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Dennis Whitaker had only been at PTMC for a few hours before he saw you. In the staff lounge, you stood by the counter, brow furrowed, fingers tugging at a stubborn little packet of protein powder.
Dennis couldn’t explain it, not really. There was just something about you that made his chest tighten. He had seen plenty of people in his life, but none had made him feel like this—like he actually wanted to introduce himself, right now, without hesitation.
“Need a hand?” he blurted out before he could stop himself, stepping a little closer than necessary. His heart was pounding, and suddenly the packet in your hands seemed more like a reason to stay by your side than a snack.
You glanced up at him, startled, and for a second, Dennis thought he might have misjudged the situation—but then he saw the faintest flicker of a smile tug at your lips.
“Oh—uh, maybe,” you said, stepping back just slightly. “It’s being… stubborn.”
Dennis’ smile widened, more out of nervous excitement than skill. “I’ve got this. First day, but I’ve learned a thing or two about… opening things.” He leaned in, trying to look confident, like he wasn’t about to make an utter fool of himself. “Here, let me—”
The packet exploded in his hands. A cloud of white powder shot into the air, coating your hands, his scrubs, and half the counter. Dennis froze mid-apology, eyes wide, looking like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Oh—oh no! I—I didn’t—sorry!” he stammered.
You blinked through the haze, a mix of shock and amusement on your face. “It’s… fine,” you managed, trying not to laugh. “First day, huh?”
Dennis swallowed hard, brushing powder off his hair and scrubs. “Yeah… first day. And apparently, I’m making a memorable first impression,” he said, sheepishly, though a grin was tugging at his lips. “I’m.. uh.. Dennis Whitaker…”
You shook your head, laughing despite the mess. “Well… you’re definitely memorable. Messy, but memorable.”
Dennis’ eyes lit up, and he straightened. “I can make it up to you. I—uh, I’ll get a towel, or—maybe help clean up?” He gestured vaguely at the powder-covered counter, a little too quickly, and in the process knocked over a cup of pens, sending them clattering across the floor.
You winced and bent down to pick them up. “Whitaker, it’s okay. Really.”
“No, no! I can fix this, I promise!” He scrambled to grab a paper towel, only to knock the packet of protein powder itself over, sending another small cloud puffing into the air. His face fell as he froze, completely mortified.
You sighed, half-amused, half-exasperated. “Whitaker… stop. I really do need to get back to my patients.” You gave him a small, forgiving smile before slipping out of the lounge, leaving him standing there, a little hunched, dusted in white powder, and utterly dejected.
A couple of hours later, you were sitting at one of the computers, reviewing patient charts beside Dana. You were focused, tapping through files, when a shadow fell over the keyboard.
“Hey… um, excuse me,” came a hesitant voice.
You looked up to see Dennis standing there, holding up a finger that was smeared with blood. His expression was a mix of sheepishness and worry, and he kept glancing at you like he wasn’t sure he had permission to stay.
“Oh!” Dana gave a small laugh. “Looks like someone got into trouble.”
Dennis flushed and stepped closer. “I—uh, yeah. I just… a gurney got dropped on my finger. It’s not bad, but… Doctor Robby told me to come see you?” His words tumbled out fast, too many at once, like he was worried he’d overstay his welcome.
You blinked at him for a moment, then nodded, reaching for a bandage from the small first aid kit nearby. “Sure. Let me see.”
Dennis held out his hand like it was fragile glass. You carefully cleaned the cut and wrapped it, trying to suppress a smile at the way he was watching every movement with wide, anxious eyes.
“Sorry…” he started again, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know I’m probably wasting your time, and I—uh, I really didn’t mean to bother you after the whole… powder incident…” His voice trailed off, but his fidgeting hands and nervous glance at Dana made it clear he was genuinely uncomfortable.
You shook your head gently. “It’s okay. Really. I don’t mind helping.”
He exhaled, a little relief softening his tense shoulders, but he couldn’t help letting another nervous string of words tumble out. “I just… I don’t want to be that guy who keeps making a mess or… or bothering people. I—uh, I really appreciate you helping me.”
As your hands worked, his gaze wandered—first to the careful way you handled the dressing, then up to your face. He found himself utterly captivated by the curve of your smile, the focus in your eyes, the way your hair caught the light. His heart was hammering, and all of a sudden, the world shrank to just you.
“Okay… all done,” you said, snapping him back from his trance.
Dennis blinked, realising he had no idea what you’d just said. “Uh… yeah. Right. Done. Perfect… thanks…” His voice came out rushed, awkward, entirely betraying how utterly entranced he still was.
You gave him a small, reassuring smile. Dennis cleared his throat, still holding his bandaged finger, but now his eyes wouldn’t leave your face.
He tried to sound casual, but it came out a little too breathless. “You know… you have, uh… really steady hands. Very… professional. Makes it kind of… impressive.”
You glanced at him briefly, smirking just a little. “Thanks. I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Dennis leaned in slightly, a little too eagerly. “Not just practice… it’s kind of… mesmerising. How you, uh… focus like that.” He ran a nervous hand through his hair, clearly aware he was rambling, but unable to stop. “I mean, wow… you’re, uh—really something.”
You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “Whitaker, it’s just a finger.”
His smile faltered just a touch, the flush creeping higher up his neck. “Oh… right. Of course. Yeah… totally.” He tried to push a casual grin, but it came out more like a pout. “Well… I just thought maybe… uh, never mind.”
You gave him a polite, kind smile, returning your attention to the computer screen. “Don’t worry about it. Just… focus on not cutting yourself again.”
Dennis huffed softly, a little put out but trying to hide it. He shifted from foot to foot, clearly disappointed that his flustered, awkward charm hadn’t really landed. “Yeah… okay. Got it,” he muttered, looking down at his bandaged finger, then sneaking a quick glance at you before stepping back.
—
It has been a couple of weeks since you first met Dennis and it was pretty safe to say that, since then, he has made it his mission to be around you as much as he can. Your locker groaned open the way it always did—a long, metallic complaint that echoed faintly off the tiled walls. The hinge caught halfway before giving in with a reluctant clunk, like it needed convincing every single shift.
Inside was the usual controlled mess. A half-crushed granola bar wedged in the corner, a pen you could’ve sworn vanished three weeks ago, and your emergency chocolate stash. Your shoes carried you on autopilot toward the heart of the department—the nurses’ station, command central, the brain of the chaos. You could already see the giant patient board glowing from halfway down the hall, rows of names shifting in real time like a living thing.
You adjusted your stethoscope as you approached, your pace slowing to a stop at the desk. Dana stood planted at her usual post behind the desk, tablet balanced in one hand, reading glasses perched low on her nose. A paper cup of coffee sat dangerously close to the edge of the counter, one accidental elbow away from disaster.
You stepped beside her, resting a hand lightly on the desk as you tipped your chin up toward the board. Your eyes tracked automatically—room numbers, sats, colour-coded priority flags.
“Morning,” Dana said without looking up.
“Morning,” you murmured, already scanning.
“Mr Tom Allen in room five has been waiting for a check up,” Dana said, tapping her screen. “He’s all yours.”
“Perfect, thank you,” you nodded, pushing yourself off the desk.
You turned, and walked straight into someone solid.
“Oh—apologies,” you said quickly, steadying yourself as your hand landed gently on Dennis Whitaker’s arm.
“It’s okay,” he said with a sheepish smile that didn’t quite know where to land.
Up close, he stood a little too straight. A little too close. Shoulders locked like he was bracing for impact that had already happened. He cleared his throat awkwardly and gestured downwards with a jerky nod of his head. You followed the motion and glanced down at what he was holding.
A muffin. Carefully wrapped in a napkin. Chocolate chip, if the faint sweet smell was anything to go by.
“Oh! Thank you, Whitaker,” you smiled, gently taking the muffin from him.
“Dennis,” he mumbled, gaze dropping instantly to the floor.
Across the nurses’ station, Santos didn’t even pretend not to watch.
“Hey, where’s my muffin, Huckleberry?” she called out.
Dennis straightened. “In the staff lounge,” he said quickly, shooting her a stern look that carried absolutely no threat.
Her grin widened and she pushed off the desk with a quiet laugh, walking past him and shaking her head. Just before turning the corner, she mouthed dramatically: pathetic.
You broke the muffin in half, a few crumbs dusting your fingers as you popped a piece into your mouth, humming under your breath at the sweetness.
“Okay, wow,” you said around the bite. “That’s really good.”
You swallowed, offering the other half to Dennis. He blinked, looking at the muffin, then at you, and back to the muffin. He accepted it carefully, both hands for a second before remembering that was weird and quickly switching to one.
Smiling, you brushed your hands together, a few crumbs sprinkling onto the floor before you grabbed one of the tablets and turned on your heel, heading down the corridor toward room five.
Dennis watched you go with a small, helpless sigh. His shoulders slumped and his gaze drifted down to the muffin in his hand. Dana didn’t even try to hide her smirk as she leaned her elbow on the desk.
“You gonna frame it or eat it?” she asked, one brow arching.
He opened his mouth to protest when from the hallway, you called, “Whitaker? You coming?”
Panic surged through his body. He shoved the muffin into his mouth in one deeply unwise decision. He was filled with immediate regret as he tried to chew. His eyes went wide, cheeks puffed as he attempted to swallow.
Dennis thumped his fist lightly against his chest, attempting dignity while very clearly losing a battle against baked goods. He gave you a frantic thumbs-up that absolutely did not reassure anyone.
“Yeah!” he tried to say but it came out as, “Mmff—yeah!”
He stumbled into motion, nearly tripping over his own feet before catching himself on the edge of the desk. As carefully as he could, Dennis hurried down the corridor after you, still chewing the muffin.
You glanced back at the sound of hurried footsteps. “You good?”
Dennis nodded vigorously, still working through the mouthful, one hand raised in a strained all good gesture. A heroic swallow. A tiny cough. A recovering breath.
“All good,” he croaked, falling into step beside you like nothing had happened.
He tried, and failed, to look casual. His hands shoved into his pockets. Then out again. Then one back in. He adjusted his badge. Smoothed his hair. Checked his reflection mid-walk.
You slowed as you reached room five and Dennis came to an abrupt halt beside you—nearly colliding with your shoulder. He straightened instantly, clasping his hands behind his back like he was reporting for inspection.
“You’ve got crumbs,” you said casually, trying to bite back a smile.
“I do?” he asked, his voice already betraying him.
You stepped closer without thinking twice about it, lifting your hand toward his chest. “Yeah—right there.”
Time slowed to a medically concerning degree. Your fingers brushed lightly over the front of his scrubs, sweeping away a scatter of crumbs clinging to the fabric. The contact was brief and innocent.
But to Dennis, he stopped breathing. His brain short-circuited so violently it was almost audible. Your hand moved again, softer this time, brushing near his collar where one last stubborn crumb had lodged itself.
“There,” you said, satisfied. “All good.”
Dennis’s face had turned a shade of red that did not occur naturally in hospital settings. From his ears down to the collar of his scrubs—bright crimson.
“You—uh—thank you,” he managed, voice half an octave higher than usual.
You gestured politely toward the door. “You can go in first.”
He stepped forward confidently and walked directly into the closed door. Thump. He froze with his forehead against the glass for half a second, soul briefly departing his body.
“Careful of the door,” you said gently.
“Yep,” he replied, already recovering. “Saw that.”
He reached for the handle this time, opened it like a normal human being, and walked inside with forced composure that fooled absolutely no one. You followed a step behind, lips pressed together to hide a smile.
The end-of-shift chatter buzzed softly through the corridor as you and Dr McKay collected your things from your lockers. You were laughing about a minor mix-up with a patient’s chart, the two of you leaning casually against the cool metal doors.
Dennis came skidding around the corner a little too fast, eyes wide, and nearly ran straight into the lockers beside you. He grabbed the edge of the nearest door, doubling over and trying to catch his breath.
He straightened, brushing an invisible layer of dust off his scrubs, clearly flustered. “Oh—hey,” he said, still panting slightly. He glanced between you and McKay, looking a little uncertain. “So… uh… what were you two talking about?”
You exchanged a sly look with Cassie, who raised an eyebrow and grinned knowingly. “Oh, nothing much,” McKay said casually. “Just… plans for the weekend. You know how it is.”
Dennis tilted his head, suspicious. “Plans? The two of you? Uh… together?” His tone was incredulous, and his cheeks were beginning to tint pink.
You suppressed a giggle, leaning just a little closer to him. “Well… since we both have the weekend off, we were… talking about getting laid,” you said, letting the words linger in the air.
McKay snorted softly, playing along, nudging you with an exaggerated wink. “Yeah, it’s, uh… very top secret. Classified weekend operations.”
Dennis froze mid-step, eyes darting between the two of you. “Wait… wait, are you… a couple?” His voice wavered, equal parts scandalised and mortified.
You shrugged innocently, letting Cassie add a dramatic nod. “Could be,” McKay said, smirking. “Who’s asking?”
Dennis’ jaw dropped, and he instinctively straightened, trying to hide how flustered he was, but failing miserably. “Uh… I… no… I mean… what? I—uh… I just wondered…” He stumbled over his words, cheeks now a deep, unmistakable crimson.
You leaned against the locker again, grinning. “Relax, Whitaker. We’re just teasing you.
Dennis let out a defeated huff, running a hand through his hair and trying to regain some semblance of composure. He rocked back on his heels, clearly debating whether to retreat or attempt a recovery. Unfortunately for him, determination won.
“So,” he said, pointing awkwardly between the two of you, “these… classified operations—do they require, like, backup? Support staff? I’m very team-oriented.”
Cassie let out a short laugh. “Oh, he’s trying to enlist.”
You crossed your arms, pretending to assess him. “Hmm. Qualifications?”
Dennis straightened instantly. “Right. Yes. Qualifications. I’m… punctual. Mostly. I bring snacks. Morale’s important.” He gave a hopeful nod, then added, “I also make a mean bowl of pasta.”
“Tempting,” you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully.
“What… uh… what are you really doing this weekend?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
“Oh, probably nothing,” you shrugged, slinging your bag over your shoulder.
Dennis hesitated, gathering every ounce of courage he had. “Would you like to come around mine?” he asked, hope written all over his face. “As a friend thing?”
You tilted your head slightly. “Do I have to do anything?”
“Nope,” Dennis said quickly, shaking his head a little too fast. “Just… enjoy it, I guess?”
“You guess?” you teased, smiling at the way he immediately tripped over his confidence. “You know what—okay. I’ll come.”
Dennis blinked. “Wait—really?”
“Yeah.” You held out your hand expectantly. “Phone.”
He stared at your palm for half a second before scrambling to fish his phone out of his pocket, nearly dropping it before catching it against his chest. “Right—yes—phone. Here.”
You took it gently from his hands, thumbs moving quickly across the screen. Dennis watched like the moment was happening in slow motion—the soft furrow of your brow as you concentrated, the faint glow of the screen lighting your face, the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“There,” you said, handing the phone back. “Now you’ve got my number.”
Dennis looked down at the screen like it was the most important thing he’d ever held. He had your number. He smiled to himself, soft and a little dazed, clutching his phone like it was something precious.
You laughed softly and started down the corridor with Cassie, calling back over your shoulder, “Text me, Whitaker.”
The day finally caught up with you sometime after ten. You stood in your bathroom, toothbrush in hand, staring vaguely at your reflection as mint foam gathered at the corner of your mouth. The quiet hum of the extractor fan filled the room—steady, peaceful, the first real silence you’d had all day.
Your phone buzzed on the counter and you glanced down. A small, automatic smile tugged at your lips as you nudged the screen awake with your knuckle. The message was sent by an unknown number but you knew who it was straight away.
[ Unknown Number ]
Hi.
Hello…
Sorry… I hope this isn’t too late.
Another buzz.
[ Unknown Number ]
This is Dennis by the way…
I was just wondering what time works best for you tomorrow?
Morning? Afternoon? Evening?
I’m flexible.
You snorted softly, toothbrush still in your mouth.
[ Unknown Number ]
Also… food.
Important question.
What food do you like?
Any allergies?
Favorite snacks?
Sweet? Savory? Both?
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
[ Unknown Number ]
And movies!
Do you like comedies? Action? Rom-coms?
Documentaries?
Is there a movie you’ve seen a million times and still love?
Or one you refuse to watch ever again?
You quickly spat into the sink, laughing under your breath as another message appeared.
[ Unknown Number ]
Sorry that was a lot of questions.
I just want it to be… nice.
You wiped your mouth and picked up the phone, quickly adding his number into your contacts.
[ You ]
You’re very enthusiastic for “just a friend thing,” Whitaker.
The typing bubble appeared instantly. Disappeared. Reappeared.
[ Whitaker ]
Professional enthusiasm.
Clinically appropriate levels of planning.
You leaned back against the counter, smiling.
[ You ]
Afternoon works. No allergies. I’ll eat most things.
Snacks = yes.
Movies = surprise me.
[ Whitaker ]
Surprise you in a good way or a “we never speak again” way?
You laughed quietly.
[ You ]
Dealer’s choice. I’m brave.
The typing bubble lingered longer this time.
[ Whitaker ]
Okay. Good. Great. Excellent.
This is excellent.
You could practically hear his nervous energy through the screen.
[ Whitaker ]
I’ll text you the time tomorrow morning.
And I’ll handle food.
And movies.
And snacks.
And… logistics.
You shook your head fondly.
[ You ]
Relax. It’s just hanging out.
Three dots.
[ Whitaker ]
Right.
Just hanging out.
A beat.
[ Whitaker ]
Looking forward to it though.
Your smile softened.
[ You ]
Me too. Night, Whitaker.
This time, the reply took a moment.
[ Whitaker ]
Good night :)
Dennis had been ready for twenty minutes. Not almost ready. Not finishing touches ready. Ready-ready. The apartment looked like a furniture showroom that had been warned about a surprise inspection. The cushions on the couch were plumped into perfect symmetry, their corners sharp and deliberate.
The coffee table sat centered with mathematical precision over the rug’s pattern. A bowl of snacks rested in the middle like a museum exhibit—chips sorted by size, candy lined up in colour order, not a crumb in sight.
It was suspicious. Unnaturally so. The kind of tidy that screamed someone is trying very hard. Dennis, meanwhile, was pacing a narrow track into the hardwood floor.
“Okay,” he muttered, dragging both hands down his face. “Normal greeting. Casual. Friendly. Like a person. Just… be a person.” He stopped and turned toward the TV screen, using his reflection like a rehearsal partner. A small wave. A tentative smile. “Hey. Hi. Come in.”
He grimaced instantly. “Too stiff. That sounded like I’m hosting a corporate meeting.” He shook out his arms like he could fling the awkwardness off his fingers. “Hey! You made it.” Finger guns. Dennis froze mid-pose, stared at himself, and slowly lowered his hands.
“Nope. Absolutely not.”
He exhaled hard through his nose and resumed pacing, heart already beating like he’d run a mile without moving an inch. A knock sounded at the door and Dennis froze. His heart launched into a full sprint as he rushed to open it. His sock slipped slightly on the floor and he windmilled an arm to recover, dignity barely intact.
He yanked the door open and there you were. For a moment, he just stared. Brain completely blank. Every practiced line vanished.
“Hi,” you said, smiling softly.
Dennis opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried again. “Hey—hello—hi. You’re—here. Which—good. That’s good.”
Brilliant. Incredible. A linguistic masterpiece. Dennis thought, mentally slapping his own forehead.
You laughed gently. “I’d hope so.”
The sound should’ve reassured him. Instead, it twisted into panic. Were you laughing politely? Was he already being a lot? He stepped aside too quickly, nearly bumping the doorframe.
“Yes. Come in. Please. Enter.” Dennis smiled, Enter? Who says enter?
You walked past him, amused, taking in the suspiciously tidy space. “Wow. You cleaned.”
“I always clean,” he said automatically. A beat. “I panic-cleaned.”
He shut the door and exhaled slowly, pressing his forehead against it for half a second and trying to reset his face into something that didn’t scream social catastrophe. You turned with a grin when a shrill beep cut through the silence.
Dennis’ eyes widened in horror. “The oven!”
Of course. Of course he forgot. The one thing he’d timed perfectly. The one thing he’d practiced like choreography. Temperature, minutes, plating—planned down to the second. Yet, the moment you arrived, his brain had unplugged itself. He spun on his heel and bolted toward the kitchen. There was the clatter of a pan, a muffled yelp, and the frantic shuffle of oven mitts.
“I meant to not forget—this was planned—I swear!” he called out, voice tight with panic.
You followed at an unhurried pace, leaning against the kitchen doorway, one shoulder resting on the frame. You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. Dennis wrestled with oven mitts like they were sentient. Finally victorious, he opened the oven and carefully pulled out the tray with exaggerated caution, like he was defusing something explosive.
He stared at it for half a second, watching as a thin ribbon of smoke curled upward. That is not what food should look like.He straightened slowly, shoulders sinking as reality settled in. Turning toward you, face flushed pink, he held the tray out stiffly like evidence in a courtroom.
“Recovered,” he announced with a wince. “Mostly.”
You leaned forward and glanced down at the tray. The contents were charcoal-black. Beyond saving. Possibly fossilised.
“Looks delicious,” you hummed, teasing warmth in your voice.
Dennis let out a small, defeated breath. “I’m sorry.”
And he didn’t just mean dinner. He meant the awkward greeting. The verbal nonsense. The spiraling panic. The way every moment he wanted to get right kept slipping sideways like a scene from a blooper reel. He’d wanted to seem put-together. Effortless. Someone easy to be around. Someone worth choosing to spend an evening with.
You stepped closer, your voice gentler now. “Perhaps we should order take-out?”
Dennis looked up, hopeful but sheepish. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, that… that sounds safer.”
He carefully set the ruined tray down with exaggerated care, the metal clinking softly against the counter. Dennis reached for the dish towel beside the sink. He wiped his hands once. Then again. Then folded the towel in half with precise edges and wiped them a third time, buying himself a few steadying seconds.
“This way,” he said, gesturing toward the living room like a host trying very hard to recover his dignity.
You followed him down the short hallway. The kitchen light faded behind you, replaced by a warmer glow. The lamps in the living room cast soft amber pools across the walls, turning the carefully controlled neatness into something gentler, almost cozy.
The couch sat centered like a stage set. A knitted blanket was folded over one arm with suspicious precision, its edges aligned so neatly it looked professionally styled. Decorative pillows rested in symmetrical formation, their seams facing inward like they’d been coached.
The coffee table was a study in preparation. Coasters spaced with geometric accuracy. Napkins stacked into a perfect square. Bowls of snacks arranged in tidy rows—salty, sweet, savory—like categories in a very anxious buffet. Dennis hovered near the arm of the couch, suddenly unsure where to put his hands.
“I didn’t, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Overdo it, did I?”
“It’s cute,” you said lightly, one shoulder lifting in a small shrug.
He blinked, caught off guard. “Cute?”
“Thoughtful,” you corrected with a small smile.
The word landed gently, and something in his expression loosened. Dennis pulled out his phone like he’d just remembered an important mission. “I’ll order. My treat.” He nodded once, decisive. “What are we thinking? Pizza? Thai? Something healthy so we can pretend we tried to be responsible adults?”
You laughed softly, the sound warm and easy. “Whatever you’d like.”
He nodded like you’d entrusted him with a state secret and sat down on the very edge of the couch cushion. Back straight. Knees together. Phone held with intense focus. You sat beside him, close enough that your sleeve brushed his arm. Dennis immediately went statue-still.
You tilted your head, amused. “Whitaker.”
“Mm?” His voice came out tighter than intended.
“You can relax,” you teased.
“I am relaxed,” he insisted, shoulders hovering somewhere near his ears.
You nudged his arm lightly. “I don’t bite.”
He paused, eyes wide, “I—right—no—I didn’t think you did—I mean not that it would be bad if you—I just—”
You laughed, and leaned back into the couch. “You’re safe. Promise.”
Dennis released a slow breath through his nose, like he’d been holding it since the front door opened. His shoulders lowered by a fraction. Small, but noticeable. Dennis cleared his throat softly and looked back down at his phone, grateful for something to focus on.
“Okay… food,” he murmured, scrolling with intense concentration. “Safe options. Crowd-pleasers. No culinary incidents.”
You watched the small crease form between his brows—the face he made when he was trying very hard to get something right.
“Ooh—this place is good,” he said, a little more confidently. “They do great noodles. And dumplings. And—oh—these crispy things I can’t pronounce but fully support.” He risked a quick glance at you. “Sound okay?”
“Perfect,” you nodded.
He tapped decisively, relief flickering across his face like he’d just passed an exam. “Done. It says… about twenty minutes.” He gave a small, satisfied nod. “See? Competent. Efficient. Minimal disaster.”
You laughed quietly. “Gold star.”
He set his phone down on the coffee table and rubbed his palms on his knees, nerves slowly bleeding off now that the big decisions were handled.
“So,” he said, a little softer, “movie?”
Before hesitation could catch up, he reached for the remote and turned toward the TV. The screen flickered to life, washing the room in cool shifting light. The soft murmur of a streaming menu filled the space. Dennis leaned back—just slightly at first—testing it, then he sank a little deeper into the cushion. He scrolled through titles, posture loosening with each click.
“Terrible action movie?” he offered. He tilted the remote toward you like a presenter revealing a prize. “Comfort rewatch? Something neither of us has seen so we can judge it together?”
You leaned closer to see the screen better, your shoulder brushing his. “Whatever floats your boat, Whitaker.”
“Oooh—” Dennis brightened. “Classic comfort.”
On screen WALL·E popped up and he hit play before the universe could interfere. The opening scenes rolled, gentle and quiet, filling the apartment with soft mechanical whirs and sweeping music.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you really noticing when it happened, the space between you quietly disappeared. Dennis only became aware of it when he felt the faintest shift of warmth at his side—light, steady, and unexpectedly comforting. Your thigh rested against his. Just there, close enough to be unmistakable, but gentle enough that it felt almost natural.
For a second, Dennis went perfectly still. His mind, of course, did not stay still with him. Was it accidental? Had you leaned over without thinking? Were you comfortable? Should he move away a little? Stay exactly where he was? Say something? Pretend not to notice? Disappear through the floorboards out of pure social panic?
He didn’t move at first, worried any reaction might make it awkward. His mind raced through possibilities. Was it accidental? Were you comfortable? Should he shift? Stay still? Evaporate?
He glanced sideways with painstaking care, trying to do it subtly enough that it wouldn’t look like he was checking. You seemed completely at ease. Your attention stayed on the screen, your posture loose and unguarded, one hand resting lazily near your lap. No sign that the contact meant anything except what it was.
The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees, and after a moment he allowed himself to settle back into the couch again. He stopped hovering at the edge of himself and let his leg rest naturally where it was. The contact stopped feeling like a question.
Dennis finally stopped analysing every tiny movement long enough to just be there with you.
Then he swallowed, a thought forming slowly enough that it almost felt brave. He turned his head just a little, about to say something—anything—that might keep this calm, comfortable closeness going.
“Hey, I was just wondering—”
The door bell rang and the both of you jumped. Dennis blinked at the door like it had personally betrayed him. “Oh—food!”
He scrambled upright a little too fast, remote slipping from his hand onto the cushion. “I’ve got it!” he added quickly, already moving.
His sock caught the edge of the rug—the rug he had meticulously straightened earlier—and his foot snagged just enough to ruin his momentum. There was a graceless half-stumble, half-hop as his arms windmilled for balance.
“—whoa—!” He threw out a hand and caught himself against the wall just before he could fully crash into it, the impact making a dull thud against the plaster.
“I meant to do that,” he called back, voice tight with embarrassment as he pushed himself upright and tried to salvage what remained of his dignity.
He ran a hand through his hair as he hurried the rest of the way to the door, this time moving with much more caution, as though the floor might try to betray him again. He took one deep breath before opening it, then pulled the door wide with what he hoped looked like calm, competent adulthood. The delivery driver stood there with the order in hand.
“Hi—yes—thank you,” he said, accepting the warm paper bags like they were precious cargo. The rich smell of take-out instantly filled the hallway.
He nodded at the delivery driver with an earnest little smile, reached for his wallet, and tipped him a little too generously in the process, as though that might somehow make up for everything else he had already fumbled tonight.
“Have a good night,” he called, shutting the door gently with his foot.
He lingered for half a second in the quiet hallway, the soft click of the door settling into silence behind him. Warm paper bags hung from his fingers, their folded tops rustling faintly as steam slipped out in gentle breaths. The heat seeped into his palms, grounding him, as he turned back toward the living room.
When he returned to the living room, you looked up as he approached. He crossed to the coffee table and knelt slightly to set everything down, moving with careful precision. Containers were placed one by one, aligned without him even realising he was doing it. Plastic lids popped softly as he opened them, releasing fresh waves of warmth and savory fragrance into the air.
“Here,” he said quietly, sliding one container toward you and offering a pair of chopsticks. His fingers brushed yours for the briefest second during the handoff—quick, accidental, but enough to make him acutely aware of everything again.
He took his own container and settled back beside you. This time, he didn’t perch on the edge like a guest afraid to wrinkle the furniture. He still carried a hint of nervous energy—a slight tightness in his movements, a carefulness in how he held himself—but the rigid formality from earlier had softened. He even managed a small, genuine smile as you both started eating, the movie playing quietly in the background while the room filled with the warm smell of food.
It felt natural. Comfortable. Dennis found himself relaxing again, shoulders loose, posture easy as he leaned back into the couch. Mid-bite, you said something he didn’t quite catch, and he glanced over, then paused. There, faint but unmistakable, was a small streak of sauce near the side of your mouth.
“Uh—hey,” he said gently, tapping his own cheek in demonstration. “You’ve got a little…”
You paused, touching the side of your face. “Here?”
“No, a little—” He leaned in slightly, then stopped himself, suddenly aware of how close he was. “Sorry. I can—uh—”
His words tripped over themselves. Dennis hesitated only a moment longer before lifting his hand carefully. His thumb brushed gently against your cheek, the pad of it wiping away the sauce in one slow, careful motion. It was so light it barely felt like anything at all.
“There,” he murmured, almost to himself.
Then he pulled his hand back like he’d just realised what he’d done, blinking once and going just a little pink.
“All good,” he added quickly, voice softer now.
You looked at him, a small smile resting easily on your face. “Thanks.”
The movie’s quiet soundtrack filled the small silence that followed. And Dennis suddenly found it very hard to focus on anything except the warm, fluttery feeling in his chest. He tried to focus on his food again.
He tried to act normal but only three seconds had passed before he cleared his throat and blurted, “Sorry.”
You glanced over. “For what?”
“That. The—face thing,” Dennis gestured vaguely toward his own cheek, then yours. “I should’ve asked first. I mean, I kind of did? But not officially. Not clearly. And I don’t want you to think I just—assumed—or invaded your space or—”
“That. The—face thing. I should’ve asked first. I mean, I kind of did, but not officially, and I don’t want you to think I just—assumed—or invaded your space or—” He stopped eating entirely now, words picking up speed. “I just don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. Or anyone. Especially you. And sometimes I misread situations and then I try to fix it and make it worse and—”
He stopped eating entirely. Chopsticks hovered midair before lowering slowly back into the container. His words, meanwhile, did the opposite — picking up speed, tripping over each other in their rush to get out.
“I just don’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. Or anyone. Especially you. And sometimes I misread situations and then I try to fix it and somehow that makes it worse and then I overcorrect and that’s worse too and—”
He inhaled sharply through his nose, like he’d run out of runway. The container made a soft thk as he set it down on the coffee table with exaggerated care, aligning it with the edge like neatness could compensate for nerves.
“I overstepped, didn’t I?” He mumbled and before you could answer, he was already on his feet. “I overstepped.”
Dennis began pacing in front of the television, the movie’s soft glow washing over him in shifting light. His hand dragged back through his hair, leaving it slightly mussed.
“I knew it,” he muttered. “First the greeting, then the cooking, then the rug, and now this. There’s like a—” he gestured in a loose circular motion “—a pattern. A sequence of avoidable disasters.”
“I’m really sorry. I just—sometimes I try to be helpful or normal and it comes out…” He made a vague, helpless motion with both hands. “Too much. Too fast. Too… me.” His shoulders slumped slightly. “And you’re being so nice about everything, and I don’t want to make the night weird.” He gestured between you, like the space itself needed careful handling. “Or make you feel weird. Or pressured.”
He resumed pacing, but the distance shortened — smaller steps, tighter turns, restless energy with nowhere to go. His socks whispered softly against the floor with each pass.
“I can absolutely sit back down and create, like… a respectful buffer zone,” He nodded once, convincing himself.
He stopped mid-ramble, blinking like he’d just caught himself on a security camera of his own thoughts. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again.
“I just don’t want you to regret coming.” The words landed softly. He didn’t dress them up. Didn’t rush them. They just sat there, honest and unguarded.
Dennis stood there in the middle of the room, anxious and sincere and more open than he probably meant to be. Then he started pacing again.
“And it’s just—” He exhaled sharply, the breath shaky on the way out. “I really like you. Like… really like you.” His voice softened, vulnerability threading through it. “Which probably makes this worse, because now every tiny thing feels huge and I don’t know what the right move is supposed to be. There’s a script somewhere, I’m sure, and I did not get a copy.”
A soft, self-conscious laugh slipped out. “I don’t even know if I’ll ever have a real chance with you. I mean—look at me tonight.” He gestured helplessly at himself. “I’m basically a compilation reel of awkward decisions.”
“But I wanted this to be good. For you.” His eyes flicked up, steady despite the nerves. “Because you deserve good.”
Through all of it, you just watched him—quiet, warm, an unmistakable smile slowly growing as his nervous honesty spilled out in tangled threads. Dennis kept pacing for another moment, words still half-caught on the edge of another apology, another explanation, another attempt to make sense of everything he was feeling.
You stood, taking two calm steps forward. You reached for his wrist, and the restless motion of him came to a stop all at once. Dennis looked down at your hand, then slowly back up at you, as if the whole room had gone beautifully, impossibly quiet.
Your fingers stayed warm around his wrist, steady and grounding. Your thumb rested lightly over the quick beat of his pulse, fluttering beneath his skin with all the leftover nerves he hadn’t quite managed to hide. You took another step closer until there was almost no space left between you.
Up close, Dennis looked wonderfully undone—cheeks faintly pink, hair falling a little messily over his forehead from all the anxious hands that had run through it, eyes wide and bright with worry and hope. He seemed to forget, for a second, what he’d been about to say.
“Dennis,” you said softly, your voice low and gentle. You lifted your free hand and rested it lightly against his forearm. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it cut cleanly through the noise in his head. “Breathe.”
“You called me Dennis,” he said faintly, as if that alone had short-circuited his brain all over again.
A tiny, fond smile touched your mouth. “Breathe.”
He drew in a careful breath. It trembled at first, then steadied. The tight line of his shoulders began to ease, tension loosening thread by thread. The restless energy that had been humming through him softened into something quieter, more manageable. His gaze steadied, focusing on you instead of everything that could go wrong.
Dennis swallowed, his voice smaller now, worn thin by honesty. “I… I do really like you.” His fingers twitched slightly at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure he’d earned that yet. “And I know tonight’s been kind of a mess. I know I’ve been…” He gave a tiny, helpless shrug. “A lot. But… I really want a chance.”
You lifted your hand slowly from his arm to his forehead, brushing that loose strand of hair back into place. Your fingers moved carefully through the soft fringe, smoothing it away from his eyes.
He went very still at the touch, like even breathing might interrupt it. His mouth parted slightly, like he’d forgotten what he was about to say. Before his thoughts could catch up—before another apology or nervous spiral could form—you leaned in. You gave him time to pull away if he wanted but he didn’t and your lips met his in a soft, quiet kiss.
For a second, he didn’t move at all. Then all at once, his shoulders loosened completely, and the tension he’d been carrying seemed to dissolve under the quiet warmth of it. His hands found their way to your waist, clumsy but determined.
Then you pulled back just enough to look at him. Dennis blinked, a little dazed, but trying to act casual. He pushed his chest out, squared his shoulders, and lifted his chin like a man who’d totally handled this. “Yeah. That. Fine. No big deal,” he said, feigning confidence, his voice just a little too sharp, a little too deliberate.
You gave him the tiniest smile and before he could fully convince himself he was composed, you pecked his lips again. And again. And again. Dennis went rigid for half a heartbeat. Then he melted. Completely.
He cleared his throat, voice quieter now, a sheepish little quaver escaping. “Was… was that—uh—to shut me up? Or… because you, you like me?”
He bit his lip nervously, glancing at you like the answer might somehow change if he looked long enough. You shrugged, casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Both,” you said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of your lips.
Dennis’ jaw slackened slightly. He blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. His entire body seemed to be trying to decide whether to collapse into the couch, leap up in relief, or melt entirely—and, truthfully, he probably wanted to do all three.
Finally, he gave a tiny, helpless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh. Both. Okay. That’s… good. Really good.” he swallowed, voice low and hesitant, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt almost unconsciously.
“Um… do… do you think we could… maybe… do that again?” he asked, sheepish and awkward and completely endearing all at once. His eyes flicked up at you, wide and hopeful, like he’d just confessed a terrible secret.
You rolled your eyes, a teasing curve of your mouth, pretending to consider it like he’d just asked a very difficult question. “Hmm… let me think about it,” you said, dragging out the words in mock deliberation, tilting your head just enough to make him squirm under your gaze.
Dennis’ shoulders twitched. His hands fiddled nervously at his sides. “I… I think it would be… nice. Maybe. If you want to,” he added quickly, trying to cover the way his whole body was practically vibrating with anticipation.
You smiled, that faint, knowing smirk that made him go weak in the knees, and leaned in without another word. Dennis’ world narrowed to you again, and the second your lips met his, he melted completely.