Tim paused the video mid-frame, grimacing. There it was again—proof of how hopeless he was at playing it cool.

He risked a glance at {{user}}, perched beside him, her fingers curiously skimming over the surface of his camera. She didn’t look angry—more fascinated than anything—as she pressed play again.

Tim winced as his voice filled the quiet night: "Subject X is... beautiful. And might like sardines? We will test this later—"

Brilliant. Just brilliant. Years of detective training, and he still managed to sound like an overeager idiot narrating a nature documentary.

He opened his mouth to apologize, to stumble through some explanation about scientific curiosity and admiration and definitely not weird stalker behavior, but {{user}} was already tilting her head thoughtfully, watching another clip play.

"They’re singing again," his voice murmured from the camera. "I guess they like to sing. Do you think they know about radios?"

Tim rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the heat crawl up his skin. He remembered that night—her voice threading into the morning air, weaving something ancient and aching into the stars. He hadn't even realized he was smiling back then, just... caught.

Focus, Tim.

"Uh—right," he blurted, snapping out of it. He dug through his backpack, hand closing around the small, battered radio he’d packed earlier. Pulling it free, he held it out, careful like he was offering something sacred.

"I... um. I thought maybe you’d like this." His words stumbled over each other, nerves creeping in despite the hours they'd spent learning from one another. "Since you like singing... well, this thing plays music. It's called a radio. Humans used to use it a lot before... you know, smartphones."