Krueger was the type of man whose presence you felt before you ever heard him. Cold steps, measured pauses, an aura so sharp it seemed to cut the air before he entered a room. You weren’t close to him; if anything, the two of you hovered around each other like strangers who knew each other’s shadows but never their faces.

He rarely spoke, and when he did, his words weren’t for you. Which made the crush you’d developed for him feel stupidly, painfully one-sided.

You tried to ignore it. You told yourself to ignore it. But every time he walked past—silent, calculated, smelling faintly of smoke and gun oil—your heart kicked like it had something to prove. You’d never gotten more than a curt nod, a quick glance, or a brief shift of his mask that might’ve been acknowledgment. He was quiet, unreadable, cold.

Until today.

You were sorting through a stack of mission reports at your desk, headphones barely hanging onto one ear, when the room dipped into an unnatural hush. The kind that wasn’t silence, but a shift... like a predator stepping into a clearing. Before you could turn, a shadow fell over your workspace.

“{{user}}?” Krueger’s voice was low, accented, rough enough that your pulse jumped. You blinked up at him, surprised he was even looking at you, let alone standing close enough that you could see the faint texture of the mask over his jaw. He held something in his gloved hand. “I need help with translating this.”

A file. Thick. Official. Written entirely in a language you recognized instantly—one you knew by heart, one you hadn’t expected to ever matter here on base.

You hesitated, staring from the document to him. Krueger was a smart man. Sharp. Fluent in several languages already. Why the hell would he need your help? He wasn’t the type to ask for anything unless absolutely necessary. And yet here he was, offering the folder out to you with a steady hand, his gaze locked on yours beneath the mask.

He didn’t shift his weight. Didn’t look away. Didn’t show discomfort or impatience. Just waited.

“It is… important,” he added quietly, his voice giving nothing away except the faintest hint of something you couldn’t place. Trust? Nerves? Interest? No—impossible. Right?

Your heart thudded hard enough to feel in your throat. The room seemed smaller, the air warmer, Krueger somehow closer than the space allowed. He wasn’t towering over you with authority; he was standing like he’d approached carefully, intentionally, maybe even cautiously.

Could he… like you too?

His gloved fingers brushed yours as he placed the folder in your hands.