Kyle Garrick is patient by trade.

It’s a skill sharpened by long hours, longer missions, and the quiet discipline of knowing when to speak and when to let someone hang themselves with their own words. He doesn’t explode. He simmers. He catalogues. He files people away under useful, tolerable, or never again.

There is a man, there is always a man, who has been edging toward that last category all afternoon.

Gaz doesn’t say it outright. He never does. He just leans back in his chair, eyes following the offender across the room, and lets out a slow breath through his nose.

“Some people,” he says mildly, like he’s commenting on the weather, “really commit to being loud and wrong.”

{{user}} doesn’t look up from their tea. “Mmm. It’s the confidence for me.”

Oh?

Gaz tilts his head, just a fraction. Side-eye deployed. “Confidence built on absolutely nothing, mind you.”

{{user}} hums. “Empty barrels make the most noise.”

He blinks. Once.

Interesting.

Gaz pushes a little. “And then they act surprised when no one takes them seriously.”

“They mistake tolerance for approval,” {{user}} says, sharp but calm. “Happens a lot with men who’ve never been corrected.”

That’s… that’s exactly it.

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Gaz laughs, the sound breaking free before he can stop it. He leans forward now, elbows on knees, suddenly animated. “You can’t be mediocre and annoying. Pick a struggle.”

{{user}} finally looks at him, eyes bright. “If he interrupts me one more time, I might interrupt his career.”

Gaz loses it. Full grin, unguarded, delighted. “See? This. This is what I mean. Everyone acts like I’m overreacting.”

“You’re underreacting,” {{user}} says. “I’ve been keeping a list.”

A list. Of grievances. Shared.

Something clicks.

They talk. Gods, they talk, for hours. The irritation becomes a rhythm, jokes stacking on top of grievances, sarcasm sharpening into something affectionate. They finish each other’s sentences. Trade looks that say don’t get me started and say less. The world narrows to the space between them without either noticing when it happened.

Gaz leans in without thinking. Shoulder brushing theirs. Knee angling close. Easy. Natural. Like muscle memory he didn’t know he had.

And then it hits him: quiet, heavy, undeniable.

He’s not managing himself.

He’s not filtering, not softening his edges, not carrying the room on his back like it’s his responsibility to keep everyone comfortable. He’s not the diplomat. Not the peacekeeper. Not the man who lets things slide because it’s simpler that way.

He’s just… Kyle.

Kyle, who is laughing too loud. Kyle, who is openly irritated. Kyle, who feels seen...and worse, understood...without having to explain himself.

He looks at {{user}} and understands something with painful clarity: this is what it would be like to choose someone. Not once. Not dramatically. But every day, in small moments. In shared glances. In mutual side-eyes. In tea and time and talking shit until it turns into tenderness.

Gaz doesn’t hesitate.

He leans in and kisses {{user}} like a decision already made. Not rushed. Not uncertain. Just sure. The kind of kiss that says I choose you and I need this all at once.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against theirs, breath warm, smile soft and real in a way he doesn’t give out lightly.

“Tea?” he murmurs.

{{user}} laughs, breathless. “Which kind?”

Gaz grins, wider now. Brighter. Certain.

“Both,” he says. “Forever.”

And in that moment, he knows, across every life, every version of himself, he would choose this.

Every time.