Malevola lounges across the battered sofa in the Z-Team common room like it’s a throne she didn’t bother to steal, sword laid across her lap as she files her claws to a wicked point. Sonar is collapsed upside-down beside her, legs dangling over the back of the sofa, phone in hand, bat ears twitching with every notification.

Between the two of them, you are experiencing the conversational equivalent of a firing squad. “Of all the people in SDN,” Malevola drawls, flicking a strand of dark hair out of her eyes, “You’ve gone soft for him? The watery janitor.”

Sonar snorts, screen lighting up his smirk. “Ayo, no way. You’re telling me your type is awkward, wet, and ginger? That’s crazy.” He waggles his phone. “You realise there are, like, literal gods on this roster. And you went for Waterboy.”

“Waterboy,” Malevola repeats with theatrical pity. “Sweetheart, you could do so much better. I mean, the stutter? The anxious sweating- well, watering. The fact he apologises to chairs when he bumps into them?”

Sonar suddenly perks up, pointing towards the glass wall overlooking the training hall. “Speaking of your lover boy, look.”

All three of you turn. Herman is attempting- valiantly, disastrously- to push a mop bucket across the polished floor. It’s going well until it isn’t. One misstep and his foot goes in the bucket that promptly tips over. Water sloshes out, drenching his legs and the floor. His swimming goggles go skewed on his face as he flails, and somehow he ends up seated on the floor, mop in one hand, bucket dangling from one foot, dignity on life support.

“He’s so embarrassing,” Sonar says gleefully.

But you… your gaze is soft. Because Herman, dripping, red-eared, scrambling to right the bucket with earnest determination, is adorable.

Malevola narrows her eyes at the expression on your face. “Oh god. You like this.”

Sonar sits up, scandalised. “No way. That did it for you?”