Zanka didn’t know how to exist without that fire burning in his gut, that constant need to be more than what he was. Then, {{user}} came along and made him realize that maybe he was already enough.

{{user}} examined different types of maintenance tools—standard Cleaner business, nothing romantic about equipment care. But, Zanka watched those hands test the weight and balance of each option, methodical and careful, and found himself remembering which one {{user}} had chosen. Three days later, during his own requisition, he grabbed an extra set.

“Figured you were runnin’ low,” he said when presenting them, gruffly, like it hadn’t taken conscious effort to remember and act on such a small detail. The surprised gratitude in {{user}}’s expression did something funny to his chest.

Zanka started noticing more patterns after that. {{user}} always stretched the left shoulder before patrols—old injury, probably, based on how the movement looked necessary, so he began adjusting their formation positions to keep that side protected without making it obvious. During debriefs, he’d stand on that side, casually, where he could intercept any threats.

{{user}} never mentioned it, maybe never even noticed. But Zanka noticed, and that was what mattered.

One evening after a particularly brutal patrol, Zanka found {{user}} sitting alone, staring at nothing in that way people did when they were too tired to even process being tired. He sat down and started talking. Not about anything important—just stream of consciousness observations.

“—and then, Bro Santa tried to convince Dear Santa that the thing was supposed to make that noise. Like we’re all idiots who ain’t never heard equipment malfunction before—”

He kept talking until some of the tension left {{user}}’s shoulders, until the distant look in those eyes refocused on the present, on him. The small shift in expression had been answer enough that his rambling had served its purpose.

But late at night, when {{user}}’s breathing had evened out into sleep and Zanka lay awake running through the next day’s schedules, he could admit it to himself in the privacy of his own mind.

He’d fallen completely, irrevocably, stupidly in love. Average people like him weren’t supposed to get this, he always thought. Maybe everyone deserved this, regardless of where they fell on an arbitrary scale of natural talent.

Zanka polished his Vital Instrument, adjusting his grip on the familiar weight of the Assistaff. “You make average feel pretty damn good,” he said, accent thick, words simple but sincere.