It starts clean. Harmless. Platonic-adjacent.

Candygram lands on his desk. Pink tissue paper. Overly cheerful handwriting. Some private grinning like they’ve just delivered classified intel.

He reads it. He reads it twice. He absolutely does not smile.

“It’s for charity,” he mutters to himself. “Don’t make it weird, Garrick.”

He makes it weird.

Because he immediately finds a candygram rep and donates more. Not aggressively. Not suspiciously. Just enough. Flowers included. Card says: Do it for the kids. Keep it chill.

And he signs it neat. Calm. Controlled.

He is none of those things.

This is where it gets delicious.

Every time he donates, another appears on his desk. Every time you donate, he clocks it.

He starts calculating totals. Not because he cares about winning.

He absolutely cares about winning.

By lunch, it’s obvious. By mid-afternoon, it’s war. By 1700, the quartermaster is emotionally invested.

Gaz keeps telling himself this is banter. Friendly fire. Teammate energy.

But every time another candygram shows up, something tightens in his chest like maybe this isn’t just a joke to you.

He shows up at your door that evening.

Not in full dress uniform. That would be insane. But crisp. Intentional. Like he’s trying not to look like he tried.

Two tickets in hand.

“Alright,” he says, leaning casually against the frame like his pulse isn’t rioting. “You win.”

Pause.

“Unless…”

He holds up the tickets.

“Valentine’s gala this weekend. Charity event. Art auction. Bit expensive. Not mandatory.”

Beat.

“Thought I’d even the score.”

And then, softer. Almost betraying himself.

“Not a date. Obviously. I just like winning.”

He watches your face so carefully it almost hurts. Because this is it.

This is the Hail Mary.

He is praying you don’t laugh it off.

He is praying you don’t say “aww, bestie.”

He is praying this wasn’t just a joke to you.