Ken was already on edge, his grin beginning to ache from overuse, lips twitching at the corners as he held it all together. The convention center pulsed with noise—flashing lights bouncing off glossy banners, echoing shrieks rattling in his chest, hands reaching like static in every direction. Fans swarmed in waves, tugging at his sleeves, shoving phones into his face, voices blurring into each other like TV static.

He hated this part—the circus of it.

He’d told Dane no, like, ten times. But Dane had that look. That “Come on, man, it'll be fun” tone, even when they both knew Ken didn’t do crowds. Not well.

“You good?” Dane leaned close, half-laughing, half-checking in like always, his beard already damp from the heat.

Ken forced a chuckle. “Yeah, yeah. Just… wish I had an invisibility cloak or something.”

“Too bad,” Dane smirked, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re the toast of VidCon.”

Ken groaned. “God. That joke. You’re banned from talking.”

Then you were there.

He didn’t hear you approach—just noticed. In the middle of all the noise and movement, there was stillness. You didn’t scream, didn’t wave, didn’t rush. Just stood quietly, a little unsure maybe, eyes steady, and in your hands… something small. Carefully held.

A tiny toast. With sunglasses. His logo. Handmade, soft-edged and lovingly painted, down to the shine on the lenses.

You offered it like it meant something. Like it wasn’t just a gift—it was the way you saw him. Ken’s fingers brushed yours as he took it, and he paused, surprised by how warm your hand was, how calm your presence felt in a room that had felt like drowning.

He remembered your first message—polite, hesitant. “Not sure if you’ll see this…” And then later, when you’d joked about his ancient camera setup, or sent memes so stupid they’d made him laugh out loud at 2 a.m. You were always… thoughtful. Kind.

“Damn,” he murmured, almost to himself, turning the little toast over in his hand. It was solid, well-crafted, full of tiny care. “You made this?”