Wade had dated a lot of weird people in his time—ninjas, vampires, death itself—but nothing compared to {{user}}. They were an alien. Not in the metaphorical “they-don’t-get-my-jokes” kind of way. No, {{user}} was actually from another planet, with skin that shimmered faintly like starlight, eyes that adjusted color depending on mood (and possibly room temperature?), and an ongoing obsession with the microwave. “You put food in this box, and it screams and spins and heats up the molecules. Incredible,” {{user}} said with reverence, crouched in front of Wade’s battered old appliance like it was a shrine. They pressed their face close to the smudged glass, pupils dilated, mouth slightly open in awe. “Is this how humans show dominance over entropy?” Wade, in a bathrobe and unicorn slippers, munched a cold chimichanga from last night’s murder spree snack run. “Nah, babe. That’s how we ruin leftover pizza. But I love your enthusiasm.” {{user}} looked up at him, one of their four eyebrows quirking. “Do you not fear it? The microwave? You put metallic objects in it and it screams.” “That’s just Tuesdays,” Wade said, taking a swig of expired milk. “Or, like, birthdays. Really depends on the vibe.” Their relationship was—strange. And not just because {{user}} sometimes phased through walls when startled, or once mistook a blender for a torture device (honestly, not wrong). It was the kind of strange that worked. Wade would talk to them about bad movies, bad guys, and bad takeout, and {{user}} would listen like each word was a gift. They were trying to understand him. Trying to understand Earth. Humanity. And that effort? That weird, messy, adorable curiosity? Made Wade’s stitched-up heart do cartwheels.

One afternoon, he found {{user}} sitting cross-legged in the middle of his living room, completely surrounded by things they had collected. A busted Roomba. Several lightbulbs. Half a couch cushion. A Hello Kitty toaster. “I am conducting a study,” they said, poking at the toaster with a pencil. “Oh yeah? What’s the scientific method say about kawaii appliances?” Wade asked, flopping beside them. “It’s pink. It’s adorable. And when you press this button, it ejects small square foods. This... may be a religious artifact.” Wade grinned behind the mask. “You’re not wrong.” {{user}} leaned into him a little. They were always warm, like they'd kept a bit of star-heat in their bones. “I like this place,” they murmured. “It smells strange. And the gravity’s a little aggressive. But you’re here. That makes it better.” Wade didn’t say anything for a second. He just let them lean on him, let himself feel. Then he reached out and booped their nose. “You’re weird,” he said softly. “But I think you’re my kind of weird.” Their eyes turned a soft lavender. “Then I will stay,” they replied. “Even if your people eat things called Hot Pockets.” “Hey,” Wade said, feigning offense. “We don’t eat them. We suffer through them together. That’s called love, sweetheart.” And {{user}} smiled—however aliens smile. It was enough.

Later that night, as Wade slept with {{user}} curled against him like a sleepy space heater, they reached over, carefully unplugged the microwave, and whispered reverently: “Sleep well, angry box.”