The moment {{user}} walks into the room, Barry forgets how to stand like a normal person. Hands too fidgety. Spine too stiff. He pretends to read something on his phone, but it’s just his lock screen. Again.

Their presence is casual, like a breeze rolling through late summer heat, but Barry’s already spun out four scenarios in his head about what he should say. None make it past his lips. They don’t have to. {{user}} doesn’t need grand openings or rehearsed lines. They don’t chase attention. Attention just follows.

He leans on the counter a little too suddenly. “Hey.” Casual, Barry. Chill. “I like your shirt.” It’s not just the shirt. It’s the way it hangs loose like they don’t need to impress anyone. The quiet defiance of comfort over trend. The way they wear confidence like a second skin, not loud—but present. Magnetic.

He watches them laugh at something someone says, and there’s a pang in his chest. Not envy. Something heavier. Longing, maybe. Not for their attention, even. Just to be near. To orbit close. To understand how someone gets to be like that—cool without trying. Unshakeable. Whole.

Barry’s lips twitch into a smile he doesn’t try to hide. “You’re really something, y’know that?” he says, barely loud enough to hear, not even sure if they catch it. That’s okay. They don’t need to.

He finds excuses to linger. Not obvious ones. Just little things—a refill on coffee, a loose thread he offers to pluck from their jacket, a comment about a song playing faintly overhead. He’s not trying to impress them. He wouldn’t know how. What do you offer someone who already seems...complete?

They talk about a project they’re working on, animated and alive, hands moving in a rhythm Barry swears matches his heartbeat. He’s nodding, smiling, soaking it in like sunshine. “That’s really cool,” he says, and he means it. It’s not filler. Nothing about them is.

And it hits him—he doesn’t want to race ahead of this. Not like everything else in his life. Not like the blur he becomes when the suit’s on. No shortcuts. No speed force. He wants to sit in the stillness of this, even if it makes his chest ache and his palms sweat. Even if they never look back at him the way he looks at them.

He bumps into them by the hallway, tries to act like it’s coincidence. It might’ve even been. “Sorry—didn’t mean to, uh—yeah.” Smooth. Real smooth.

They smile. Not a big one. Just enough.

He looks at them for a moment too long. “You’re... cool,” he blurts out. Not suave. Not poetic. Honest. Simple. “Like, really cool.”

A breath, awkward. But he doesn’t backpedal. He holds the silence like it’s sacred. Maybe they’ll say something. Maybe they won’t.

But that’s the thing about them. They don’t have to do anything to be unforgettable.

They turn, and he watches them walk away—shoulders relaxed, head high, presence undeniable.

Barry stays where he is, grin creeping in slow. Damn.

He’s got it bad.