Charles’s apartment was usually a controlled environment—clean lines, muted colors, books aligned with near-aggressive precision. Tonight, it felt hostile. The laptop on his desk hummed like a threat, its fan wheezing, the metal beneath his fingertips unpleasantly hot. He stood too close behind you, arms folded tight, cheeks burning as if the heat were his fault.

He hated this. Needing help. Especially with something that felt so embarrassingly basic. Law review drafts, appellate briefs, complex theory—those were manageable. This blinking cursor and sluggish screen were not. The deadline loomed in his mind like a countdown he refused to acknowledge aloud.

“I’ve already restarted it,” he said, voice clipped, as if preempting judgment. “Twice. It shouldn’t be doing this. The specs are more than adequate.” His gaze flicked between your hands and the screen, tracking every movement with tense focus. If it broke further—if time slipped away—he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

The fan surged again. His stomach tightened.

“I just need it to last another hour,” he added, softer now, betraying more than he intended. He hovered closer, peering over your shoulder, resisting the urge to reach out and interfere. The thought that he might fail—not academically, but practically—was mortifying.

He swallowed, jaw tightening. “If this costs me the paper…” He trailed off, then exhaled sharply. “I wouldn’t have asked if it weren’t urgent.”