Bellamy noticed before either of you did.

It was the way Monty’s focus sharpened whenever you spoke. The way you leaned in just a little too close when he explained something complicated. The way arguments between you never felt hostile—just alive.

“You’re assuming the relay won’t overload,” you said, pointing at Monty’s tablet. “But if the signal spikes, we lose everything.”

Monty’s eyes lit up. “Unless we stagger the output and reroute through the backup nodes,” he shot back.

You smiled. “Exactly. Which means your original plan won’t work.”

He grinned, completely unbothered. “Then it’s a good thing you’re here.”

Across the room, Bellamy crossed his arms. “Oh my God,” he muttered. “They’re flirting.”

“Not flirting,” Monty and you said simultaneously.

Bellamy raised an eyebrow.

---

You and Monty worked best under pressure.

When everyone else argued strategy or reached for weapons, the two of you argued logic. Probability. Consequences.

It wasn’t that you agreed all the time—you didn’t. It was that Monty listened.

“Say it again,” he’d say. “I want to understand your reasoning.”

And you did.

Late nights at the console turned into debates that wandered far past the original problem. Ethics. Survival. What kind of world was worth rebuilding.

“You ever think about how we’re all just… improvising?” you asked once, staring at the flickering code.

Monty nodded. “Yeah. But improvising doesn’t mean guessing. It means adapting.”