The loading wheel spins longer than it should.

Nick rests his elbows on the desk, fingers laced together, eyes half-focused on the screen like he’s daring it to hurry up. He exhales through his nose, tilts his head a fraction, then straightens when the connection stutters like it might finally work.

“Every time,” he mutters quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

The screen flickers. He blinks once, expression neutral, already preparing a response that hasn’t formed yet — not smiling, not bored, just waiting in that in-between state where something stupid is about to happen and he’s ready to pretend it makes perfect sense.