she was watching from home with "the most expensive wine I could find and zero regrets."

Pili's arrival plays out. Thomas' disastrous comment about height makes him cringe all over again, even now.

"I can't believe I said that." He shakes his head. "I can't believe that came out of my mouth."

"You made up for it." Pili's voice comes through his phone speaker— he's watching from home, apparently, and joined the group call. "Eventually. After much groveling. Very satisfying groveling, I might add."

"I don't grovel."

"You absolutely grovel. I have witnesses." Pili's grin is audible. "Multiple witnesses. It's on film, actually. I could request the footage."

"You wouldn't."

"I absolutely would."

Thomas laughs, the sound genuine and warm. Pili has become one of his closest friends in the months since the show ended— a surprising turn of events given their disastrous start, but one he's endlessly grateful for.

The episode continues. More contestants arrive. More awkward introductions. More moments that make Thomas want to hide his face and also laugh at himself.

And then—

The last limo. The door opens. Micro steps out.

On screen, Thomas' face goes completely blank.

His mouth opens slightly. His eyes go wide. He looks like someone who's just been hit by a truck made of pure beauty, like every thought has been evacuated from his brain, leaving only static and wonder.

Off screen, the room erupts.

"There it is!" Snowbird crows, pointing at the screen. "The exact moment! The exact moment you forgot how to be a person!"

Flux is howling with laughter. Saps is actually crying, tears streaming down his face. Rotation has zoomed in on Thomas' real-time reaction, capturing every mortified expression.

Thomas buries his face in Micro's shoulder, face burning. "I hate this. I hate all of you. I'm moving to a different country."

"You love it," Micro says, but he's laughing too, the vibration of it rumbling against Thomas' cheek. "Also, that's approximately the same face you made when I walked in tonight. Just so you know."

"Different face." Thomas' voice is muffled by Micro's sweater. "That face was— that was different."

"That face was exactly the same face," Flux confirms, wiping his eyes. "It's your 'Micro exists and I'm melting' face. You make it a lot. Like, constantly. We've documented it."

"I do not—"

"You made it three times just tonight." Flux ticks them off on his fingers. "When you got his text. When he walked in. When he sat down next to you and you did that little sigh thing. Three times. In one hour."

Thomas groans. Micro kisses his hair.

"It's okay," Micro murmurs, still laughing softly. "I make the same face when I see you. We can be embarrassing together."

On screen, Thomas is talking about stucco. His on-screen self, still clearly not recovered from Micro's arrival, manages to get out approximately four words, and one of them is stucco.

The room loses it completely.

"Stucco!" Saps howls, nearly falling off the couch. "He led with stucco! He talked about building materials!"

"It was a valid observation!" Thomas protests, but he's laughing too. "The mansion had a lot of stucco! It was relevant!"

"It was the most Thomas thing possible and I love it," Micro says, still laughing, his arm tightening around Thomas. "I fell in love with you because of stucco. I'm going to tell that story forever."

"You fell in love with me despite the stucco."

"Same thing."

"Different thing entirely."

They watch the rest of the episode in a haze of commentary and laughter. The beach conversation— carefully edited to remove anything too private, but still clearly them, still full of that tentative connection. The balloon date, all soft lighting and stolen glances. The almost-confessions, the moments where they're both clearly gone for each other but too scared to say anything. The way Thomas' eyes follow Micro whenever he's on screen. The way Micro softens every time Thomas appears.

It's embarrassing. It's wonderful. And it's all theirs.

When the episode ends, the room is quiet for a moment. Then Snowbird breaks the silence.

"So." He sounds deeply satisfied. "That happened."

"It certainly did," Thomas agrees.

"Ratings are going to be insane. The network is already talking about another season— different cast, obviously, you're all too boring now." Snowbird grins. "Happy people make terrible television. But you're all welcome, by the way. For making you famous."

"We didn't ask to be famous."

"Doesn't matter. You're famous now. Embrace it." Snowbird gestures expansively. "Merchandise. Endorsements. Cameos on other shows. The world is your oyster."

Thomas looks at Micro, who's watching him with those warm grey eyes. "Think we can handle famous?"

"Probably not." Micro smiles. "But we can handle it together."

Thomas leans in, kisses him softly. "Together."

Flux makes the gagging face again, but he's smiling. Saps is beaming, still tucked against his side. Rotation is definitely still filming, capturing every moment for whatever archive he's building. Snowbird looks like the cat that got the cream and then some.

It's chaos. It's perfect. It's them.

Later, after everyone's gone and the apartment is quiet, Thomas and Micro lie in bed, tangled together the way they always do. The TV is off. The snacks are put away. The dishwasher is running, a quiet hum in the background. It's just them, alone in the dark, wrapped in each other.

"Hey," Micro whispers.

"Hey yourself."

"Tonight was good." Micro's hand traces lazy patterns on Thomas' back. "Embarrassing, but good."

Thomas smiles against his shoulder. "Yeah. It was."

"I'm glad we did this. The show, I mean." Micro's voice is soft, thoughtful. "Even with all the chaos, all the cameras, all the... everything. I wouldn't have met you otherwise."

"Me neither." Thomas tilts his head up, meets his eyes in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "I love you. I know I say it a lot, but—"

"Keep saying it." Micro kisses him, soft and slow. "I'll never get tired of hearing it."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"I love you more."

"Impossible." Micro's smile is visible even in the darkness. "Try me."

"I love you in the morning when you first wake up and your hair is a disaster and you squint at the world like it's personally offended you."

"That's specific."

"I love you when you're drawing and you get that little frown between your eyebrows and you forget I exist for hours but in a way that's actually really attractive."

"Uh huh."

"I love you when you steal my hoodies and when you leave your coffee mugs everywhere and when you text me stupid things about dinosaurs." Thomas' voice is warm, full. "I love you when you're annoyed and when you're happy and when you're somewhere in between. I love all of you. Every part. Even the parts you think are unlovable."

Micro is quiet for a long moment. When he speaks, his voice is slightly rough.

"You're going to make me cry."

"Good. I like making you emotional."

"You're terrible."

"Your terrible."

Micro laughs, the sound wobbly but genuine. "Yeah. Mine." He pulls Thomas closer, tucking him against his chest. "I love you too. All of you. Even the parts that make jokes at inappropriate times and steal my clothes and stress-eat all the ice cream."

"The ice cream was a preemptive measure."

"Sure it was."

They lie in comfortable silence for a while, breathing together, the way they've done hundreds of nights now. Thomas' eyes drift closed, Micro's warmth pressed against him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat like a lullaby.

"Hey, Thomas?"

"Mm?"

"Flux texted me earlier." Micro's voice is amused. "Said you two are planning revenge on Snowbird for all of this. For the blackmail, the manipulation, the whole thing."

Thomas' eyes open. "He wasn't supposed to tell you that. That was supposed to be a secret."

"Too late. What's the plan?"

"I can't tell you. It would ruin the surprise."

Micro laughs quietly. "You're going to do something chaotic, aren't you?"

"Probably." Thomas grins in the darkness. "Definitely, actually. We've been planning for months."

"Good." Micro kisses his forehead. "He deserves it."

"He definitely does."

"Can I help?"

Thomas' grin widens. "I was hoping you'd ask. We need someone with your particular skill set."

"My particular skill set being?"

"Being sneaky. Observant. Noticing things people don't want you to notice." Thomas snuggles closer. "Also you're very pretty and it'll be distracting."

"Flattering. And manipulative."

"I learned from the best."

They fall asleep like that— wrapped in each other, planning chaos, exactly where they belong.

˙✧˖°📺 ⋆｡˚

Snowbird sits in what appears to be his living room, not a production booth. It's cozy, personal— books on shelves, a cat visible in the background, the kind of space that suggests he's finally off the clock. He's holding a cup of coffee and smiling at the camera, but it's a softer smile than usual. Less producer, more friend.

"So. Six months later. The show's a hit, the couples are still together— shockingly— and I've been officially banned from ever orchestrating another romantic situation involving my friends." He pauses, grin widening. "I'm taking that as a challenge, obviously. They can't stop me. I'm too powerful."

He leans back, expression softening into something genuine.

"Thomas and Micro." He says the names like they're precious. "I've known Thomas for years. Watched him deflect every genuine connection with a joke. Watched him build walls higher than anyone should have to. Watched him push people away before they could get close enough to hurt him." He shakes his head slowly. "And now? Now he's in a committed relationship, living with the love of his life, planning revenge against me with his best friend." A quiet laugh. "It's everything I wanted for him. Everything he deserved."

Another pause, thoughtful.

"Flux and Saps finally figured it out too. Took them long enough— years of pining, of being completely oblivious, of making the rest of us watch and suffer." He grins. "But watching them now? The way they are together, the ease of it, the way they finish each other's sentences and steal each other's food and look at each other like the other hung the moon? It's worth every second of blackmail I had to employ to make it happen."

He sets down his coffee, meets the camera directly.

"People ask me if I planned this. If I knew, from the beginning, that Thomas and Micro would end up together. If I orchestrated the whole thing." He pauses, letting the suspense build. "The answer is..." Another pause. "Oh- absolutely I fucking did. Of course I knew. I'm a genius. A terrible, manipulative genius, but a genius nonetheless."

A beat, softer.

"The truth is, I just wanted my friends to be happy. Thomas, Flux, Saps— they all deserved someone who saw them. Really saw them. Past the jokes and the walls and the fear. And I just... helped things along. In my own chaotic way." He shrugs. "Is that so wrong? And the fact that I can broadcast it on national television is just a bonus!"

He stands, picking up his coffee and begins to head for the door, then pauses, looking back.

"Oh, and Thomas? If you're watching this— which you will be, because you're nosy and you're going to want to see what I said— I'm proud of you. Really. You found something real. You let someone in. You stopped hiding." Another pause, the grin softening into something almost vulnerable. "Don't screw it up."

He starts to leave, then stops again.

"Also, your revenge plan won't work. I'm too good. But I'm looking forward to watching you try." He winks. "It'll make great television, so let the games begin."

The screen goes dark and the credits begin to roll.