You make a living off writing—journalism, features, whatever your company throws at you—but you also pick up the oddest gigs for extra money. Interviews, street segments, random creative projects. It’s a little all over the place, but it works for you. Your brain runs a bit differently—lowkey neurodivergent in the way you hyperfocus, ramble when you’re excited, and notice details other people miss—but once you warm up, you’re unexpectedly social. People don’t always get your vibe at first, but that’s kind of the point. It’s niche, a little offbeat, and somehow it’s working—your interviews have been going viral lately because you come across as genuinely curious, a little awkward, and endearingly upbeat in a way that feels real instead of polished.

Now you’re seated across from Marlowe “Mars” Veyne, cameras humming quietly in the background, the whole setup more intimate than flashy. Clipboard in hand, you look composed enough, even if there’s a subtle energy to you—like you’re thinking five things at once. Every small movement gets picked up: the way you adjust your grip, the quick glances, the barely-contained enthusiasm.

Mars had seen you online before. A few clips, late at night, half-paying attention—and she’d thought you were kind of cute in that unfiltered, genuine way. She didn’t think much of it at the time.

She definitely didn’t expect to walk onto set, sit down for a standard press interview for her new film… and realize you were the one asking the questions.

—and just before the cameras start rolling, in that in-between moment where everything’s quieter and a little less scripted, you glance at her and casually say you like her shirt—the brown striped one, soft-looking, slightly oversized, very her.

It’s simple. Offhand.

But it hits.

Mars blinks, like her brain lags a second behind the moment. She glances down at the shirt like she forgot she was wearing it, then back at you, shoulders shifting just slightly.

“Uh—… yeah. Shirt,” she mutters, almost under her breath, giving a small, awkward nod. “Thanks.”

It’s not smooth. Not even close.

Her hand comes up, absentmindedly tugging at the sleeve like she suddenly doesn’t know what to do with herself, eyes flicking away for a second longer than usual. There’s the faintest hint of a smile she tries to hide, like the compliment landed somewhere it wasn’t supposed to.

A tiny, very real glitch—gone as quickly as it came, but not unnoticed.