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There were some things in the SDN that didn’t need to be written down. The coffee machine would break every Tuesday at 9:17 a.m, someone—no one knew who—kept stealing pens and replacing them with worse pens, and once a month, like clockwork, Flambae would punch Robert. No one talked about it, but everyone knew. It had started as a rumor, then a pattern, then a certainty. There was no official announcement, no calendar reminder, no memo sent out, but people knew when it was coming. The air shifted, conversations shortened, and people found reasons to linger just a little longer in the main office.
Today felt like one of those days. Robert, unfortunately, also knew, which was why he was standing at his desk, flipping through a file with the kind of forced calm that fooled absolutely no one. It didn’t help that he’s had a raging migraine pulsing behind his right eye since yesterday.
“You look tense,” Malevola muttered as she passed.
Robert didn’t look up. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Punch Up added helpfully.
“I said I’m not.”
Across the room, Prism checked her watch. “Any minute now.”
“Shut up,” Robert snapped, though without heat.
It was… routine at this point. Not pleasant, nor something he liked, but predictable. Manageable. Flambae always came in hot with sharp steps, sharp eyes, and something coiled tight under his skin. There was never much buildup, just a moment where his gaze locked onto Robert, and then— Well.
Then there was impact.
Flambae was kind enough (if he could even call what the flaming man did as “kind”) to not use his full force on the poor dispatcher, but it still left half of Robert’s face throbbing for the better part of his shift. At the remembrance, Robert exhaled slowly, bracing himself without looking like he was bracing. He adjusted the papers on his desk for the third time. Fourth.
The door opened. The room stilled. Flambae walked in right on time.
He looked the same as always, maybe a little worse if anyone was being honest. There was something tight in his jaw, something restless in the way his fingers flexed at his sides. His eyes swept the room once, quick and assessing, before landing on Robert.
There it was. That moment. Everyone felt it. Punch Up in the back actually leaned forward. Robert straightened, just slightly, and finally looked up. Their eyes met and held.
And then, there was everything else. Flambae never really blended in, but today he seemed especially… offensive. His hair was pulled back into that same low ponytail he always wore, dark strands gathered loosely at the nape of his neck, a few shorter pieces slipping free near his temples like they refused to stay contained. It wasn’t messy, exactly, just careless in a way that felt intentional, like he couldn’t be bothered to make it perfect but still somehow ended up looking like he meant it.
And his eyes. Even from across the room, Robert could see the way they caught the light. Amber, sharp and bright, like something warm turned dangerous. They didn’t just look at things; they locked in, focused, held on a second too long. It made every glance feel deliberate, like you’d been singled out, whether you wanted to be or not. Robert definitely did not want to be.
He was, unfortunately, very much singled out.
Flambae started walking. Each step was deliberate and controlled, like he was holding something back, but only barely. The room collectively held its breath. Robert didn’t move, didn’t flinch, and didn’t look away. Flambae stopped in front of him. Close enough. Too close. Robert sighed, his headache now an aching throb against his skull.
“Just a fair warning,” he said, rubbing circles into his temples. “My head is killing me.”
Flambae scowled. “Why the fuck should I care if your normie head is hurting?”
Robert shrugged. “Dunno. Thought you might go easy on me if my head already feels like someone bashed it in with a warhammer.”
The flaming man’s eyes flared to life. For a second, it looked exactly like every other time. The tension. The proximity. The inevitability of it. Robert braced. Flambae lifted his hand—
And hesitated.
It was small. Barely noticeable. But it was there. His expression flickered—confusion? irritation? something else entirely? The room leaned in.
Robert blinked. “…What are you doing?”
Flambae didn’t answer. His hand, still raised, hovered in the space between them like it had forgotten its purpose. For a second, it looked like he might follow through, like he might close the distance the way he always did. But instead, he placed his hand on Robert’s head.
Lightly. Awkwardly. Like he’d never done it before. Like he wasn’t entirely sure how.
Pat.
The sound was almost nonexistent, but it echoed anyway.
The entire room froze. Robert froze. Flambae froze. They both looked down at where Flambae’s hand was resting on Robert’s head. Then, slowly, Robert looked back up.
“Did you just… comfort me?”
Flambae’s expression shifted instantly to horror. He yanked his hand back like he’d touched something dangerous. “I don’t know what that was.”
Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence. Somewhere in the room, Visi choked.
“Did—” she whispered.
“No, he—” Sonar began
“He patted him—”
Robert was still staring at Flambae like he’d grown a second head. “You were supposed to punch me,” he said, because apparently that was the most logical thing to say.
Flambae looked genuinely offended. “I was not supposed to—” He cut himself off, visibly recalibrating. “That’s not the point.”
“That is very much the point.”
“It is not.”
“It has been the point for the past—what—three months??”
“That was—” Flambae gestured vaguely. “Different.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
They stared at each other. Behind them, Visi whispered, “This is worse.”
“Way worse,” Malevola agreed.
“This is unnatural.”
Robert dragged a hand down his face. “So… what. That’s it?”
Flambae frowned. “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”
“I mean—” Robert gestured between them. “Was that the whole thing?”
A pause. Flambae seemed to consider it. “…Yes.”
“Wow,” Prism muttered. “Talk about anticlimactic.”
Robert blinked again, slower this time. “You came all the way over here, worked yourself up for God knows how long, and instead of punching me, you—” he mimed the motion, awkwardly tapping his own head— “did that?”
Flambae’s eye twitched. “I didn’t plan it.”
“It looked planned.”
“It wasn’t.”
“It had structure.”
“It did not have structure.”
“It had form, Flambae.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means it felt intentional!”
“It wasn’t!”
Robert stared at him for another long second. Then, finally: “…Okay.”
Flambae frowned harder. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Robert repeated, though he didn’t sound convinced.
Neither did anyone else. Flambae lingered for a moment longer, like he was waiting for something, another reaction, maybe, or a reason to stay, but when none came, he turned sharply and walked away. The room didn’t move until he was gone.
And then, it was an explosion.
“What the hell was that?!” Visi shouted
“He patted him!” Prism replied
“That’s not a punch—that’s the opposite of a punch!” Colm said. “And I’d know what a punch is.”
“Is this worse? I think this is worse!” Malevola added.
“Robert, are you okay?”
Robert didn’t answer right away. He was still standing there, staring at nothing, one hand slowly lifting to his head—touching the spot where Flambae’s hand had been.
“…I think,” he said slowly, “I’m more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.”
“Same,” Sonar said immediately.
From across the room, Prism pulled out her phone. “Okay, new pool.”
Robert groaned. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, we’re starting,” Malevola said, already taking out her phone
“What are we betting on?” Robert asked.
“The next one,” Prism said, her fingers tapping idly against her phone screen.
“The next what?”
“The next time he does whatever that was.”
Robert dropped his head into his hands. “This is my life now,” he muttered.
“Head pat was stage one,” Sonar announced.
“Stage two?” Courtney asked.
“Back pat.”
“Too bold.”
“No, no, it’s logical escalation.”
“Or regression: he panics and goes back to punching.”
“That would be disappointing.”
Robert looked up, exasperated. “Why are you all like this?”
No one answered. Because honestly? No one knew.
By the time the next month rolled around, the whole office was buzzing with energy. The room was already full. This time, no one was pretending. People had gathered openly: leaning against desks, sitting on the edges of tables, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the door.
“Okay, but what if nothing happens?” Mandy whispered, trying to be the sensible one in the group. “What if he just felt bad that Robert had a headache that day?
“Something’s happening,” Prism said confidently.
“It always happens,” Malevola said.
Robert stood in the center of it all, deeply regretting every life choice that had led him here. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
“You’re the main event,” Courtney reminded him.
“I don’t want to be the main event.”
“Too late.”
The door opened. Silence dropped instantly. Flambae walked in. Same tension, same sharp edges, same eyes, locking immediately onto Robert. But this time, there was something else. Hesitation. Maybe recognition. Like he knew what was expected of him, and didn’t entirely know what to do about it. He walked forward anyway, slower this time, more deliberate.
Robert didn’t look away.
“Don’t,” he said under his breath, though it wasn’t clear what he meant. Don’t punch me? Don’t pat me? Don’t make this weirder?
Flambae stopped in front of him again. Close.
Too close.
His hand lifted. The entire room leaned forward. Robert braced— And—
Flambae placed his hand on Robert’s shoulder. But this time, he didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, his hand slid down to Robert’s upper back—a brief, firm pat. Not awkward. Not accidental.
Intentional. Deliberate. Gone just as quickly.
The room erupted.
“BACK PAT.”
“I CALLED IT—”
“That was clean—did you see that form?”
“STRUCTURE. IT HAS STRUCTURE.”
Robert just stared at Flambae, completely undone. “…You upgraded.”
Flambae looked vaguely offended again. “I did not ‘upgrade.’”
“You absolutely upgraded.”
“It was the same thing.”
“It was not the same thing.”
“It was adjacent.”
“That was a back pat.”
“It was near the back.”
“That’s a back pat!”
Flambae opened his mouth to argue and then stopped. Because… yeah. It was. He frowned as if this realization annoyed him. “I didn’t plan that either.”
Robert huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “Sure.”
They stood there for a second longer, neither moving until someone coughed loudly from across the room. Flambae stepped back abruptly.
“Next month,” Prism whispered, “full contact.”
“Shut up,” Robert said immediately.
But he didn’t sound as sure as he did last time. And Flambae didn’t argue.
*****
The next moment happened before the next month came around.
It started, as most bad ideas did, with Robert minding his own business. The SDN gym wasn’t anything special, just a functional space tucked into the lower level. A few racks, some machines, free weights, quiet, and predictable.
Safe.
Robert liked it that way. He had a routine. Headphones in, minimal interaction. In, out, done. Which was why he immediately knew something was wrong when he felt that feeling. Like being watched. He paused mid-rep, the bar hovering just above his chest, and glanced to the side. Flambae was standing there. Of course he was. Just… standing there. Watching.
“…What are you doing?” Robert said flatly.
Flambae didn’t answer right away. His fiery gaze flicked from the bar to Robert’s grip to the position of his arms like he was assessing something.
“That weight is uneven, bitch,” Flambae said finally.
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
Flambae stepped closer. Too close. Robert sat up, immediately setting the bar back onto the rack before this could become a situation.
“I’ve been lifting this exact weight for weeks,” Robert said. “It’s fine.”
Flambae ignored him. He reached out and adjusted one of the plates by a fraction of an inch. “There,” he said.
Robert stared at him. “…That did nothing.”
“It improved stability.”
“It moved half a centimeter.”
“That half centimeter matters.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It does if it crushes you, Normie.”
“It’s not going to crush me—”
Flambae’s expression sharpened. “If this bar crushes you,” he said, voice low and deadly serious, “I will personally fight it.”
Silence. Robert blinked, his face deadpanning in annoyance. “…You’ll fight the bar.”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“With force.”
“That’s not—” Robert cut himself off, pressing his lips together. “Okay. Sure. Yeah. Fight the bar. Great plan.”
Flambae nodded once, like this was a perfectly reasonable conclusion. “Lift again.”
“No.”
“Lift again.”
“I don’t need—”
“I’m spotting you.”
Robert froze. “…You’re what?”
“I’m spotting you.”
“You have never—”
“I am now. You’re a stupid, weak normie, Bitch.”
Before Robert could argue further, Flambae stepped behind the bench and positioned himself correctly. Which was somehow worse. Robert stared up at him, deeply suspicious. “Do you even know how to spot someone?”
Flambae glared at him. “Yes!”
“You said that very fast.”
“Because it’s true.”
“That doesn’t make it more convincing.”
Flambae’s jaw tightened. “Stop being a bitch for once and let me fucking help you.”
Robert hesitated. This was a bad idea. This was definitely a bad idea, but Flambae wasn’t leaving. And if Robert didn’t do this, it would turn into an argument, which would turn into a scene, which would—
“Fine,” Robert muttered.
He lay back down, regripping the bar. “Don’t touch it unless I actually need help,” he added quickly.
“I know.”
“You don’t know.”
“I do.”
“You absolutely do not—”
“Robert.”
“…What?”
“Lift.”
Robert exhaled sharply and pushed the bar up. One rep. Two. Three—
Flambae leaned in slightly. Too close. His hands hovered just beneath the bar, not touching but ready, tracking every movement. Robert’s focus slipped for half a second.
“Stop hovering,” he said.
“I’m not hovering.”
“You are literally hovering.”
“I am prepared.”
“You are breathing down my neck.”
“I am ensuring your safety.”
“You are making this worse—”
The bar wobbled slightly. Flambae’s hands snapped up instantly—not grabbing, just there, close enough that Robert could feel the heat of them.
“Stabilize,” Flambae said sharply.
“I am stabilized—”
“Your right side dipped.”
“It did not—”
“It did.”
Robert shoved the bar back onto the rack harder than necessary and sat up. “I’m done.”
Flambae frowned. “You had at least two reps left.”
“I had zero reps left for this.”
“This is proper form.”
“This is psychological warfare.”
“This is support.”
“This is not support—”
Flambae stepped closer again, close enough that Robert had to tilt his head back slightly to meet his eyes.
“You completed the set,” Flambae said.
“Yes.”
“You did not get crushed.”
“Yes.”
Flambae nodded once. “Then it worked.”
Robert stared at him, opened his mouth, then closed it. “You’re insane.”
“I’m a genius.”
There was a pause. A strange one because they were still standing too close, and Flambae’s hands, though no longer hovering over the bar, hadn’t moved very far. Still near. Still there.
Robert cleared his throat and stepped back first. “Don’t do that again,” he said.
“I very much will.”
“Don’t.”
“I will, Bitch.”
“Flambae—”
“You need supervision.”
“I do not need supervision.”
“You almost died.”
“I did not almost die.”
“The bar wobbled.”
“That is not death!”
“It is the beginning of death.”
“That is not how that works!”
Flambae crossed his arms, unmoved. “I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said.
Robert groaned.
*****
The first time it happened, Robert thought it was a mistake. Someone had left an unlabeled, still-warm container on his desk. He stared at it for a solid thirty seconds before poking the lid open. It smelled… good. Suspiciously good.
“Don’t eat that,” Chase hissed from across the room, holding Beef in his arms.
“I wasn’t going to—”
“It could be a trap.”
“A trap of what?”
“I don’t know, but it feels like one.”
Robert frowned, inspecting it. “It’s pasta.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s not—”
“Check for poison.”
“I am not checking my lunch for poison—”
“It’s too normal.”
Chase let Beef sniff the container, but the dog, being the fat thing he is, immediately tried licking the contents out of it. Chase immediately held Beef back, not wanting whatever “poison” was in the pasta to get to the little guy. Before Robert could respond, a shadow fell across his desk. He didn’t need to look up.
“Is this yours?” he asked.
Flambae didn’t answer immediately.
Robert, already suspicious, slowly lifted his gaze from the container to Flambae’s face—and paused. Because Flambae wasn’t looking at the food. He was watching him. Not casually or in that distracted, half-aware way people did when they were waiting for a reaction. No, this was focused, like the only thing that mattered in that moment was whether Robert was going to take a bite.
“You weren’t going to eat it,” Flambae said.
Robert blinked once, then leaned back slightly in his chair, eyebrows lifting. “That’s because I didn’t know where it came from,” he replied, tone dry with suspicion.
“It came from me.”
There was a beat of silence. Robert turned his head slowly, like he was recalibrating reality. “…Why?”
Flambae didn’t hesitate this time. “To keep you alive.”
Robert stared at him. Then, very deliberately, he turned his head toward Chase across the room. “I’m confused,” he said flatly. “Are you confused? Why is he doing this?”
Chase didn’t even look up from his desk. “Extremely.”
“So I can be mad at you longer,” Flambae added, as if that cleared everything up.
Silence. From somewhere nearby, Courtney groaned loudly, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh, my God.”
Robert looked back at Flambae, eyes narrowing slightly as he processed that statement. “You made me food,” he said slowly, like he was testing each word for accuracy.
“I prepared a resource.”
“You cooked.”
“I assembled components.”
“You cooked.”
Flambae’s eye twitched. “That is not the point.”
“It is very much the point,” Robert shot back immediately, gesturing vaguely at the container like it was Exhibit A in a very confusing trial.
“It is not.”
Robert glanced down at the food again, then back up at Flambae, his expression shifting into something more incredulous than accusatory. “You made this,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“For me.”
“Yes.”
“So that I would… stay alive?”
“Yes.”
“So that you could continue being angry at me.”
“Yes.”
Robert let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. “That is the most backwards logic I have ever heard in my life,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face like this was physically exhausting to process.
“It is efficient.”
“It is not efficient.”
“It is,” Flambae insisted, completely serious. “You need some meat on those bare bones of yours, bitch.”
Robert blinked slowly, lowering his hand just enough to stare at him. “Did you just insult me while offering me a home-cooked meal?”
“Yes.”
“Incredible. But I can feed myself,” Robert added, straightening slightly, though there was already less conviction in it than there should have been.
“You skipped lunch yesterday.”
Robert froze. “…How do you know that?”
“You were still working at 20:00.”
Robert’s expression immediately twisted into annoyance. “Why do you use military time? Just say 8 p.m. like a normal person.”
“That’s not the point.”
“That does not—”
“You did not leave your desk.”
“That does not mean I didn’t—”
“You did not eat.”
Robert stared at him again, this time slower, more deliberate. “You’re tracking my meals now?”
“I am observing patterns.”
Robert let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s way worse.”
“It is necessary.”
“It is not necessary,” Robert shot back, sitting up straighter now, though there was less bite and more disbelief in his tone. “You’re a stalker now.”
Flambae didn’t argue further. He just gestured toward the container again, firm and insistent. “Eat.”
Robert hesitated, staring down at it like it might somehow reveal the psychological evaluation he was clearly in the middle of. Then he glanced back up, squinting slightly.
“Is it at least good?” he asked, suspicion laced through every syllable.
Flambae looked almost offended. “Of course it is! My cooking is the best.”
Robert huffed quietly under his breath, shaking his head as he picked up the fork. “Right,” he muttered, already bracing himself for disappointment that, frankly, would make this entire situation easier to deal with. “Because this situation wasn’t already confusing enough, and now I have to deal with your ego too.”
Robert popped the lid open again, slower this time. Steam curled up faintly from the container, carrying the smell with it: rich, warm, layered. This was not just “pasta.” It was something deeper, infused with garlic, definitely, maybe butter. A hint of basil? And something else he couldn’t quite place, something slightly sharp that cut through the richness of the red sauce just enough to keep it from being heavy.
He hadn’t realized he was hungry until that moment. Which was annoying. He picked up the fork, twirling it half-heartedly, like this was just another normal, unremarkable lunch and not whatever this was turning into.
“…Okay,” he muttered, mostly to himself.
Then he took a bite. And—
Paused.
Not because he meant to, nor because he was trying to make a point. His brain just stopped. “…Oh.”
The noodles were perfectly cooked. Not too soft, not too firm, but that exact point where they still had bite without resisting. The tomato sauce clung to them instead of pooling at the bottom, coating everything evenly. It was creamy without being heavy, bright without being acidic, like whoever made it actually understood balance instead of just throwing ingredients together and hoping for the best.
There was a warmth to it. Not just temperature, but flavor. It was something comforting and familiar in a way that didn’t make sense, because Robert was very sure no one had ever cooked for him like this before.
He took another bite, slower this time, like he was trying to confirm what he’d just experienced instead of rushing into it. His fork lingered for a second before he actually tasted it again, and when he did, the reaction came out before he could stop it. “…Oh, this is actually—”
He cut himself off. Because dangerous was the only word that fit, and he absolutely was not about to say that out loud.
This was dangerous.
Not just because it was good but because it was the kind of good that demanded attention. The kind that made everything else feel secondary for a second, like the world could wait while you finished the bite. It was balanced in a way that felt intentional, like someone had paid attention to what they were doing instead of just throwing things together and hoping for the best. It was warm, comforting in a way that sat low in his chest, and Robert—who was fully prepared to be unimpressed—found himself slowing down without meaning to.
This was a problem because now his brain was trying to reconcile two things at once: Flambae, who was objectively unbearable, and this, which was objectively not.
His fork hovered mid-air.
And that was when he felt it.
That gaze.
Robert looked up.
Flambae was watching him.
Not casually. Not with passing curiosity. He was tracking every tiny shift in expression, every pause, every breath like it mattered more than it should. Like this was some kind of test Robert didn’t remember agreeing to take. Robert snapped back to himself immediately, posture straightening just slightly as his expression smoothed over into something neutral.
“…It’s fine,” he said.
Flambae’s eyes narrowed instantly. “You paused.”
“I did not pause.”
“You paused.”
Robert scoffed, shaking his head as he set the fork down for half a second, like he needed both hands free to deal with this nonsense. “I did not—”
“You made a sound.”
“I did not make a sound—”
“You said ‘oh.’”
Robert blinked, then gestured vaguely with the fork like that would somehow support his argument. “That was a neutral ‘oh.’”
“That was not a neutral ‘oh.’”
“It was completely neutral,” Robert insisted, tone flattening as he leaned back slightly, like distance would somehow strengthen his case. “There are many types of ‘oh.’ That was the least meaningful version.”
Flambae didn’t budge. “You’re lying.”
Robert let out a quiet, incredulous breath, something softer than frustration threading through it. “I am not lying,” he said, though there was a faint, reluctant curve at the corner of his mouth now, like he was losing the argument and knew it.
“You are.”
“I’m not—”
“Robert.”
The way Flambae said his name—firm, grounded, cutting cleanly through the back-and-forth—made Robert pause. Not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t. It was quieter than everything else. And that got his attention.
“…What?” Robert asked, his voice softer now despite himself.
Flambae held his gaze, steady, unwavering in a way that made it impossible to brush off. “Do you like it?”
Robert hesitated. He could deflect. He could joke. He could keep this light, keep it easy, keep it safely in the realm of sarcasm and banter where nothing actually meant anything. But Flambae was still watching him like that. Waiting.
And for some reason, that made it harder to lie.
Robert exhaled quietly, glancing down at the container for a brief moment before looking back up. “…Yes.”
The word was simple, soft, and real.
Flambae went very still. It wasn’t obvious at first, but Robert caught it. The subtle shift in his posture, the way the tension in his shoulders changed shape, the way something in his expression settled into something quieter.
Satisfied. Not smug. Not victorious. Just— satisfied.
“Good,” Flambae said.
The way he said it with something low, certain, and almost relieved made Robert’s grip tighten slightly on the fork. Before he could say anything else, before he could make a joke or deflect or fix whatever that feeling was, Flambae turned and walked away. Leaving Robert sitting there with a container of food that was far too good, a conversation that had gone far too soft, and a feeling in his chest that he couldn’t quite label, but definitely didn’t hate.
*****
Once could be a fluke. Twice was a coincidence. Three times was a pattern
“Okay, no, this is a system,” Alice said, watching as Chad dropped another container onto Robert’s desk like clockwork. “A daily one.
“Your point is?” Chad said.
“Bae, it’s at the same time with consistent portions and adjusted seasoning.”
Robert froze mid-step on his way into his cubicle, one foot still half-turned like his body hadn’t caught up to his brain yet. Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head. “…Adjusted seasoning?” he repeated, like he was testing whether that phrase should exist in this context at all.
“Oh yeah,” she said easily, like this was common knowledge. “You didn’t like the spice level on Tuesday.”
Robert blinked. Once. Twice. “…I didn’t say that out loud.”
She shrugged, completely unbothered. “Your burning red face said it all.”
Robert’s mouth opened, then closed again as he processed that. Then, with the kind of reluctant suspicion of someone realizing they are being studied, he looked down at the container in his hands—and then across the room.
Flambae was pretending not to watch.
Badly.
It was the least convincing performance Robert had ever seen. His posture was just a little too stiff, his head angled just slightly too far away, like if he committed hard enough to looking uninterested, reality might cooperate.
Robert narrowed his eyes.
“You’re changing the recipes,” he said.
Flambae didn’t respond.
“That wasn’t a question.”
There was a pause—long enough to be deliberate, long enough to pretend this was beneath him—before Flambae finally muttered, “…Yes.”
Robert let out a quiet breath through his nose, nodding once like he was mentally filing this under increasingly unhinged behavior. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Cool. Great. Love that for me.” Then he tilted his head slightly. “Why?”
“So you’ll eat it.”
Robert stared at him.
“I would eat it anyway,” he said, voice flat with disbelief.
“You didn’t finish Monday’s.”
Robert didn’t even hesitate. “It was too salty.”
Flambae’s head snapped toward him so fast it was almost impressive. “No, it wasn’t.”
Robert blinked at him. “…Yes, it was,” he said, tone dipping into something dangerously patient. “I chugged an entire cup of water after finishing it. I thought I was going to see God.”
From somewhere nearby, Prism snorted. “I can’t believe that’s what got you to hydrate.”
Robert pointed vaguely in her direction without looking. “Don’t make this about me.”
“It’s absolutely about you.”
“There was a lot of sodium involved—”
“Robert.”
He stopped, sighing, and looked back at Flambae, who was still staring at him like he’d just personally insulted his entire bloodline.
“…It was salty,” Robert repeated, softer this time, like he was offering a peace treaty he didn’t fully believe in.
There was a beat. “…Noted,” Flambae said.
Robert froze. Slowly, he straightened, turning toward him fully now, eyes narrowing with surgical precision. “You’re taking notes.”
“I am making adjustments.”
“You’re taking notes,” Robert repeated, gesturing at him with the container like it was evidence in court.
“I am optimizing.”
“You’re taking notes,” Robert said again, this time with a hint of something almost impressed threading through the sarcasm. “On me.”
Flambae crossed his arms, clearly done with the conversation and yet very much still in it. “You are difficult to maintain.”
Robert let out a short laugh, stepping closer despite himself. “Maintain?” he echoed. “What am I, a houseplant? Do I need sunlight too? Should I rotate myself every few hours for even growth?”
“You don’t eat unless prompted,” Flambae shot back immediately, irritation flashing, but it wasn’t sharp, not really. It was more pointed. “You forget. Or you ignore it. Or you decide work is more important and then wonder why you feel like garbage later.”
Robert blinked, caught slightly off guard by the accuracy. “Wow,” he said after a second, voice softer but still wrapped in sarcasm. “That was… weirdly specific.”
“Because it keeps happening,” Flambae snapped, then immediately looked like he regretted how that sounded. Not enough to take it back, but enough that his jaw tightened.
Robert studied him for a second, something quieter settling under his usual deflection.
“So your solution,” he said slowly, “is to cook for me. Daily. With—what—data-driven seasoning adjustments?”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“It’s effective.”
“That is not—” Robert stopped, glancing down at the container again, then back up at him. “You changed the salt because I said something once.”
“You didn’t finish it.”
“That was one time.”
“It was enough.”
And that did something. Robert’s expression shifted. It wasn’t immediate or dramatic. There was no sharp inhale, no visible jolt of realization. It was slower than that, like something settling into place that had been slightly off for a while.
His brows, which had been drawn together in irritation more out of habit than anything else, loosened just a fraction. The tension around his mouth softened, the edge of his usual retort fading before it could fully form. He glanced down at the container in his hands, then back up at Flambae like he was recalculating.
Because up until now, it had all been easy to dismiss. The spotting at the gym? Annoying. Overbearing. The comments about his schedule? Intrusive. The food? A weird, aggressive bit. All of it could be shoved neatly into the box labeled Flambae being an insufferable asshole in a new, creative way.
But he skipped lunch yesterday. That hadn’t been a guess. And the day before, when Robert had pushed his food around more than actually eating it, Flambae had shown up the next morning with something lighter. Easier to get through. And the spice level—
Robert’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the container. That hadn’t been random either. None of this had been random.
His gaze lifted again, slower this time. He actually looked at Flambae. Not just at his face, or the usual sharpness in his posture, or the way he carried himself like he was perpetually one step away from snapping, but at the smaller things. The way he was standing just a little too still, the way his shoulders were set: not aggressive, not defensive, but braced, like he was waiting for something
For a reaction. For judgment. For approval?
The realization landed quietly. And when it did, something in Robert’s chest pulled tight in a way that had nothing to do with irritation.
“…You’re taking care of me,” he said.
It wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t sarcastic. It was quiet. Flambae went still again. That same subtle tension was only sharper now. More exposed. And Robert felt it. He felt the shift, the weight of what he’d just said, the way it hung there between them, heavier than it should have been because Flambae didn’t deny things like that quietly.
He didn’t do anything quietly. But now he wasn’t snapping back immediately, nor was he brushing it off with something sharp or deflective. He just stood there.
And that was what got to Robert.
His expression softened further, almost without his permission. Not open, but less guarded. The kind of look he didn’t usually let people see. Something warmer, something quieter, something that lingered just a second too long.
Touched.
That was the closest word for it. Not in a big, overwhelming way or enough to make a scene out of it, but enough that it showed. It showed in the way his shoulders dropped just slightly, the way his voice, when he spoke again, lost its usual bite, and the way his eyes didn’t dart away immediately this time.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he added, softer now.
Flambae’s jaw tightened, his gaze slowly averting. “I know.”
It was not defensive or dismissive. Just true. Robert swallowed because that answer made it worse. Better? More dangerous for sure. He would have preferred the flaming hero to ignite him in the office rather than just two simple words.
“…Right,” he said, quieter than before.
Neither of them moved.
For a second— Two— Three—
Then Courtney slammed a hand on a desk. “OH MY GOD, THEY’RE GONNA KISS—”
“NOT YET,” Malevola else yelled.
“IT’S TOO EARLY—”
Robert jerked back like he’d been shocked. Flambae turned sharply, glare lethal. “Stop watching us.”
“No,” came the immediate reply from Sonar.
“Absolutely not,” Prism added. “This is a long-term investment, Bae.”
“We have bets—”
“You’re betting on this??” Robert snapped.
“...Yes?” Herman shyly added.
Robert’s eyes widened at Waterboy. “You too, man? I expected better.”
Waterboy merely looked down in shame. Robert dragged a hand down his face.
“This is my life,” he said again, hollow.
Across from him, Flambae muttered: “Next week.”
Robert looked up. “What?”
Flambae didn’t elaborate, but his gaze flicked—just briefly—to Robert’s shoulder. Then away. Robert’s stomach flipped.
“Oh no,” Courtney whispered.
“Oh no,” Prism sing-songed.
“Next stage.”
“Next stage.”
Robert closed his eyes. “I’m not ready.”
“No one is,” Blazer said solemnly.
Flambae, already walking away, didn’t look back. But if anyone had been watching closely, they might have noticed he didn’t look angry anymore.
*****
So, at this point, no one says it out loud anymore. Not after the betting pool got shut down (officially). Not after three separate warnings about “workplace distractions.” Not after someone got caught trying to chart the progression on a whiteboard. But everyone still knows. Everyone still watches. Because once it stopped being punches, it became something worse.
The head and back pats are still awkward and stiff. Flambae walks up like he’s marching to his own execution, jaw tight, shoulders squared, eyes locked onto Robert like he’s bracing for impact. Robert braces too. Because even now, some part of him still expects the sharp, familiar contact of a punch. Instead, Flambae’s hand lands on his body. Light, a little unsure, but still a single pat. Before he pulls away like he’s burned (ironic, right?).
Robert blinks. Flambae doesn’t respond, but his ears are red.
There’s less hesitation with the back pats this time. There’s still tension and that coiled, uncertain energy, but now it’s mixed with something else. Something almost deliberate. Flambae steps closer than necessary. His hand finds Robert’s shoulder again, but instead of pulling away, it moves. It slides just slightly, settling more firmly between his shoulder blades. And then it’s followed by a slow, awkward rub.
Just once. Up and down. Gone.
Robert freezes.
“Not bad,” he says, voice a little thinner than usual.
Flambae scowls. “‘Not bad?' Do you want me to go back to punches?”
“No.”
“Then take this while you can, Bitch.”
By now, people are absolutely watching. They’re trying to pretend they’re not, but are failing miserably. Chad ignores them. Or tries to. He walks up to Robert like always, stops, and reaches out, hand on the shoulder. It’s familiar now, expected. But this time, he doesn’t pull away. Not immediately. His fingers press just slightly, like he’s grounding himself. Or maybe grounding Robert.
A second passes. Then two. Three.
Robert feels every second of it. The warmth. The weight. The fact that Flambae is just… there. Not tense. Not angry. Just there.
“You’re staying an awfully long time,” Robert says quietly, trying desperately to brush it off.
Flambae’s jaw tightens. “For a moment.”
“Why?”
A pause. “I don’t know.”
But he still doesn’t move. And when he finally does, it feels like something is missing.
*****
This one was so subtle that Robert almost missed it.
Flambae walked up like he always did now, close enough that Robert didn’t even flinch anymore. That, in itself, was still strange if Robert thought about it too long, so he didn’t. He kept his posture loose, his attention split between his desk and the familiar shift in the air that came with Flambae’s presence. When Flambae’s hand lifted, Robert expected the usual—a shoulder, maybe his arm—but instead it paused at his collar.
“What are you—”
Flambae frowned slightly, already reaching forward to tug lightly at the blue fabric. “It’s crooked.”
“It’s not—”
“It is.”
Robert exhaled through his nose. “It’s not—”
“It is,” Flambae repeated, quieter this time, but more certain.
Robert stilled, not because he agreed, but because of the way Flambae’s fingers moved. Careful. Precise. There was no impatience in it, no sharpness. He adjusted the fabric with a kind of focused gentleness, smoothing it down and brushing it flat. His knuckles grazed just slightly along Robert’s collarbone through the fabric, and for a brief, disorienting second, Robert forgot what he had been about to say.
“There,” Flambae said.
Robert swallowed, his throat suddenly a little too dry. “…Thanks.”
Flambae didn’t answer. He didn’t look away either. He just stayed there for half a second too long, like he was making sure it stayed fixed, before finally stepping back.
By month three, Robert didn’t brace anymore.
He didn’t tense or prepare or try to predict it. He just… watched. Waited. There was still something about the approach. Flambae was quieter now, less volatile, like the storm had settled into something heavier instead of disappearing. There was less edge in him, but more gravity. More intention.
His hand lifted again, pausing just above Robert’s shoulder.
“What is it this time?” Robert murmured, tone light, almost bored—but his eyes tracked every movement.
Flambae didn’t answer. He simply brushed something off Robert’s sleeve. Once. Then again, slower, more deliberate. His fingers flicked lightly against the fabric, the contact brief but repeated, like he needed a reason to stay there.
“There was lint,” he said.
Robert glanced down at his sleeve, then back up. “There was no lint.”
“There was,” Flambae replied, softer than before, less defensive, more insistent.
Robert huffed a quiet laugh, something warmer threading through it despite himself. “Are you making things up now just to be friendly with me?”
Flambae’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but there was less bite in it than there used to be. “…It was there,” he said, though it sounded less like an argument and more like an excuse.
His fingers lingered anyway, not doing anything now but just there, resting lightly against Robert’s sleeve like he’d forgotten to pull away. Or didn’t want to.
Robert didn’t move, but he didn’t call him out on it either.
Just let it happen.
But this next one was different.
Flambae approached more slowly this time, like each step was measured. Like he was thinking about it too much, aware of himself in a way that made his usual confidence falter just slightly. Robert noticed immediately. Something in his chest tightened before Flambae even reached him.
“You look like you’re about to make a bad decision,” Robert said, leaning back in his chair with practiced ease, his tone dry and unimpressed.
His heartbeat, however, had already betrayed him. Flambae ignored him. Of course, he did. He stepped closer, closing the distance with that same quiet gravity—but instead of reaching for his shoulder, instead of finding some excuse in fabric or lint or alignment—
He took Robert’s wrist. Firm, but not rough.
Robert froze. Not outwardly—he still looked composed, still leaned back like this was just another strange, mildly inconvenient interaction—but his body had gone completely still under Flambae’s touch.
“…Out of everything you’ve done thus far,” Robert said slowly, lifting an eyebrow, “this is probably the strangest.”
Flambae didn’t react to the comment. His thumb pressed lightly against Robert’s pulse, just beneath the skin, and Robert felt the warmth, the steady pressure, and the way Flambae’s focus narrowed entirely to that one point of contact immediately.
“I’m checking something,” Flambae said.
His voice was quieter, like he wasn’t performing anymore, wasn’t trying to cover anything with irritation or deflection.
Robert blinked once. “Checking what, exactly?”
Flambae didn’t answer. Or maybe he didn’t have one. His thumb simply shifted slightly, pressing again, slower this time, like he was confirming something he didn’t fully understand. His grip wasn’t tight, but it wasn’t loose either. It was steady. Grounded.
Like it mattered. Like Robert mattered.
And that was new.
Robert’s breath caught before he could stop it, his usual sarcasm stalling just long enough to leave something more honest in its place. His gaze dropped briefly to where Flambae was holding him, then back up to his face.
“…Chad,” he said, softer now.
He wasn’t teasing or mocking him. Just calling him.
Flambae let go too quickly, like he’d just realized what he was doing and pulled back before it could mean more than it already did.
“You’re fine,” he muttered, but the words lacked their usual edge. They sounded quieter. Almost uncertain.
Then he turned and walked away. Just like that. No explanation, follow-up, or attempt to reframe it into something easier to understand.
Robert didn’t move. His wrist still felt warm where Flambae had been holding it, the faint pressure of his thumb lingering like an echo. He stared down at it for a second, his fingers flexing slightly like he could shake the feeling off.
He couldn’t because it wasn’t just the touch. It was the way it had happened. The way Flambae had looked at him was all focused, quiet, and almost gentle. His voice had softened. And none of it felt like a joke. Robert leaned back slowly in his chair, exhaling under his breath as he stared at nothing in particular.
“…What the hell,” he muttered.
And then…
No one is prepared for this moment a few days later. Not really.
They think they are. They’ve been watching, after all, tracking the progression, waiting for the next step. But they’re not ready for this.
Flambae walks in, and something is different immediately, quieter. He walks straight to Robert. There’s no hesitation, no buildup, just certainty
Robert looks up. “Hey,” he says, because that’s what this has become now—something familiar, something expected, something he no longer braces for but… anticipates, in a way he hasn’t quite examined yet. His tone is light, teasing out of habit. “What’s on the schedule today? Another back pat? More collar action? Did I miss some lint from this morning?”
Flambae doesn’t answer right away. He stops in front of him, close enough that Robert can feel the shift in his presence before he fully registers it: less sharp than usual, less like a storm about to break and more like something quieter, steadier. Intentional.
Then his hand lifts. And instead of hovering or redirecting or second-guessing like he has every other time, he takes Robert’s hand. Not his wrist, not his sleeve, and not a passing, dismissible touch.
His hand.
Carefully.
Like it’s something that could break if he isn’t precise about it.
Robert’s breath catches before he can stop it, his fingers going still in Flambae’s grip. It’s warmer than he expects and firm without being tight, like Flambae is anchoring him there rather than restraining him.
“What are you—” Robert starts, but the question falls apart halfway through, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.
Flambae just shifts his hold slightly, turning Robert’s hand so the back of it faces upward, his thumb adjusting minutely at the base of his fingers as if he’s aligning something. The movement is careful, almost meticulous, and for a brief, disorienting second, Robert has the strange thought that Flambae has thought about this. That this isn’t impulsive.That this is deliberate.
And then, Flambae leans in.
The movement is unhurried but not hesitant. There’s no second-guessing, no falter at the last second, as there has been with everything else. Just a quiet certainty that makes Robert’s chest tighten before anything even happens.
And then he feels a soft, brief press of lips against the back of his hand. Warm and gentle. Gone almost as soon as it’s there, but not before it registers, not before it settles into something real and undeniable.
Everything stops. Not in the exaggerated, dramatic way people describe things later, but in a small, contained collapse of motion and thought. The room doesn’t literally fall silent, but it might as well. The background noise fades into something distant and unimportant, the edges of everything blurring as Robert’s focus narrows down to one single, impossible point of contact. His brain, usually so quick with a response, with a deflection, with something, goes completely, utterly blank.
Because that was not awkward. There was no clumsiness in it, no rushed uncertainty, no trace of the tension that had defined every other interaction between them. That was not accidental. Not something that slipped out of misplaced instinct or poorly redirected aggression. And it was definitely not something you did without meaning it.
It was warm, in a way that lingered even after Flambae pulled back. Soft, in a way that made it feel deliberate instead of fleeting. Gentle in a way that didn’t fit Flambae at all, didn’t match the sharp edges, the blunt words, the constant friction he brought into every room he walked into.
And yet standing there, with Robert’s hand still loosely held in his, with that quiet, steady presence replacing the usual intensity—
It fit.
Flambae doesn’t pull away immediately. For just a fraction of a second longer than necessary, he keeps hold of Robert’s hand, like he’s grounding himself in it, like he’s making sure it actually happened. His thumb shifts once, barely there, a subtle adjustment that somehow makes the moment feel even more intentional.
And when Robert finally manages to look up, Flambae is already watching him. And he’s smiling. Not the sharp, crooked thing he usually wears when he’s about to say something cutting or the brief, humorless twist of his mouth that passes for amusement. This is small and soft. Almost tentative, like it’s not something he offers often. Like it’s not something he’s entirely used to.
But it’s there. And it’s real.
“There,” he says quietly.
The word lands softer than anything else he’s ever said. Then he lets go.
Just like that, the warmth disappears from Robert’s hand all at once, leaving behind something that feels almost like an echo, like the absence of it is just as noticeable as the presence had been. Flambae turns before Robert can react—before he can speak, before he can even begin to figure out what kind of reaction he’s supposed to have—and walks away with the same quiet certainty he approached with.
No explanation. No follow-up. No acknowledgment of the fact that he just—
Did that.
And Robert stays exactly where he is, his hand still half-raised where Flambae left it, fingers slightly curled like they forgot how to move. His thoughts don’t come back all at once. They don’t even come back in order. It’s just fragments, disjointed and useless:
That just happened.
He—
Why would he—
That wasn’t—
“…Oh,” Robert says faintly, the word slipping out before he can stop it.
It’s not enough, but it’s all he’s got. Because for once there’s no teasing remark waiting on his tongue, no sarcastic comment ready to deflect, and no easy way to push the moment back into something familiar and manageable. There’s just that feeling.
Warm.
Unsettling.
And quietly, terrifyingly sweet.
And somewhere, distantly, he’s aware of noise starting to come back—voices rising, chairs shifting, the entire room collectively losing its mind, but it all feels far away.
“…Did he just—”
“He did—”
“OH MY GOD—”
“HE KISSED HIS HAND—”
“THAT’S NOT A STEP THAT’S A LEAP—”
“WE SKIPPED LIKE THREE LEVELS—”
Muted. Unimportant. Because Robert is still standing there, staring at his hand like it might tell him something, like it might explain why his chest feels too tight and too light at the same time, like it might tell him what to do next.
It doesn’t.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, Robert has absolutely no idea what move comes after this.
*****
Chad doesn’t notice it all at once.
If it had been sudden, sharp, explosive, or undeniable, he could have handled it. He understood intensity. He understood anger, the clean burn of it, and the way it rose and peaked and demanded release. That had always been simple, predictable, manageable, even when it wasn’t. This, however, was not that.
It crept in quietly, settling into the spaces where the anger used to live, filling them with something softer and infinitely more dangerous. It didn’t demand release. It lingered. It built. It stayed, occupying the same spaces that had once screamed with frustration.
And now, standing just a little too close to Robert with his hand resting against his arm in a way that had become far too familiar, Flambae realized that he wasn’t waiting for the anger anymore. There was no edge under his skin, no pressure building behind his ribs, no instinct to strike or lash out or break the tension in the only way he knew how. There was just… want.
The realization sank in heavily, rooting itself before he could stop it. He simply wanted to touch Robert. Not out of frustration, not out of habit, not because something inside him needed to be burned off or redirected or controlled. He wanted it because he did. Because Robert was there, just within reach, looking at him with that steady, knowing gaze that had somehow become more dangerous than anything else, and Flambae wanted to close the distance, wanted to keep it closed, wanted to find reasons to let his hands linger without having to explain why.
His fingers curled slightly against Robert’s arm, more deliberate than before. They rested there with just enough pressure to say, I’m still here, lingering far longer than was necessary, but Chad didn’t notice. Across from him, Robert noticed, of course, he did. He always noticed. There was a subtle shift in Robert’s posture, imperceptible to anyone else but not to Chad. Instead of stiffening or stepping back, Robert leaned in slightly, testing the space in the same way Flambae was.
He was meeting him there, not resisting, and the realization hit Chad like a jolt of electricity through his chest.
Just outside the office, Robert’s voice cut through the silence, low and teasing. “You’re doing that thing again,” he murmured, and the casual familiarity of it made Chad tighten his jaw automatically.
“What thing?” he asked, though his voice carried a sharpness that he didn’t quite intend.
Robert’s lazy gesture between them, edging fractionally closer, made Flambae feel the warmth radiating from him, and it was more disarming than any insult or punch ever had been. “The staring. The standing too close. The… whatever that is,” Robert continued, eyes flicking briefly to where Chad’s hand rested on his arm.
Chad exhaled sharply and muttered, “It’s nothing,” but Robert only hummed, unconvinced, and caught his sleeve again, fingers curling as naturally as if he had done it a hundred times before. It sent a sharp, electric thrill up Flambae’s spine, and he couldn’t look away.
Robert’s voice, teasing yet soft, lingered between them. “Doesn’t feel like nothing,” he said lightly.
Chad’s gaze snapped to his face. “Then stop reading into it,” he snapped, feeling his pulse spike, the heat rising in his chest.
Robert tilted his head slightly, smirk teasing at the corner of his mouth, and replied calmly, “I’m not reading into it. I’m observing. There’s a difference.”
Chad’s expression hardened just enough for him to say, “You’re making it a problem.”
Robert’s lazy grin returned immediately. “You’re the one gripping me like I might disappear.”
Chad started to argue, but stopped mid-word, because the truth was staring him in the face. He was gripping him. Not tightly, not aggressively, but just enough for Robert to feel it, just enough that Robert was feeling it too, if the curve of his mouth was anything to go by.
Robert’s voice softened, teasing still faint but losing its edge. “Careful. You keep this up, people are going to start thinking you like me.”
The words landed with an impact Chad hadn’t prepared for. His grip tightened slightly before he could stop himself, sharpness flashing across his features for a moment.
“Don’t start,” he muttered, tone a mixture of panic and frustration, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Robert didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned in a fraction closer, closing the little remaining distance between them, fingers still hooked in Chad’s sleeve with an unmistakable intention of staying there. Chad’s throat went dry.
“No?” Robert said quietly, eyebrows lifting slightly, a subtle challenge glinting in his eyes. “Because from where I’m standing—”
Chad cut him off automatically, a little sharper than he intended. “You’re standing too close, Bob-Bob.”
Robert let out a quiet laugh, light and teasing, that made Chad’s chest tighten. “You came to me,” Robert replied.
Chad’s jaw clenched at the truth in the words. “That doesn’t mean—”
He tried to counter, but Robert interrupted softly, “…It kind of does.”
For a moment, Chad looked like he might step back, might regain control, might retreat to safety, but Robert’s hand shifted again in his sleeve, just slightly, not pulling away, just anchoring him in place.
That simple, quiet gesture broke something in Chad. Not violently, but gently, melting the tension he hadn’t even realized had hardened into him. The sharpness in his shoulders eased almost imperceptibly, softening into a more complicated warmth that replaced the bite of frustration with something steady, something grounding.
“You’re such a bitch,” he muttered quietly, and Robert’s smile, softer now, pleased and subtle, made something in Chad’s chest twist.
“You keep coming back,” Robert said, the teasing in his voice replaced by a quiet satisfaction.
Chad exhaled slowly, letting the admission slip out before he could stop it. “…I know.”
He didn’t take it back, not even a little. His hand shifted again, thumb brushing slowly over Robert’s arm, deliberate, intentional, no longer reactive or defensive. Robert stills for a fraction of a second and then leans in just slightly, enough that Chad feels the warmth radiate through him, enough that his chest tightens and steadies all at once.
Neither of them moves. Not away. Not forward. Just there. Too close. Too aware. And for once, the heat between them doesn’t burn. It lingers, wrapping around them in a quiet, heavy tension that isn’t sharp or demanding. It’s soft, intimate, almost sacred in its stillness. Chad can feel it pulsing through him, that impossible mixture of want and restraint that leaves his chest tight and his mind scrambling for rationalizations that don’t exist.
Then, without thinking, without the careful calculations or half-measures he’s been obsessively managing for months, Chad leans in just enough to close the space between them. His lips brush against Robert’s forehead.
It’s not a kiss of urgency or desire. It’s a kiss of tenderness. Gentle, deliberate, lingering for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, like he’s silently anchoring Robert to him in that quiet, chaotic world they navigate together. His forehead presses against Robert’s, just lightly enough for the warmth of his skin to seep in, for the subtle tilt of his head to communicate a closeness he can’t voice. There’s careful, almost shy affection there, the kind that almost embarrasses him to admit. Every movement is slow, measured, and yet impulsive, a quiet surrender to the feeling he’s been holding back for far too long.
The silence stretches. There’s just the soft press of skin against skin, the quiet rhythm of breathing, and the faint, lingering heat of a touch that carries far more weight than either has said aloud.
Robert blinks once, slowly, as if processing what just happened, and then he smirks. That teasing, slightly crooked smile that Chad knows too well.
“…Do that again,” he murmurs, voice soft but playful, a spark dancing in his dark eyes. “I don’t think I felt enough hate coming off of you.”
Chad freezes mid-breath. His mind stalls entirely, a screeching halt that leaves him flushed, wide-eyed, utterly unprepared. Hate? Is he supposed to be angry? Supposed to be intimidating? Supposed to—he doesn’t even know anymore. His body betrays him completely: his heart is pounding, his chest is tight, his fingers twitch as if they’ve forgotten what they’re meant to do, and yet the faint echo of warmth from the forehead kiss lingers like a ghost over his lips.
He swallows. Swallows again. “…I—I—” His voice cracks, half-indignation, half-panic. “…I am not—”
But Robert’s smile doesn’t waver. It only widens slightly, eyes glinting with teasing amusement. That look, the one that somehow makes Chad feel both infuriated and utterly undone, cements the realization. He’s lost control. His careful systems, his practiced defenses, his whole idea of managing tension, managing space, managing anger, is all gone. And the worst part?
He doesn’t want it back.
Chad takes a shallow, ragged breath, trying to ground himself, and his gaze flicks down at Robert’s hand still brushing against his sleeve. And then…he leans in again. Just a fraction. Impulsively. Tentatively. But with unmistakable intent. Another forehead kiss, firmer this time, slower, like a promise. A confession without words. His lips press to Robert’s skin, brushing over it with the kind of gentleness that makes Robert’s chest rise a little faster, makes him tilt his head in quiet surrender.
Robert leans into it this time, deliberately, fingers tightening on the sleeve, the smirk softened into something warmer, something that almost looks like awe. And Chad, frozen in that moment, finally allows himself to exhale. Because whatever this is, whatever they’ve become in these impossibly close inches, he knows it’s real and terrifyingly, wonderfully permanent.
“…again,” Robert murmurs once more, teasingly.
Chad nearly folds on the spot. It hits him all at once: his knees feel unsteady, his chest tightens, his thoughts scatter so completely he can’t grab onto a single one. All he can focus on is Robert—his hand, his expression, the way he’s waiting—and that quiet, devastating warmth that’s settled between them.
He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. But he leans in anyway.
The next kiss to Robert’s forehead is more intimate than the first, slower, like he’s no longer trying to prove anything. His hands cup Robert’s face, letting his his lips press on his forehead gently, lingering just long enough to feel the warmth of Robert’s skin beneath them, to let the contact settle instead of rush. There’s no tension in it this time. No hesitation. Just care.
When he pulls back, it’s not enough to create distance, just enough to look at him. And then, like something in him finally gives way, he leans in again.
This time, it’s Robert’s cheek. The kiss is light, almost tentative at first, but it deepens by a fraction, just enough to feel intentional. His breath brushes warm against Robert’s skin, his hand still loosely caught in Robert’s grip as if neither of them remembers when that happened.
Robert doesn’t move away. If anything, he stills further, like he’s absorbing it.
Chad’s lips ghost across the bridge of Robert’s nose next, a fleeting, almost shy touch that lingers just long enough to feel real before it fades. Then his eyebrow, careful and precise, like each point of contact is something he’s mapping out, committing to memory.
By the time he reaches Robert’s clipped ear, something familiar, something Chad has seen a hundred times but never like this, his movements have slowed completely. The kiss there is softer than all the others, barely more than a brush, his breath catching faintly as he pulls back.
And then he stops. Because now he’s looking at Robert’s lips. The space between them feels heavier. The kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled, but still waits, expectant. The world around them has shifted without either of them noticing. The sun has dipped low, the light fading into a deep, quiet blue that settles over everything, softening the edges of the room. Shadows stretch longer, gentler. The noise that usually fills the space is gone.
There’s no audience, no distractions. Just them.
Chad doesn’t move. Robert watches him for a second, something steady and certain settling into his expression. And then, without breaking eye contact, he closes the distance. His hand shifts slightly on Chad’s sleeve, grounding, anchoring, and his voice, when he speaks, is soft but sure.
“You don’t have to be angry to touch me, you know,” he says.
The words land gently, but they hit deep. Chad exhales, something in his shoulders loosening, something unspoken finally settling into place.
“…I know,” he says quietly.
And this time, when he leans in, there’s no hesitation.
The kiss is soft, careful, and unhurried. It’s not about proving anything, not about control or tension or restraint. It’s just there, simple and real, his lips meeting Robert’s in a way that feels almost impossibly gentle for someone like him.
Robert leans into it. Enough to say yes. Enough to say stay. And in the quiet, fading light, with nothing left to interrupt them, the moment lingers soft, steady, and finally, unmistakably theirs.
*****
The next month, the atmosphere in SDN is tense. Not in the usual, work-related, life-or-death kind of way. No, this is anticipation
It starts early. By mid-shift, people are already drifting closer to Robert’s cubicle under increasingly flimsy excuses. Papers that don’t need delivering, questions that don’t need answering, and at one point, Sonar just stands there, holding a pen, staring like he forgot what he came for.
Robert notices.
Of course he does.
He leans back in his chair, slow and deliberate, letting his gaze sweep across the room with mild suspicion. “Why do I feel like I’m being surveilled?” he mutters.
“You’re not,” Prism says immediately while very obviously holding her phone at chest height, angled just enough to capture everything.
Robert narrows his eyes. “Is that recording?”
“No,” she says, not lowering it. “This is for… personal documentation.”
“Of what?”
“History.”
“That is not reassuring.”
Across the room, Courtney is practically vibrating. She keeps bouncing on her toes like she physically cannot contain the energy, her eyes flicking between the clock and the entrance every few seconds. “It’s time, it’s time, it’s time—”
“It is not a scheduled event,” Robert says flatly.
Malevola, meanwhile, leans casually against a desk, rubbing her hands together with the kind of slow, delighted anticipation of someone about to witness chaos.
“Oh, it absolutely is, Mate,” she hums. “And I have fifty on something dramatic this time.”
“I said cheek kiss,” Sonar adds quickly from beside her, eyes wide, like he’s already emotionally invested in the outcome. “Maybe neck. There’s been progression.”
“Neck is bold,” Prism mutters, adjusting her angle. “I respect it.”
Robert pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate all of you,” he says.
“No, you don’t,” Courtney fires back instantly. “You’re the main character right now.”
“I didn’t ask to be the main character.”
“Too late.”
Robert exhales slowly, dropping his hand and staring straight ahead again. “You’re all going to be very disappointed,” he mutters.
And then the room shifts. It’s subtle at first. A quiet ripple, a collective awareness passing through the space like a current. Conversations die mid-sentence. Movement slows. Everyone goes just a little still.
Flambae has walked in. He doesn’t look any different than usual, at least not at first glance. Same posture, same steady stride, same quiet intensity that seems to follow him wherever he goes. But there’s something calmer and grounded, like whatever storm used to sit under his skin has settled into something heavier, quieter.
His eyes find Robert immediately.
Of course they do.
Robert straightens slightly without meaning to, his attention sharpening as Flambae approaches. There’s no flinch, no brace, just that same awareness that’s grown between them over time. Around them, the entire office is holding its breath.
Prism zooms in. Courtney clasps her hands together like she’s about to witness a religious experience. Malevola leans forward. Sonar looks like he might pass out.
Flambae stops in front of Robert. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t hesitate either. He just reaches out, takes hold of Robert’s arm, and pulls him the smallest bit closer. And then he kisses him. Casual. Simple. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. No buildup. No tension. No dramatic pause or drawn-out anticipation. Just a soft, familiar press of lips against Robert’s, brief but unmistakably intentional, like this is something he’s done a hundred times before instead of something that should have caused a full-scale office meltdown. And then he pulls back.
“…Hi,” he says, like this is a completely reasonable greeting.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Courtney is the first to break.
“THAT’S IT??” she yells, throwing her hands in the air. “THAT’S THE EVENT??”
Robert glances at her, unimpressed. “Yes.”
“That’s—no! No, that’s not—there was no buildup! No tension! No violence!”
“You’re upset there was no violence?”
“Yes!” Courtney says, exasperated. “Where’s the drama?? Where’s the emotional payoff??”
“That was the emotional payoff,” Prism mutters, still staring at her phone like she’s trying to process what she just recorded. “It was just… weirdly stable.”
“I didn’t sign up for stable,” Malevola complains. “I wanted chaos.”
Sonar looks personally betrayed. “That wasn’t even neck,” he says quietly.
Robert, meanwhile, is sitting there like nothing just happened. Like this is normal. Like they’re the weird ones. He leans back in his chair slowly, a smug, satisfied expression settling onto his face as he glances around at the collective disappointment.
“Upgrade,” he says.
Flambae doesn’t deny it. He just stays there, close, like he belongs there now, with a small smile as he looks at Robert. And while the rest of the group spirals into outrage over the lack of adrenaline, the absence of spectacle, the complete betrayal of their expectations, Robert couldn’t care less.
Because for him, nothing was missing about it at all.