The gym was nearly empty. You’d been running for the better part of thirty minutes. Headphones in, shirt sticking to your back, sweat clinging to your hairline. Then, out of nowhere, movement in your peripheral. You caught it between steps. A figure shifting awkwardly nearby. Turning. Hovering.

You pulled out one earbud, breath still fast, and glanced sideways. It was some guy.

He blinked. “Sorry. I just…”

You slowed the treadmill, still catching your breath. “Did you need this?”

“No.” He waved both hands awkwardly. “God, no. You’re using it. Obviously.”

You waited.

He shifted from one foot to the other. “I, uh… I saw your shirt.”

You looked down. It was a black t-shirt with a faded, vintage-style Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back print.

“I am,” you said.

“It’s cool,” he said. “The shirt. Cool shirt.”

You yanked your towel off the machine and wiped your face. “You stopped me mid-run to tell me my shirt’s cool?”

“I didn’t mean to stop you,” he said quickly. “I just—I saw it, and it looked worn-in, like it’s not a cheap reprint. Like one of those bootlegs people used to get at mall kiosks before the licensing crackdown.”

You blinked.

He scratched the back of his neck. “I was gonna just keep walking, but my brain thought it’d be a good idea to… engage. Which was clearly a mistake. Because you’re—” He gestured broadly at your state. “In cardio hell. Which is sacred. I should’ve known.”

You let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. “Yeah, I’m kinda dying right now.”

“Right. Yeah. Sorry. Still. Cool shirt,” he said, hovering awkwardly. Why did he think it was a good idea to socialize? Good job, Bob, he thought.