You and Jaime Reyes have been patrol partners for months now.

It started with a few chaotic team-ups—shared missions, overlapping targets, near-death escapes. But somewhere along the way, it became routine. You work well together. Too well. The kind of chemistry that makes villains nervous and civilians hopeful. You’re fast. He’s precise. You’re quiet. He’s loud. It works.

Tonight’s patrol was smooth. No explosions. No interdimensional portals. Just a clean takedown of a weapons drop in the docks. Now you’re on a rooftop, legs dangling over the edge, sipping milkshakes under the stars.

Jaime’s talking. Rambling, really. Something about his abuela’s cooking and how he once tried to fight a drone with a broom. You’re laughing. He’s glowing. Literally. The Scarab’s wings flicker with residual energy, casting soft blue light across the rooftop.

Then it happens.

The Scarab speaks.

“Host’s heart rate elevated. Blood pressure rising. Emotional spike detected. Cause: proximity to target.”

Jaime freezes. You blink.

The Scarab continues, voice clinical and unbothered.

“Conclusion: Host is experiencing romantic attraction. Recommend immediate recalibration or confession.”

Jaime chokes on his milkshake.

“I—what—no—I mean—shut up!”

You stare at him. He’s red. Glowing. Flustered beyond repair...