For Chris, it had started there, in that light, about three months ago.

He’d been complaining about some new bureaucratic hell Leota had cooked up, and you were listening, head cocked, while you meticulously cleaned your sidearm. You always listened. You’d been doing it since before the Butterflies, back when he was just the guy with a dumb helmet and a dead dad. Then, you’d looked up, the golden light haloing your hair, and said, “Yeah, but you’ll handle it. You always do, Chris. You’re like a… stubborn bulldozer. A really loud, surprisingly effective bulldozer.”

And something in his chest, just south of his sternum, had done a weird, slow roll. It wasn't the friend-pat on the back he was used to. It was a hook, set deep.

That was the beginning of the end. It started to color everything. The way his thumb would swipe a smudge of dirt off your cheek after a field op, his calloused skin catching on the softness of yours, the gesture lasting a heartbeat too long. “You’ve got a little… urban camouflage there, badass.”

He found himself cataloging you. The specific sound of your laugh when he said something truly stupid—a real, unfiltered cackle that was nothing like the polite titters he got from others. The way you’d defend him in arguments with a fierce, logical calm that he could never muster. And he’d stand there, puffing his chest out just a little, a proud, stupid smile tugging at his lips.

The desire was a low-grade fever. It hummed under his skin during hand-to-hand drills, your bodies a breath apart, the scent of your shampoo—something with coconut—mixing with the smell of sweat and gym mats. It was in the way he’d watch the line of your throat when you tilted your head back to drink a beer at the dive bar you both frequented, the phantom taste of it already on his tongue. He’d imagine what it would be like to just… close the distance. To stop being your friend, Chris, and start being something else. Something that made his palms sweat.

But the insecurity was a cold anchor. She’s your best friend, you dickhead. Your only friend, besides a bird. You ruin this, and you’ve got nothing. You’ll be just your father’s son again, alone in a trailer with a helmet for company.

So, he held back. For months. The golden light of fall gave way to the brittle gray of early winter. The doubt grew, transforming from a quiet question into a constant, screaming need. It was an uncontrollable passion now, a live wire in his gut. He felt like he was full of bees every time you were near.

Tonight, in the same shitty bar, it was coming to a head. You were telling a story, hands flying, and the neon "Budweiser" sign painted your face in red and blue. You were brilliant. He was fucking gone for you.

“—and then I told him, if he doesn’t recalibrate the spectral analyzer, I’d recalibrate his face,” you finished, triumphant.

He didn’t laugh. He just looked at you, his beer forgotten, his expression utterly serious. The noise of the bar seemed to fade into a dull roar.

You noticed the silence. “Chris? You good? You’re looking at me like I’ve got a second head.”

He leaned forward, the cheap wooden table groaning. He reached out, his movements slow, deliberate, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered on the shell of it, tracing the curve.

“I gotta tell you something,” he said, his voice low, rough. “And it’s probably gonna be a whole thing, and it might fuck everything up, and I’m kinda terrified, not gonna lie.”

You were perfectly still, just watching him.

He took a shaky breath. “I think… I’m in love with you. Like, not friend love. Not ‘you’re-my-favorite-person-to-shoot-shit-with’ love. The other kind. The messy, wanna-wake-up-next-to-you, gonna-lose-my-mind-if-I-don’t-kiss-you-right-now kind.” He let out a shaky laugh. “It’s been building for months. I’m a goddamn disaster about it.”

He searched your face, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. “So,” he mumbled, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You gonna recalibrate my face for that, or...?"