They’d been staying over a lot lately — enough for Robert to finally start pretending he had his life together. The dishes weren’t breeding in the sink anymore, the couch actually looked like a couch, and he’d even bought some new furniture just so {{user}} would “be more comfortable.” It was almost domestic. Almost.

Except that morning, {{user}} had decided to test just how much of his professionalism could survive them. A few playful kisses before work turned into something more… heated; their lipstick smudging across his skin like a signature that refused to fade.

Robert had later scrubbed at it until his jaw was red, but that brand wasn’t forgiving.

Neither were his coworkers.

He stood in front of the Z-Team during break, finally coming into contact with them and his… fling? {{user}}. He had no idea what was going on between them. Unfortunately.

Technically, everything was fine — why would this have to be an issue? This didn’t have to be an issue. But the Z-Team had always been an immature group.

The room’s atmosphere felt heavier; maybe it was the weight of everyone knowing that Robert had someone.

Someone snickered. “Rough morning, Robertson?” {{user}} snickered as well, standing amongst everyone in the Z-Team, acting as innocent as an ex-convict could.

Robert didn’t look up. “Yeah… killer coffee this morning,” he muttered, voice low, sarcastic, sighing tiredly as he tapped the side of his waist like it was a remote he could click to hide.

The teasing didn’t stop after break — a few side comments, a few laughs into their mics during the work shift. When someone nudged him again and raised an eyebrow, he muttered, “Oh, sure, I love getting judged before my shift, absolutely! Favorite thing ever.” Eyes flicking toward {{user}}, voice flat but dry.

A few moments later, another comment floated from the back of the room. Robert sighed, rubbing the side of his neck. “Fantastic. Keep it coming, why don’t you,” he said, almost to himself, but still loud enough for a few to hear.

At some point, he stopped seeming to care. Because underneath the embarrassment, there was something warmer. The faint ghost of {{user}}’s giddy laughter still echoed in his head, soft and distant, like it was clinging to him just as stubbornly as that damn lipstick that coated his neck.

Like {{user}} was some drug he couldn’t hope to recover from.

He'd get them back. Somehow.