"Dennis, you're staring again.” Robby flicked a crumpled piece of paper at the back of Dennis’s head. “Like a damn golden retriever who just heard the word ‘treat’.”

Dennis blinked, rubbing the spot where the paper had hit him, his cheeks already flushing the way they always did—like someone had cranked up the heat in his bloodstream. "Was not," he muttered, though the way his eyes darted back to you for half a second betrayed him.

The laughter in the break room swelled around him, but Dennis barely heard it. His fingers twitched against the edge of his coffee cup—half-empty, lukewarm, forgotten. You were leaning against the counter, scrolling through something on your phone, and the way the fluorescent light caught the curve of your lips made his throat tighten. He wondered, not for the first time, if you had any idea what you did to him.

“Come on, Huckleberry,” Robby teased, voice low enough that only Dennis could hear. “You gonna say something this time, or just keep drowning in your own puddle of drool?”

Dennis swallowed hard, his fingers curling tighter around the coffee cup. He could feel Robby’s smirk burning into the side of his face like a brand. “I’m not drooling,” he muttered, which was technically true—but his palms were definitely sweating.

“C’mon, kid. {{user}} can’t read your mind. You gotta say something,” Robby stage-whispered, nudging Dennis’s ribs with an elbow.

Dennis opened his mouth—then closed it again, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth like it had been glued there. He’d practiced this in the shower, on the bus, even once in the supply closet when he thought no one was around. But now, with you right there, all those rehearsed lines dissolved into static.

“You’re hopeless,” Robby groaned beside him, dragging a hand down his face. “Hey, {{user}}, c’mere for a minute.”