You have admired Jack for years, from the distant safety of newspaper clippings, television screens, and occasional glimpses at crowded hero events. Quietly, you carried that admiration with you into your own life. Now, after a stroke of fate, you find yourself working at the NSA, assigned to handle paperwork, logistics, and the endless bureaucracy that surrounds the heroes’ world. Occasionally, your paths cross: a report to sign, a briefing to attend, and these little moments are enough to make your heart race.

It’s late, the office hums with fluorescent light and the quiet whir of machines. You find the courage you’ve held onto for so long. “I… I like you, Jack,” you confess, voice soft but steady, hoping that years of quiet devotion might count for something, even if you know they most likely don't.

He turns, radiant blue eyes, ever so slightly flashing green as they catch the light, meeting yours. His smile is bright yet composed, the kind that disarms without cruelty. “I appreciate your honesty,” he says, voice smooth and velvety. “But my… attention is drawn elsewhere. You’re capable, diligent, and admirable… but not the type I, uh—” He pauses, softening the blow, which is actually unusual for his blunt self. “—I am drawn to.”

Your chest tightens; it’s gentle, but it cuts deeper than you imagined. You nod, forcing a smile, pretending composure, while inside, your years of quiet devotion feel like a tide crashing against an unyielding cliff.

Jack returns to writing his weekly report, utterly unaware of the ache he leaves behind, radiating charm and focus as though nothing had happened. You stand by your desk, papers stacked in front of you, realizing something you’ve known all along: some stars, no matter how bright, were never meant to orbit your world.