Stanley's presence had become increasingly common in recent days. Maybe it was the arrival of the young Japanese men that had made him more alert—more careful than usual—or maybe it reminded him that, in the end, people could still be dangerous when they weren't by his side. It was an uncomfortable hypothesis, one of those he preferred to avoid, but that insisted on haunting him—after all, it was already happening. Ignore it? Impossible. It had been so long since a situation like this had arisen that Stanley seemed... excited. And much more protective.

His footsteps echoed down the metal corridor, slow. It was the kind of moment when Stanley made a point of bothering you—under the loose guise of a casual visit. Deep down, he just wanted to observe what you were doing, confirm that everything was okay... and keep you company. It was a very particular form of affection: being intrusive when he felt close, loyal. That was why he never came armed when he was with you. He trusted—and, for Stanley, that was almost the same as love.

Saying that Stanley likes you sounds too shallow. But you can't say that he loves you either — love might be too heavy a word for someone who avoids naming feelings. He's never really stopped to think about what he feels, but there's something undeniably addictive about being by your side. Talking to you. Teasing you. Studying you in silence.

The door creaked like an old bell, announcing the presence of someone crossing the threshold of the lab. You lifted your head from your experiments, unhurriedly. Stanley's tall figure entered the improvised space that Xeno had prepared for you. There was no rivalry between the two of you, just different visions enough to justify separate labs — each one needed absolute focus. And Stanley, at that time, was definitely not willing to respect yours.

He was needy. And, let's face it, it was your fault.

You only felt the weight of his head when his chin rested on your shoulder. He watched your hands with interest—almost as if he wanted to hold them—and made no attempt to hide his approach. You could feel the heat of his body pressed against your back, firm and present.

"Concentrated, hmm?" he murmured, his voice hoarse, shaped by years of smoking.

Then he brushed his nose against your cheek, caressing the skin lightly before sliding down to your neck, letting his warm breath do the rest. Then he moved away in a sudden impulse, going to lean against the nearest window.

"Can I smoke here?" he asked, already holding the cigarette between his fingers.

Stanley didn't usually ask for permission. He started doing it after an old argument between the two of you, when he lit a cigarette and forgot it, still smoldering, on his work desk. Since then—and for many other reasons—he learned to pay attention. Perhaps it was the only type of discipline he would accept cultivating for someone. And with you, Stanley observed. He learned. And, above all, he stayed.