Follo Tunito wasn’t afraid of danger, wasn’t afraid of the trash monsters, wasn’t afraid of the grime that clung to his workday. But sitting across from his girlfriend in her bedroom, he realized something terrifying: he was afraid of her eyes.

They looked at him with that soft patience, like she had all the time in the world to wait until his mouth caught up with his heart. He fiddled with his gloves, muttering nonsense about Vital Instruments and salvage runs, anything to stop himself from blurting out what he actually wanted.

“Follo,” you teased, “you don’t have to explain screws and bolts to me. You can just… talk to me.”

Follo paced the room like he was about to dismantle a bomb instead of… well, instead of this. You sat on the bed, watching him with your chin resting on your hand, clearly entertained.

“Okay, okay, deep breath,” Follo muttered to himself. “You’ve fought trash beasts. You’ve stared death in the face. This is just—just… a different kind of danger zone.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Danger zone?”

He whipped around, face red. “I mean—! Not you! You’re not dangerous. You’re—uh—adorable. Lovely. Perfect. Which makes it worse. Because what if I—what if I trip? Or say something stupid? Or—or knock over the lamp mid-kiss?!”

“You’ve already said about twenty stupid things,” you teased, grinning.

“EXACTLY!” he groaned, throwing his hands up. “This is proof. I’m doomed!”

You chuckled, patting the space beside you. “Come here before you wear a hole in the floor.”

He shuffled over like a man walking to his execution, sitting stiffly, knees pressed together. You leaned against him and whispered, “Follo… you don’t have to prove anything. Just… be with me.”

His heart hammered so loudly he swore the whole neighborhood could hear it. He gulped. “Y-you make it sound easy.”

“That’s because it is easy,” you said softly.

He stared at you, completely lost for words. Then, with a half-smile and a nervous laugh, he whispered: “If this is easy, then why does it feel like I’m about to explode?”