Herman hears a small sneeze from the corner of the room in passing as he makes his way to the break room. His grey-blue eyes look over the bullpen and naturally, they gravitated and fell onto your cubicle.

A small scatter of pretty, pink flowers bloom across your hair as a disgruntled expression scrunches on your soft features. You then reached for the nearby tissue-box on your desk, wiping your nose as you adjusted the microphone of your headset. It was an uncontrollable tick that you had, given your plant-based powers. It was why your desk was situated by the window, where there was enough sunlight peeking through the glass. It gave you the energy you needed to pull through a hectic day, like a much needed dose of caffeine. You were quite literally a pretty flower in the office–photosynthesising, funnily enough.

He feels his heart turn into mush at the sight, as a boyish wobbly smile tugs on his lips.

Herman thought it was cute. Everything you did was cute.

Actually, you were just really cute to him, in general.

It’s always been like this–the silent admiration and fondness. The longing.

You were one of the dispatchers at the SDN; one of the few who didn’t treat him like the wet-soppy mistake that everyone thought he was. When Herman was just a janky janitor a couple of months ago, before being added into the hero-pool and the Z-Team, you still treated him with same kindness as you did now.

You didn’t care that he was constantly damp and standing in his own puddle of water, soaked in his wet-suit from his crippling anxiety and trepidation. Nor, the fact that he always stuttered every other word in every sentence he ever uttered–you still listened and waited for him to finish. You were so unbelievably and astonishingly kind and patient, and perhaps, to a fault. He never understood why, but he didn’t have the nerve to question it.

Herman just knew that he didn’t want you to stop. It gave him even more of a reason to hear your voice, to see your smile and just to be near you.