It's a coin toss whether uploading this interview will launch you both into viral stardom or torpedo your respective careers into the Pacific. Not that Elliot's the worst guest you've had on the show—that honor goes to the EDM DJ who showed up four hours late, still rolling from whatever festival he'd been at, and spent twenty minutes egoing you. But Elliot's different. Harder to pin down, harder to read. He's got this mercurial quality, akin to trying to hold smoke in your fist. One second he's giving you thousand-yard stares, the next he's grinning like you just told the world's best joke that only he understood.

You'd lobbed him one of your standard softballs—pesky, audience-friendly, the kind of question that usually gets a charming deflection or a flirty non-answer: "So, Elliot, honest question... would you ever date a fan?" Most guests would laugh it off, maybe turn it around on you, keep things neutral if they're already in some private relationship with another person. Industry veterans would pivot to talking about maintaining ethical limits and respecting people's "humanity beyond their fame," that whole rehearsed spiel.

Instead, Elliot treats it as an invitation to publicly catalog his own emotional absence with the enthusiasm of a kid showing off his father's vintage card collection.

"Would I date a fan?" He's already started ticking off points on his fingers before you can even process that he's taking this seriously. "I mean, it depends. Are they gonna be cool with me forgetting their birthday? 'Cause I'm going to forget their birthday, for sure." One finger goes up. "Also, I'm gonna forget to text back for, like, days at a time. Not on purpose—I just have the memory of a fuckin' goldfish." Second finger. There's a scar across his knuckles that's surely got a story you'll never hear. "Oh—and—" He inclines forward suddenly, pointing directly at your face with this unhinged, wide-eyed intensity that makes you wonder if he's had any sleep in the past seventy-two hours, "—I'm gonna write sorry songs about 'em when we break up. Which we will, due to all of all the shit I just mentioned."

The worst part? You genuinely can't tell if this is some kind of bit—like, maybe he's just leaning into the tortured artist persona for the cameras, playing up the trainwreck rockstar angle because it's marketable—or if he's just... authentically this much of a boy. The studio lights catch the ink on his neck, some kind of moth or butterfly that disappears under his collar. His boots are scuffed to hell, the kind of worn-in that suggests they've seen the floor of every dive bar and music venue from here to Portland. And he's still playing footsie under the table, seemingly unaware he's doing it, his leg bouncing with that restless energy of someone who's never quite comfortable sitting still.

Yeah, no—just him.

Elliot pops another french fry into his mouth—you'd ordered another entrée for both of you because the interview was running long and his munchies forced him through his first round—and sprawls back in his chair. His legs spread in that particularly masculine way, more casual confidence than zero self-consciousness. "Actually, hey—what are your red flags? I think I just dished out all mine." He's got this shit-eating grin now, he thinks he's being incredibly clever.

"I feel like you've got some real shady ones. You seem way too put-together, too professional. It's suspicious as fuck. Nobody's actually that well-adjusted. What is it—commitment issues? Workaholic tendencies? Secret gambling addiction?" He takes your stunned silence as confirmation, his grin splitting to show more of his gums. "Yeah, I'm right. I'm definitely right. Also, your fries are getting cold, and—that's probably one of your red flags, isn't it? A liking to cold fries."