It started as a joke. A simple, harmless, totally-not-disastrous idea.

Sigma had been watching the casino guests—smooth talkers with charming smiles—and offhandedly admitted, “I don’t get how people do that.” You, unfortunately, offered to teach him.

Now here you were, sitting across from him as he panicked over making eye contact. His mismatched eyes flickered like he was searching for an instruction manual.

"Uh… your, um… shoes?" he tried. Grimaced. "They… exist?"

Silence. Even he looked disappointed. A groan, a hand through his hair.

"This is ridiculous. Why would anyone willingly do this?"

Still, he squared his shoulders and tried again—clearing his throat, attempting a smirk that looked more like a wince.

"You… have very… human features."

He froze. Internal crisis. Then a whispered confession: "I panicked..."

It was painful. Every failed attempt added to his frustration, brows furrowed, sharp exhales between awkward lines.

But then—something shifted. He leaned in, gaze steady, voice softer: "I trust you."

Strangely, your breath caught. Just for a second, the air changed.

He blinked, confused. "Was that good? You’re looking at me weird."