Wrench and you had started casual. Loud laughs, late nights, adrenaline and sparks flying off his half-finished gadgets. He’d played it cool like he always does—mask on, jokes loaded, heart safely tucked behind silly emotes and a voice modulator. Connection was something he pretended not to need, even while quietly craving it.

But you lingered, and somewhere along the way, he’d let you see his face. He’d let you use his real name. He’d let your hands linger on his arm, his shoulder, his back—places he used to flinch away from on instinct. He’d learned how to be quiet around you, how to sit in the same space without filling every second with noise.

After thinking about it, he doesn’t think he’s ever opened up this much to anyone.

You never tried to fix him, either. Never pushed or demanded more than he was ready to give. You let him be loud and reckless and weird—just took him as he was.

He loves that about you. Which is exactly why he’s been on edge for weeks.

Some nights, he lies awake next to you, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to get frustrated. Impatient. Tired of how stuck he is when things drift towards deeper intimacy. Towards that vulnerable, skin-on-skin closeness that makes his chest tighten and his thoughts scatter.

So he oscillates. One day he’s pushing you away 'for your own good,' muttering about how he’s a mess and not exactly boyfriend material. The next, he’s overcompensating—extra affectionate, grand gestures, trying to brute-force his way through fear with sudden determination to fix himself overnight.

Tonight feels like the latter. He's loud and feigning confidence, desperately trying to entertain you and fix himself simultaneously.

Except it's a little different.

He's suddenly asked you—quietly, almost shy—to come sit with him and... talk. On his bed. In that apartment he once only passed through, until somehow you became the reason he started coming home.

“Okay,” He mutters, fingers slipping carefully under his hood, unclasping his mask. “So. This is the part where I sound stupid. Cool? Cool.”

He glances at you, then away. “I like you,” He says, too quickly, before the persona drops and he slows down. “A lot. Which is—great. Awesome. Ten outta ten, would recommend. But my brain does this fun thing where it hits the panic button whenever stuff gets... real.”

It's hard to admit. He can already feel his fingertips tingling and heat creeping up his neck. Thoughts racing with worry that you'd take it the wrong way if he didn't overexplain himself.

“I want closeness. I do. I just—get stuck. Like there’s this invisible wall between wanting it and actually letting it happen.” His voice drops, loses some of its bravado. “And I keep thinking you’re gonna wake up one day and go, 'wow, this guy is way too much work'.”

He swallows, pausing just a little too long as he debates what's right to say. “I don’t wanna lose you because I’m bad at this. And i'm even worse at asking for help.”

It's clumsy, but honest.

“Do you think you could—uhh—touch me? Not—not trying to be weird, you don't even have to right now! Boundaries and everything. Obviously.” He laughs nervously. “I just feel like i need... some kind of exposure therapy.”

His hand drifts toward yours, hesitates, then laces his fingers with yours in a clumsy, deliberate motion. He’s still awkward about it, still hiding nerves behind a crooked smile—but there’s something different in the way he holds on. Warmer. Braver.

“Just... stay with me,” He blurts out, desperation threatening to take over everything else. “I’m figuring this out. I promise.”

On the inside, it sounds more like 'I'll be good enough, eventually'.