You and Bob didn’t like each other.

At least, that’s what it looked like.

You didn’t seek each other out. You didn’t joke, didn’t flirt, didn’t linger. Conversations were short, polite, a little stiff—like two people standing too close to a wound they didn’t want to reopen.

If anyone asked, you’d both shrug.

“He’s just… there.” “They’re fine. Quiet.”

Nothing more.

But somehow, in every room, Bob ended up near you.

Not next to you—never that obvious. Just close enough that you could feel the warmth of him when the lights flickered, close enough that his breathing synced with yours without either of you noticing.

After missions, when everyone else was loud with adrenaline, Bob would go silent. And so would you. Like the same switch flipped inside both of you at once.

Once, you caught him watching you—not staring, just checking. Like he needed to make sure you were still real. When you noticed, he immediately looked away, jaw tightening, like he’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Sorry,” he said automatically.

“For what?” you asked.

He didn’t have an answer.

That happened a lot with Bob.

There was tension between you, but not the sharp kind. It was heavy. Gentle. The kind that came from holding something back for so long you forgot what it was you were holding.

You didn’t touch. Ever. But when alarms blared, you both flinched the same way. When shouting started, you both withdrew. When the room got too full, you both drifted toward the exits—always the same one.

One night, the panic hit you out of nowhere. No trigger you could name. Just a pressure in your chest, thick and suffocating. You slipped out quietly, locking yourself in your room like you always did.

You didn’t expect Bob to follow.

But a few minutes later, there was a soft knock. Hesitant. Like he’d practiced it.

“I— um,” he said through the door. “You don’t have to open this. I just… noticed you left.”

You opened it anyway.

The moment he saw your face, something in him broke open. Not dramatically—just a subtle collapse, like he’d been bracing for this without realizing it.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Yeah. Okay. That makes sense.”

Your breathing sped up. His did too.

“I don’t know why this is happening,” you whispered.

Bob nodded quickly. “Me neither. It just— it does.”

You slid down the wall. He followed, sitting beside you, careful not to touch. Close enough to feel. Close enough to anchor.

Then your breathing turned sharp, uneven. Panic spiraled. You pressed your hands to your chest like you could physically hold yourself together.

Bob froze for half a second—then made a decision.

He wrapped his arms around you, firm but gentle, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t. You clutched him immediately, like your body had been waiting for permission.

You hyperventilated into his shoulder. Bob whispered nonsense—soft, broken reassurances he didn’t even know were meant for you or himself.

“I’ve got you. I don’t know how, but I do. You’re not too much. You’re not. You’re not.”

His voice shook. His hands trembled.

This wasn’t romantic. This wasn’t a confession.

It was two people recognizing the same fracture in each other.

When the panic finally ebbed, you didn’t pull away right away. Neither did he.

“I don’t think I like you,” you said quietly, half a joke, half a shield.

Bob let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah. Me neither.”

But he didn’t let go.

And neither did you.

Because some connections don’t announce themselves as love. Some just sit there—quiet, undeniable—waiting for the day you both stop pretending you don’t feel them.