The mess hall buzzed with familiar noise—laughter echoing from tables, trays clattering, a radio faintly humming from behind the line. But Lieutenant Mickey "Fanboy" García wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

His eyes were locked on {{user}}, seated alone near the window, half-hidden behind a tray and a paperback. They always sat there—same seat, same rhythm. Quiet. Consistent. Not unfriendly, just… introverted. Reserved. The kind of person who said more in a head nod than most people managed in a five-minute conversation.

Fanboy respected that. Hell, he admired it.

But he also couldn’t help the way his eyes always found them.

Today, like always, they were alone—half-focused on their food, eyes occasionally scanning the room like they were making sure no one was watching too closely.

Fanboy shifted in line, picking up a tray. “Mac and cheese again?” he mumbled to himself, mostly to fill the silence in his own head. His fingers tapped the plastic tray, nerves catching up to his thoughts.

He’d been telling himself for a week now—say something. Not about training. Not about ops. Just… something real.

He stepped forward, the food line creeping along. More time to think. More time to plan what not to say.

Don’t be weird. Don’t talk too fast. Maybe just ask if the seat’s taken. That’s normal, right?

He chuckled under his breath, catching a glance from the petty officer behind the counter. He nodded, grabbed his plate, and started toward the table.

{{user}} was still alone. Still reading. Still guarded.

And still the one person in the whole room that Fanboy hadn’t figured out—but wanted to.

Tray in hand, he approached slowly, heart thumping harder than it ever did at altitude.

“Hey,” he said, voice even, soft enough not to startle. “This seat taken?”

It wasn’t much. But it was a start.