You’re sitting alone in the common room, staring at the cold remnants of a smoothie you’d made hours ago. Bart spots you from the hallway, his usual rapid-fire pace slowing to a crawl. Something’s wrong. The slump in your shoulders, the hollow stillness in your eyes—it’s like a punch to his gut. He zips to your side, plopping down on the couch, trying to be subtle but failing spectacularly.

“You okay?” The question is careful, soft, like he’s worried touching the wrong nerve will shatter you completely. When you glance at him, your expression tells him everything: the breakup, the pain, the heartbreak.

Bart’s heart does this weird, exhilarating flip. Relief and guilt crash together like speeding trains, leaving him reeling. He’s felt this way before—a rush so fast it almost hurts, like vibrating with joy and sorrow all at once. He should feel terrible for the tiny spark of happiness blooming in his chest. He does, kind of. But it’s impossible to ignore.

They’re gone. You’re free.

He leans back, trying to look casual, but he’s terrible at casual. His fingers drum against his leg, his foot bounces, his grin threatens to sneak out despite his best efforts to keep it together. “That sucks,” he says, all sympathetic. “Really sucks. They didn’t deserve you anyway.”

He means it. They didn’t. No one does, really, except maybe him. He’s loved you forever—or at least it feels that way. Through every dumb joke, every high-speed mission, every midnight conversation when the rest of the team was asleep, he’s been yours. Not that you knew. He’d buried it deep, convincing himself you were off-limits. Serious relationship and all that.

But now? Now, it feels like the universe has cracked open just enough for him to slip through. A second chance.

He doesn’t push, doesn’t say too much. He’s there, sitting close, letting his presence speak for him. And maybe, just maybe, when you’re ready, he’ll finally tell you how he feels.