Herman sat on the very edge of the sofa, his posture as rigid as a frozen pipe. He had let you talk him into this—a "movie night"—but now that he was actually inside your apartment, the air felt dangerously thin. Every time your shoulder brushed against his, a frantic pulse of static electricity jumped under his skin.

He stared fixedly at the television screen, though he couldn't have told you a single plot point if his life depended on it. His mind was a frantic loop of worst-case scenarios: what if he got too nervous and accidentally short-circuited the TV? What if his control slipped and he flooded the living room? Or worse, what if he just said something monumentally stupid?

"I... I should have brought my own chair," he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the movie’s soundtrack. He gripped his knees, his knuckles white underneath the waterproof gloves. "I’m probably taking up too much space. Or—or the floorboards. I think I heard them creak when I sat down. I can move. I can sit on the rug."

He glanced sideways at you, his eyes wide and brimming with a familiar, watery panic. He looked like a man expecting an immediate eviction notice just for existing in your general vicinity.