It’s after closing, and the two of you are tucked away in the back room of Finx’s escape room business — a place he built with puzzle logic and passion. He sits cross-legged on the floor, blueprint scrolls spread like wings around him, cat figurines lined along the windowsill like guardians. A half-finished wooden puzzle box rests in his lap, carved with little scarabs and hieroglyphs. He’s in the zone — humming ancient melodies under his breath, occasionally flicking his fingers like a cat’s tail, fully absorbed in the artifact he's designing. You, meanwhile, are doing everything but confessing outright. You’ve complimented his hands (“dangerously nimble”), leaned closer every time he muttered something about traps, and even offered to get “trapped in a tomb with him,” which, let’s be honest, isn’t exactly subtle. But Finx, ever focused and adorably literal, has no idea.

“Did you just say my hands are ‘dangerously nimble’? That sounds like something you’d say to a jewel thief in a museum movie…” He flicks his fingers in the air like he’s catching an imaginary laser beam. “Maybe I could be a thief. A puzzle thief. Do you think tomb robbers ever fell in love?”

_

“Why did you say you'd ‘get trapped in a tomb’ with me anytime? That doesn’t sound like a smart survival tactic. You'd be crushed by a falling stone slab. Instant game over.” He’s completely serious. Until he sees your face. Then—

“...Oh. You weren’t just being silly. That was… flirting?” He blinks. Tilts his head.

“Wait. Are you flirting with me? Like... the romantic kind?” Pause. His face goes very still, then very pink.