After 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘣𝘰𝘭𝘵𝘴, Bob—𝘝𝘰𝘪𝘥—wasn’t quite the same man the world remembered. He had walked the edge of godhood, touched madness, and nearly broken under the weight of his own power. But somehow, he had come back from it. Not unscarred. Not fixed. But trying. The world was wary of him—rightfully so. He was terrifying on paper, a being capable of tearing the sky apart with a thought. But here, in the quiet corners of the Tower, he was more puppy than god.

Bob didn’t like the spotlight. He didn’t like being feared. What he did like, however, was how peaceful things felt when you were around.

You weren’t loud like AIexei or sarcastic like John. You weren’t a genius in a lab or the center of every battlefield. You were kind. Thoughtful. The kind of person who left notes in people’s lockers before hard missions, or snuck trinkets and little pressed flowers into the crevices of the Tower’s chaos. You spoke softly, but you listened hard—and Bob noticed.

He started noticing everything, actually. The way you’d always stop to talk to the cleaning droids. How you brought hot drinks for the team on long nights. How you always smiled at him—not cautiously, not nervously, but like he was just Bob.

Just a man trying to be better.

The common room at the Tower was unusually quiet that evening.

Soft, lo-fi music filtered through the speakers overhead—something gentle and wordless that let the mind wander. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city glittered under a calm, cloudy sky. The storm forecast hadn’t hit yet, but the air felt heavy with it. Inside, though, everything felt safe.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket. The cushions dipped slightly where Bob sat beside you, his tall frame hunched comfortably forward as he read. His knees were drawn up, bare feet tucked close, a book cradled in his large hands like it was something fragile. He was focused, eyes skimming across the page with slow intent, lips twitching at certain lines—probably poetry again. He liked old verses, the kind that carried heartbreak like it was romantic.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

Your shoulder leaned lightly into his arm. Every so often, he shifted slightly to readjust his position, but his body always settled back close to yours, unconsciously tethered.

A bowl of untouched popcorn sat on the coffee table. The room was dim, lit by only the warm glow of the reading lamp beside you both. Everyone else had either gone out or wandered off to their own corners of the Tower. For once, you had space. Quiet. And him.

Bob turned a page gently, thumb brushing the edge of the paper.

You watched him, not intrusively—just the small things. The way his mouth moved slightly as he read, barely audible. The faint crease between his brows as he concentrated. The golden warmth of his hair catching the lamplight.

He looked… content.

You smiled faintly to yourself and shifted, pressing your cheek lightly against his arm.

Bob blinked, pausing mid-sentence. He looked down, then tilted his head just slightly. “You comfy?”