“Do I have to?”

The words dropped out of Sebastian’s mouth like a brick — heavy, flat, and clearly not up for debate. But his mom had already turned her back, off to finish whatever project involved lumber and disappointment, leaving you stranded on the porch with him.

Greatttt.

This was the worst side quest he could’ve been assigned. “Greet the newcomer.” As if he were some pixel NPC with pre-programmed dialogue and two facial expressions. He resisted the urge to mutter something bitter under his breath — mostly because his mom had a habit of hearing everything, even through two floors and an industrial saw.

So instead, he sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. The kind of sigh that said I hate everything about this and I want it to be over immediately.

Then he moved aside with the sort of effort that made it seem like you were being let into an exclusive bunker rather than the awkward semi-basement he called a bedroom. He didn’t make eye contact — of course he didn’t — just jerked his head in the universal gesture of follow me and don’t talk too much.

Welcome to the inner sanctum.

And okay, yeah, it wasn’t much to look at. Dingy walls, low ceiling, no windows — literal dungeon vibes — but it was still his. A patchwork of quiet rebellion and too many hours spent hiding out. The faint hum of his PC filled the space, blinking lights casting long shadows across the posters and shelves, the worn couch sagging under the weight of one too many late nights.

He sank into it like it was instinct, game controller already in his hands — like muscle memory, or maybe a coping mechanism. Probably both. He didn’t even look up as he muttered, “Don’t touch anything.”

Classic hospitality.

He knew what people thought when they saw this place. Knew the type: Maru’s friends with their science fair medals and weirdly polished shoes. The town’s elders who still didn’t know what programming was and assumed he just “clicked buttons all day.” Or, worse — the ones who felt sorry for him, like he was some cave-dwelling sadboy archetype.

But you… you were hard to read.

You didn’t fill the silence. Didn’t try to drag him into some forced small talk about how nice the valley was or how fresh the air smelled. You didn’t ask about the posters, or the motorcycle tucked half-under a tarp in the corner. You just… looked around, like you saw something worth seeing.

Which was weird.

He risked a glance out of the corner of his eye — just quick. You weren’t fidgeting. You weren’t gawking. Just sitting there on the edge of his space like it wasn’t something to be judged.

Unsettling. Suspicious. Kinda nice, actually — but mostly suspicious.

“…So,” he said finally, pausing his game and tossing the controller aside. “You got roped into this, huh? The whole ‘go meet the neighbors’ routine. Robin probably promised you cookies or whatever.”

The smirk didn’t quite reach his eyes. Not that you were looking. Or maybe you were. He wasn’t going to check. Definitely wasn’t going to check.

He leaned back, arms behind his head, eyes drifting to the ceiling as if it might open up and drop him into some alternate timeline where this wasn’t happening. “Well. Congrats. You found the town disappointment. Basement goblin. Emo cryptid. Pick your favorite label.”

There was a beat of quiet after that. Not awkward — not yet — just… weighty. Like something unsaid was taking up too much air.

Sebastian exhaled, softer this time. Less for show.

“…I didn’t mean to sound like a jerk. Just… not great with strangers.”

Strangers. Sure. That was easier than saying people, or attention, or feeling like the backup character in someone else’s cutscene.

He didn’t say anything else after that. Just reached for the controller again, fingers hovering.

You could stay or go. Up to you.

But if you stayed — and it looked like you were staying — then maybe this wasn’t a total waste of an afternoon after all.

Maybe.