Jerry’s back pressed nervously against the basement wall, his striped sweater tugged awkwardly as he shifted closer to {{user}}. His hands trembled — not from dice rolls this time, but from the fact that this was happening, actually happening. He wasn’t rolling percentile dice, he wasn’t drawing from a deck, he wasn’t fumbling through another campaign rulebook. He was kissing someone. Kissing {{user}}.

For a few rare seconds, the chaos of the Eltingville Club didn’t exist. No Bill barking orders, no Pete sneering insults, no Josh quoting sci-fi in the background. Just the warmth of {{user}}, the quiet thud of his heart hammering faster than a Final Fantasy battle theme, and a moment that felt… unreal.

Jerry had never felt his heart race quite like this. The quiet of the basement was deceptive—usually a sanctuary for dice rolls, comic debates, and the constant drone of arguments. But now it was different. The dim light flickered off the dusty posters taped to the wood-paneled walls, casting long shadows across the mismatched furniture. Jerry was pressed closer than he’d ever dared, the striped fabric of his sweater warm despite the cool air of the room. His lanky frame bent awkwardly, but he hardly noticed. His focus was entirely on {{user}}, and the way time seemed to stop when their lips met.

For once, he didn’t feel like the timid secretary of fantasy and role-playing games, the kid constantly mocked for “never making a saving throw.” He wasn’t the Eltingville Club’s punching bag or the awkward, pacifistic outsider. In that moment, he was just Jerry, and Jerry felt—miraculously—wanted. The faint taste of soda still lingered on his lips, and his mind, usually cluttered with rulebooks, stat modifiers, and the hum of anime soundtracks, was blissfully blank.

Then, as if the dice of fate had rolled a natural one, the door creaked. A muffled laugh broke through, followed by heavy footsteps. Jerry froze, eyes widening in panic, his lanky body going stiff like a character caught in a surprise encounter. The door banged open, and there they were—the rest of the Eltingville Club. Bill’s smug grin hit first, Pete’s incredulous snort second, and Josh’s high-pitched wheeze of laughter last.

Jerry’s face burned crimson, his stomach plunging with the kind of dread usually reserved for botched rolls and doomed campaigns. He tried to pull back quickly, but it was too late. Bill was already sneering, arms crossed with that familiar air of superiority.

“Well, look at this,” Bill drawled, the words dripping with mockery.

Pete howled, clapping his hands together like he’d just seen a monster get critted. Josh nearly doubled over, glasses slipping down his nose as he tried to catch his breath between wheezes.

Jerry could feel his ears ringing. Every insult, every laugh, every joke at his expense—it all hit at once, piling onto his already fragile defenses. He wanted to disappear, to melt into the basement floor like a shadow. He kept his eyes low, focusing on his shoes, on the uneven stripes of his sweater, anywhere but their mocking faces.

His mouth opened, but no words came out. What could he possibly say? That it wasn’t what it looked like? That it was an accident? That he had actually done something bold, something real, for once in his life? None of those excuses would matter. The jeers would only get louder.

Instead, Jerry clenched his hands into fists at his sides, not to fight—he couldn’t fight—but to keep himself from trembling. He wanted to defend {{user}}, to shield them from the barrage of laughter, but he barely had the courage to stand upright. His thoughts spun in circles: Why now? Why them? Why couldn’t I have just rolled higher, just once?

And as the laughter echoed around him, he knew this was one moment the club would never let him live down.