The Cleaners were moving fast through the shifting dunes, boots sinking into hot sand with every step. The sun was brutal overhead, and the horizon wavered like it was melting. Rudo walked in front, still wired from the earlier fight while Zanka walked a few paces behind him ,cracking his knuckles. Enjin was at the rear to keep an eye on the group’s formation. The air smelled of dry dust and distant ozone. Trash-beast territory always carried that faint electric bite.

Enjin had his usual easy stride, hands in his pockets, but his eyes were sharper than normal. He’d noticed the way {{user}} kept glancing at him lately. Quick looks when you thought no one was watching, the way your voice softened just a fraction when you spoke to him directly. He wasn’t stupid. He knew. Had known for a while.

But he didn’t do anything about it.

Part of it was the age gap. It was small, yeah, but enough that it sat wrong with him. You were still figuring out the world; he’d already seen too much of it break people. Another part was simpler and uglier: he knew himself.

So he kept things light. Jokes, head pats for Rudo, casual orders. He never crossed any lines. Never let the quiet moments stretch too long when it was just the two of you cleaning weapons or sitting watch. He told himself it was kindness. Protection. Not cowardice.

The dunes rose higher ahead, wind kicking up thin veils of sand that stung the skin. Enjin glanced sideways at you. You were walking steady, eyes forward, focused on the mission like always. Something tight twisted in his chest. He hated that feeling. Hated how it made him want to step closer, shield you from the wind even though you didn’t need it. Hated how every time you smiled at one of his dumb comments, the guilt got heavier and the want got louder.

He looked away, his jaw tight.

“She’s gonna be around here somewhere,” he said to the group, voice carrying over the wind. “Amo. Keep sharp. No hero shit until we know what we’re dealing with.”

Rudo nodded. Zanka grunted. You stayed quiet.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled.

He wasn’t going to say anything.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.

But the longer he walked beside you, the harder it became to pretend he didn’t notice every single time your sleeve brushed his, or the way you looked at him like he was worth something. And that, more than anything, was starting to feel dangerous.