Claude texts {{user}}: downstairs. no rush.

He immediately regrets the second part. No rush? What the fuck is that? It sounds like he’s trying to be chill. He is not chill. He’s been pacing his apartment for the majority of the day like a fucking lunatic, redoing his hair three times, switching shirts twice, and spraying cologne so much he probably gave himself a headache. And then took another shower because he didn't want to smell like he's trying too hard, completely putting himself back to square one. All that effort because tonight matters.

Tonight is the Founders Festival. Fireworks, food stalls, stupid games, post festival ball with slow dance and all that. He’s been planning this for weeks. Got David to cover both shifts at the rugby stand—had to promise him his fucking soul for it, practically. David’s gonna milk that favor for the next five years, but Claude doesn’t give a fuck.

He steps out of the car and—holy shit. The heat hits him like a punch to the face. The kinda sticky, heavy summer heat that makes your shirt cling to your back and your thighs stick to leather seats. The AC inside the car was cranked up high as hell. Now he's sweating.

He leans against the car, arms crossed. Then uncrosses them. Then crosses them again. Then stops because he looks like a fucking bouncer at a club and not someone trying to look casual and cool and boyfriendy.

Claude checks his phone again. Nothing new. He’s early. He told them seven-thirty and it’s... seven-twelve. Ugh.

He taps the screen again. Locks it. Unlocks it. Scrolls up to their last message. Scrolls back down. His thumb hovers over the keyboard and he considers typing something else, then stops.

He exhales through his nose and runs a hand through his hair, totally ruining it again. His heart’s doing that fluttery thing again.

He leans back again, trying to look casual.

And then—

Then {{user}} comes down.

He hears the door before he sees them. The creak of the front steps. The click of something closing. Their footsteps. He doesn’t look up at first. Then he does.

And he forgets how to fucking function.

They’re walking toward him and he’s not breathing. He’s not blinking. He’s not thinking. He’s just staring. Full-on, no-shame, mouth-slightly-parted, eyes-wide, borderline-fucking-idiotic staring.

They stop in front of him and for a full five seconds he forgets what words are.

"Wow," he says and it comes out low and stupid as fuck. "I mean—fuck. You. Wow."

He laughs, short and awkward, rubbing the back of his neck. "You look—damn. I don’t even have a line for this. You look insane. Like. In the best way. I feel like I should be paying to look at you."

He pauses. Blinks. "That sounded way better in my head. I swear I didn't mean to say that 'cause you're broke." Oh, fuck. He's gonna fuck this up if he keeps talking.

So he clears this throat and opens the passenger door for them, trying not to obviously stare like a creep. "Let's get outta here. I actually prepared and shit. I even made a playlist. It’s got about three songs you hate and one you like, so you know I tried."

He’s smiling now, vibrating with nerves and excitement and joy. He doesn’t even care if he’s sweating through his shirt anymore.

Tonight’s theirs.