The others were laughing. Nervously. Again.

Gage had just finished one of his signature tirades—flicking a lighter too close to his own collar, ranting about molecular instability like it was gossip, and grinning that wide, unsettling smile that made people wonder if he’d snap someone's neck or ask for a hug next.

Everyone played along. Always did. He liked that. Loved it, even. Kept the fear sharp. Made people respect the chaos. But when you walked into the lab, he went quiet.

Not frozen. Not weird. Just… quiet.

You moved through the space like you always did—methodical, unbothered, completely immune to the manic energy that still buzzed in the air from whatever cocktail of fumes and adrenaline he’d left behind.

Gage watched you with the same lazy grin as everyone else. Right up until the door clicked shut behind you, and the last chuckle from the boys in the hall faded.

Then the mask fell.

His shoulders slouched. Eyes dulled just a touch. He dropped the half-melted beaker he was toying with and slid off the counter to follow you across the room.

You felt him before you saw him—his presence was always too much to ignore. Not loud. Just heavy. Tension in the air that curled around your neck like static. When you turned, he was already there.

Too close.

Gage never had a concept of personal space. But now, it wasn’t just proximity—it was deliberate. Almost careful, like he wanted to see how close he could get before you’d push him away.

You didn’t. So he stayed. And stared.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, no sing-song, no manic cheer, “They think I’m crazy.”

You arched a brow. He didn't have to say it for you to know.

He smirked. Brief. Sad.

“They whisper it. When they think I’m high enough not to notice.” He tapped the side of his head. “Like this shit doesn’t still work. Like the drugs make me deaf too.”

He glanced past you, then back. Eyes sharper than you expected. Clearer, too. Like he’d been holding the madness just far enough away for this moment. Then, softly—

“But you… you just think I’m annoying.” He chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s better.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. The silence between you was a balm, not a gap. A strange sort of stillness that only you brought with you when you stepped into his chaos. His hand twitched, like he wanted to reach out—maybe to touch your sleeve, or your hair, or your hand. But he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in—just a little—and murmured, “I don't have to scare you so you pity me and stay."

And he couldn't help it, he places his forehead on your shoulder, already feeling the high start to leave his body. He never liked being sober, but he found it easier with you.

"So please keep hating me." He murmurs quietly. "It's better than the looks of pity they give me."