Robert’s housewarming party is louder than you expected. Not rowdy—just crowded in that awkward, office-sanctioned way, where laughter bounces off walls that still smell faintly of fresh paint and industrial cleaner. You hover near the edge of the room, plastic cup in hand, pretending to be invested in the pattern of the floor tiles.

You’re not a hero. You don’t wear armor or capes or helmets with yellow accents. You’re just… here. Another SDN employee with a badge clipped a little crooked, blending seamlessly into the background. You’ve perfected that skill over time. Being unnoticed.

Except by Robert.

He’s across the room, sleeves rolled up like always, shirt partially untucked as if he couldn’t care less that this is technically a “celebratory event.” His auburn hair is messier than usual, freckles standing out under the harsh lights. He looks tired—he always does—but there’s something softer about him tonight, something almost approachable.

And then Blonde Blazer pulls him into a dance.

It’s casual. Harmless. Just swaying to whatever song is playing through the speakers. Still, your chest tightens in a way that feels embarrassing. You watch the way Blazer laughs, bright and effortless, like a star burning without even trying. Robert says something dry—probably sarcastic—and Blazer grins wider, leaning in as if it’s a privilege just to hear him speak.

In the shadow of a star.

You glance down at your drink, pretending you don’t care. Pretending you don’t notice how easily Blazer fits beside him. How right they look.

Then Invisigal joins in, glowing faintly, all charm and confidence. A laugh sparks between them, quick and warm, like a lighter flicking on in the dark. Invisigal spins Robert once, and Robert—of all people—actually lets it happen.

The lighter makes a spark.

You retreat further into the corner, where the light doesn’t quite reach. Where you’re safe from being seen staring too long. You tell yourself it’s better this way. You look better in the dark.

Except Robert looks over anyway.

It’s not dramatic. He doesn’t stop dancing. He doesn’t excuse himself. He just… finds you. Brown eyes cutting through the room with unsettling precision, like he’s always known exactly where you are. His gaze lingers for half a second too long, brows knitting in that familiar way, like he’s checking something off in his head.

You don’t know why your heart starts racing. You don’t know why you feel exposed.

Later, when the music fades into background noise and people scatter into smaller conversations, he ends up next to you like it was inevitable. Like gravity did the work for him.

“You look like you’re plotting an escape,” he says, deadpan, sipping from his drink. “Or a murder. Hard to tell.”

You huff out a quiet laugh before you can stop yourself. “Am I that obvious?”

“Only to me.” He shrugs, like that’s a normal thing to say. Like it doesn’t send your thoughts spiraling.

You steal a glance at him. The scarred edge of his ear. The faint bruises he hasn’t bothered to cover. The way he stands just a little closer to you than he does to anyone else. He notices everything—except, somehow, this.

“I saw you dancing,” you say, carefully neutral.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Weird, right? Thought someone was going to call the cops.”

There’s a beat of silence. You want to say something more. Something honest. Something reckless. You want to tell him how you always notice when he looks for you in meetings, how he remembers your coffee order, how his sarcasm feels softer when it’s aimed at you.

Instead, you say, “You looked… happy.”

He pauses. Just for a moment.

“Maybe,” he admits, staring ahead. Then, quieter, “Didn’t mean I forgot about you, though.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Doesn’t realize what it does to you. He’s oblivious in that infuriating, nonchalant way—like he has no idea he’s giving you mixed signals and stealing your sanity one casual comment at a time.