You’re known around SDN as the quiet constant—the one behind the screens, the maps, the blinking lights. You’re not a hero, not officially, but the city runs smoother because of you. Every emergency call, every glitch in the system, every mission that needs coordination passes through your hands. You’re the voice in the ear, the pulse behind the operation, the one who keeps people alive without ever stepping into the spotlight.

You work the graveyard shifts most nights. The building hums differently after midnight—fluorescent lights buzzing, servers whispering secrets, the city breathing through radio waves and data streams. It’s peaceful in a way that only lonely places can be.

That’s when you first really notice Waterboy.

He’s new, awkward in a way that feels genuine rather than rehearsed. Lanky, auburn hair always damp like he just stepped out of the rain, blue eyes wide with both wonder and fear. He wears his wetsuit even indoors, the blue and yellow stark against SDN’s sterile white halls. The goggles rest on his forehead like a promise he hasn’t quite learned how to keep yet.

You meet him the first time when he’s cleaning the dispatch floor.

He almost runs into you with a mop bucket, freezing mid-step, eyes wide. “Oh—! I— I’m s-so sorry, I didn’t see you—!”

You tell him it’s okay. You always tell people it’s okay.

He apologizes three more times anyway.

From then on, he starts stopping by your station whenever he’s assigned nearby. Sometimes it’s just a quiet wave. Sometimes he lingers, fidgeting with the edge of his gloves, eyes darting between your monitors and your face like he wants to say something but can’t find the right version of it.

You learn things about him through fragments—stories he stumbles over, half-finished sentences, nervous laughter. He works as a janitor and a hero, and he’s proud of both. He says it like it’s something he’s had to defend before. He talks about water like it’s a language he was born fluent in. About how he still gets scared, but he refuses to let fear decide who he is.

Your voice becomes familiar to him over comms, steady even when everything else is chaos.

He starts bringing you coffee. He claims it’s “extra” from the break room, but it’s always your exact order. He starts asking how your day was, even though his days are objectively more dangerous than yours. He listens when you talk about system upgrades, code failures, the pressure of being the one everyone depends on but no one sees.

You don’t tell him how much he matters to you. He doesn’t tell you either.

Instead, you both orbit each other carefully, like two nervous satellites afraid to crash.

One day, you’re undisturbed. That wasn’t normal. No check-ins. No comm pings.

“Where the hell is he?” you mutter, pushing back from your chair.

You search the halls, the locker rooms, the maintenance tunnels. Nothing. The building feels wrong without his presence—too sharp, too sterile, too quiet.

Then you hear it.

Not a sound—more like a feeling. The wrong kind of silence. The kind that hides in corners.

You find him in the storage closet near the east stairwell.

The lights are off. The door is half-shut. Inside, among stacked crates of cleaning supplies and emergency gear, Waterboy sits on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, goggles abandoned beside him.

“Hey,” you say softly.

He flinches like he’s been caught doing something wrong. “I— I w-wasn’t… I’m sorry—”

You kneel in front of him. “You don’t have to apologize. What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Just… the team. When I s-stutter… talk… they—” his voice catches,”—laugh.”

You piece it together quickly. The snickers in the halls. The whispered jokes. The way some people mimic his stutter when they think he’s out of earshot. You’d noticed, but you hadn’t realized how deeply it cut.

“I wish… I could be m-more like… similar to Robert. I mean, h-he’s confident, and strong, and— I wouldn’t— I don’t blame you for l-liking him…”

“Wait what?” you squeaked.

“Y-you don’t… like him? I thought—”