Midnight Glitch

The fluorescent tube above my desk had been dying for three weeks. It buzzed at a frequency that sat right behind my left eye, a persistent, angry insect made of light. I'd filed two maintenance requests. Both had been stamped DENIED in red ink, the same red ink that stained the fingers of every middle manager in this building. The reason given was always the same: *Non-essential personnel requests are deferred pending Q4 restructuring.*

Q4. The quarter that never ended. The quarter that had been eating its own tail for two years now.

I leaned back in my chair, the faux leather creaking like the joints of an old man. My office was a converted supply closet on the fourteenth floor of the Addison Building, a glass-and-steel monument to corporate optimism that had curdled into something closer to despair. The view from my single window was a wall of identical windows, each one a cell in a honeycomb of burnout. At 2:47 AM, only three of them still glowed. Mine. The one two floors down, where a junior accountant named Marcus was slowly losing his mind over spreadsheets. And the one directly across the courtyard, where a shadow I'd never seen move sat hunched over a desk, a silhouette that might have been a person or might have been a coat rack. I'd stopped trying to figure out which months ago.

The coffee in my mug had gone cold two hours ago. I drank it anyway. It tasted like burnt pennies and regret.

My name is Battat. I'm a mid-level data analyst for a subsidiary of a subsidiary of a company that doesn't technically exist on any public record. My job is to look at numbers and find the lies hidden inside them. The company calls it "quality assurance." I call it what it is: I'm a bloodhound for fraud, and the scent always leads to the same place. Up. Always up. The higher you climb in this organization, the more the numbers start to smell.

I should have quit years ago. I had the skills. I had the savings. I had a dozen reasons to walk out the door and never look back.

I stayed because of him.

Spamton G. Spamton. The name still made me smile, even now, even at 2:47 AM with a dying light buzzing overhead and a spreadsheet open on my screen that I'd been staring at for so long the numbers had started to blur into meaningless shapes. Spamton was my work partner. My cubicle neighbor. The only person in this entire godforsaken building who made me feel like I wasn't completely invisible.

He was also, objectively speaking, a disaster.

Spamton was short, wiry, and perpetually vibrating at a frequency just slightly out of sync with the rest of reality. His hair was a disaster of black spikes that looked like he'd cut it himself with safety scissors. His glasses were always slightly askew, and his suits, which he clearly bought from the discount rack at a thrift store that specialized in clothes from the 1980s, never quite fit right. He talked too fast. He laughed too loud. He had a habit of finishing other people's sentences, which drove everyone crazy except me. I didn't mind. I liked the way his mind worked, jumping from point A to point Q without bothering with the letters in between.

I liked a lot of things about Spamton.

That was the problem.

I'd known him for three years. We'd been assigned to the same project on my first day, a nightmare audit of a shell company that had been laundering money through a chain of fake pizza parlors. Spamton had walked into the conference room ten minutes late, dropped a stack of papers on the table, and said, "The pepperoni is a lie." Then he'd laughed at his own joke, a high-pitched cackle that made everyone in the room uncomfortable. Everyone except me. I'd laughed too. I couldn't help it.

We'd been partners ever since.

In three years, I'd learned everything there was to know about Spamton G. Spamton. I knew he took his coffee black with three sugars, which was a contradiction he refused to explain. I knew he had a photographic memory for numbers but couldn't remember his own phone number. I knew he'd grown up in a small town called Cyber City, which I'd never heard of and which didn't appear on any map I could find. I knew he'd moved to the city for a job that had fallen through, and he'd ended up here, in this building, in this fluorescent-lit purgatory, because he didn't have anywhere else to go.

I knew he was lonely. I knew it because I was lonely too.

But Spamton never showed interest. Not in me. Not in anyone. He was friendly, sure. He was warm, in his own chaotic way. But whenever I tried to push things beyond the boundaries of work friendship, he'd deflect. A joke. A change of subject. A sudden need to use the bathroom. I'd learned to read the signs. I'd learned to keep my feelings in a box, locked tight, labeled *DO NOT OPEN.*

It was fine. It was manageable. I could work next to him every day, could smell his cologne (something cheap and citrusy that reminded me of gas station air fresheners), could hear his laugh echo through the cubicle walls, and I could pretend that was enough. I was good at pretending. I'd been doing it my whole life.

The spreadsheet on my screen blurred. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and checked the time. 2:53 AM. I'd been here for eighteen hours. My back ached. My eyes burned. The fluorescent light buzzed.

I should go home. I should close the laptop, pack my bag, and walk out into the night. The city would be quiet at this hour, the streets empty except for the occasional taxi and the ever-present hum of neon signs. My apartment was only a twenty-minute walk. I could be in bed by 3:15. I could sleep for four hours before my alarm went off at 7:00, and then I could come back here and do it all over again.

But I didn't move.

I couldn't.

The numbers on the screen were wrong. Not wrong in an obvious way. Wrong in a subtle way, a way that made my skin prickle and my instincts scream. Someone had been moving money around, shifting it between accounts in a pattern that looked random but wasn't. It was too clean. Too precise. The kind of precision that took time and effort and a deep understanding of how the system worked.

I'd been tracking it for weeks. I'd traced the money through a dozen shell companies, through offshore accounts and dummy corporations and a chain of transactions that led nowhere and everywhere at once. And now, finally, I was close. I could feel it. The pattern was almost visible, a shape lurking just beneath the surface of the data, waiting to be seen.

I just needed a little more time.

The door to my office swung open.

I didn't look up. I didn't need to. I knew the sound of those footsteps, the particular rhythm of them, the way they always seemed slightly out of step with the rest of the world. I knew the scent of that cologne, citrus and cheap musk, and the way it filled the room like a presence.

"Battat."

Spamton's voice was different tonight. Lower. Slower. The words came out one at a time, like he was measuring each one before letting it go. That wasn't like him. Spamton was a torrent of words, a flood, a waterfall. He didn't measure. He didn't pause. He just talked, and talked, and talked, and you either kept up or you drowned.

I looked up.

He was standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other hanging loose at his side. His suit jacket was gone. His tie was loosened, the knot pulled down to his chest, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His hair was even more disheveled than usual, and his glasses were crooked, and his eyes, those bright, manic eyes that usually darted everywhere at once, were fixed on me.

Fixed. Unwavering. Intense.

"Spamton," I said. "It's almost three in the morning."

"I know."

"What are you doing here?"

He didn't answer. He stepped into the room, and the door swung shut behind him with a click that sounded louder than it should have. The fluorescent light buzzed. The coffee in my mug had gone cold. The spreadsheet on my screen was still open, still waiting, but I couldn't look at it anymore. I couldn't look at anything except him.

He crossed the room in three steps. He was short, so short that when he stood in front of my desk, he barely came up to my shoulder. But there was something in the way he held himself tonight, something in the set of his jaw and the fire in his eyes, that made him seem larger. Taller. More present.

"Spamton," I said again. "What's going on?"

He reached out and closed my laptop.

The screen went dark. The room felt smaller. The buzzing of the light felt louder. I could hear my own heartbeat, a steady thud in my chest, and I could hear his breathing, faster than it should have been, shallower.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"About what?"

"About you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I felt them in my chest, in my stomach, in the tips of my fingers. I'd been waiting three years to hear him say something like that. I'd imagined it a thousand times, in a thousand different ways. But now that it was happening, now that he was standing in front of me with his eyes burning and his breath quickening, I didn't know what to say.

"Spamton," I started.

"No," he said. "Let me talk. Please."

I closed my mouth.

He took a breath. It shuddered in his chest. He looked away, at the wall, at the window, at the dying fluorescent light. Then he looked back at me.

"I know how you feel about me," he said. "I've always known. You're not subtle, Battat. You never have been."

I felt my face heat. "I"

"Let me finish."

I nodded.

He stepped closer. His knee bumped against the edge of my desk. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were locked on mine, and there was something in them that I'd never seen before. Something raw. Something hungry.

"I've been alone for a long time," he said. "Longer than you know. Longer than I can explain. I came to this city with nothing. No money. No friends. No future. I took this job because it was the only thing I could get, and I've been surviving here ever since. Surviving. Not living. There's a difference."

He paused. His hands were trembling. I wanted to reach out and take them, to steady them, to steady him, but I didn't. I couldn't. I was frozen in place, caught in the gravity of his gaze.

"I've pushed people away my whole life," he said. "I've kept everyone at arm's length. It was easier that way. Safer. I told myself I didn't need anyone. I told myself I was fine on my own."

He laughed, a short, bitter sound that didn't match the usual cackle.

"I was lying."

The fluorescent light flickered. The room went dark for a split second, then bright again. Spamton's face was pale, his eyes dark, his lips slightly parted. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, trying to decide whether to jump.

"Tonight," he said, "I couldn't lie anymore."

He reached out and touched my hand.

The contact was electric. His fingers were cold, but the heat that rushed through me was anything but. I felt it in my chest, in my stomach, in the base of my spine. I felt it everywhere. My breath caught. My heart stuttered.

"Spamton," I whispered.

"I want you," he said. "I've wanted you for a long time. I just didn't know how to say it. I didn't know if I could say it. But I'm saying it now."

He stepped around the desk. He was standing between me and the window now, his silhouette dark against the glow of the city lights. He was so close I could smell the citrus of his cologne, the faint hint of coffee on his breath, the warmth of his skin.

"I'm saying it now," he repeated. "And I need to know if you feel the same way."

I stood up.

The chair scraped against the floor. The movement was sudden, unplanned, driven by something deeper than thought. I was taller than him by a foot, maybe more. When I stood, he had to tilt his head back to look at me. His glasses slipped down his nose. He didn't push them up.

"I've felt the same way since the day I met you," I said. "Since the pepperoni is a lie. Since you walked into that conference room and made me laugh for the first time in months. I've felt the same way every day for three years."

His breath hitched.

"I just didn't think you felt it too," I said. "I didn't think you ever would."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry it took me so long."

"Don't apologize."

"I should have told you sooner."

"Spamton."

"I should have"

I kissed him.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It wasn't soft or tentative or questioning. It was a kiss that had been building for three years, a kiss that carried the weight of every stolen glance, every accidental touch, every night I'd lain awake thinking about him. It was a kiss that said *finally* and *yes* and *more* all at once.

His lips were warm. His mouth opened under mine, and I tasted coffee and something sweeter underneath, something that was just him. His hands came up to grip my shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling me closer. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him against me, and he was so small, so slight, so easy to hold.

He made a sound against my mouth, a small, desperate noise that sent a jolt of heat straight through me. I deepened the kiss, and he responded instantly, his tongue meeting mine, his body pressing against me like he was trying to climb inside my skin.

The fluorescent light buzzed. The city hummed outside the window. The spreadsheet on my laptop was still there, still waiting, but it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered except this. Nothing mattered except him.

He pulled back, gasping. His glasses were fogged. His hair was a disaster. His lips were red and swollen, and his eyes were wild, and he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Battat," he said. "I need"

"What do you need?"

"You."

The word was simple. The word was everything.

"Tell me," I said. "Tell me what you want."

He swallowed. His throat moved. His hands were still twisted in my shirt, and I could feel the tremble in them, the barely contained desperation.

"I want you to touch me," he said. "I want you to touch me everywhere. I want you to make me feel something. Anything. I've been numb for so long, Battat. I've been empty. I need you to fill me up."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I'd never heard him talk like this. I'd never heard him admit to anything like this. He was always so guarded, so defended, so determined to keep the world at arm's length. But tonight, the walls were down. Tonight, he was open. Tonight, he was mine.

I kissed him again, softer this time, slower. I let my hands move down his back, feeling the shape of him through his thin shirt. He was all sharp angles and bony edges, and I wanted to map every one of them. I wanted to memorize the way he felt under my hands.

He moaned into my mouth. The sound went straight to my cock.

"Not here," I said, pulling back. "Not in this office. Not with that light buzzing."

He laughed, a real laugh this time, the cackle I knew so well. "Where, then?"

"My apartment. It's close."

He nodded. He was already pulling away, already heading for the door, already moving with that frantic energy that was so uniquely him. I grabbed my bag, my keys, my jacket. I didn't bother to shut down the laptop. I didn't bother to turn off the light. I just followed him.

The hallway was empty. The fluorescent lights stretched in an endless row, casting pools of sickly yellow on the industrial carpet. Our footsteps echoed. Spamton was walking fast, almost running, and I had to hurry to keep up.

"Wait," I said, grabbing his arm.

He stopped. He turned. His eyes were bright, feverish.

"What?"

"Are you sure about this?"

He stared at me. For a moment, I thought he might say no. I thought he might laugh it off, make a joke, retreat back behind his walls. But he didn't.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," he said.

We took the elevator down. The building was silent, the kind of silence that felt heavy and expectant. The elevator hummed. The numbers above the door counted down. Spamton stood beside me, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body, far enough that we weren't touching. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to reach out and take his hand. But I didn't. Not yet. Not here.

The lobby was empty. The security guard at the front desk was asleep, his head pillowed on his arms, a half-eaten sandwich beside him. We slipped past him without a word.

The night air hit me like a wave. It was cold, sharp, tinged with the smell of exhaust and garbage and the distant promise of rain. The city was quiet, the streets mostly empty, the neon signs flickering and buzzing. Spamton pulled his jacket tighter around himself and looked up at the sky.

"No stars," he said.

"Too much light pollution."

"I used to be able to see them. Where I grew up."

"Cyber City?"

He nodded. "It was different there. Smaller. Quieter. You could see the stars at night. You could see forever."

He looked at me. His glasses caught the light of a passing car, and for a moment, his eyes were hidden. When the car passed, they were back, dark and deep and full of something I couldn't name.

"I miss it sometimes," he said. "But I don't miss being alone."

"You're not alone anymore."

He smiled. It was a small smile, a fragile one, but it was real. It was the most real thing I'd seen all night.

We walked. The streets were wet from an earlier rain, and the pavement gleamed under the streetlights. My apartment was six blocks away, a small one-bedroom on the third floor of a building that had seen better days. The elevator was broken, as always. We climbed the stairs in silence, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

My hands were shaking when I unlocked the door.

The apartment was small and cluttered and messy. Dishes in the sink. Books stacked on every available surface. A pile of laundry on the couch that I'd been meaning to fold for a week. I hadn't expected company. I hadn't expected him.

"Sorry about the mess," I said.

"I don't care about the mess."

He stepped inside, and I closed the door behind him, and suddenly we were alone. Really alone. No fluorescent lights. No security guards. No spreadsheets. Just us, and the darkness, and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

Spamton turned to face me. He looked small in the dim light of my apartment, smaller than he did at work, smaller than he did in my fantasies. But there was nothing small about the way he looked at me. There was nothing small about the hunger in his eyes.

"Battat," he said.

"Yes?"

"Come here."

I went.

He reached up and pulled my face down to his. The kiss was different this time. Slower. Deeper. He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the taste of my tongue, the feel of my breath. His hands moved up my chest, over my shoulders, into my hair. He pulled, and I groaned, and he swallowed the sound.

"Bedroom," he said against my lips.

I took his hand and led him there.

My bedroom was even messier than the living room. Clothes on the floor. An unmade bed. A window that looked out onto an alley and the brick wall of the building next door. The only light came from a streetlamp outside, a soft orange glow that painted everything in shades of amber and shadow.

Spamton stood in the middle of the room and looked around. Then he looked at me.

"You live like a bachelor," he said.

"I am a bachelor."

"Not anymore."

The words hung in the air between us. Not anymore. Like it was a promise. Like it was a fact.

He reached for his tie and pulled it loose. Then his shirt. He unbuttoned it slowly, one button at a time, his eyes never leaving mine. His chest was pale and thin, his ribs visible beneath his skin. He was beautiful. He was fragile. He was everything.

"Your turn," he said.

I pulled off my shirt. I kicked off my shoes. I stood in front of him in just my pants, and I let him look. His eyes traveled over me, down my chest, over my stomach, to the waistband of my pants and the bulge beneath. He licked his lips.

"Bed," he said.

We fell onto the mattress together, a tangle of limbs and breath and heat. He was on top of me, his legs straddling my hips, his hands on my chest. He leaned down and kissed me, and I felt the weight of him, the warmth of him, the reality of him. This was happening. This was real.

He pulled back and looked at me. His glasses were askew again. His hair was a mess. His lips were red and wet.

"I don't know what I'm doing," he said. "I've never done this before."

"Never?"

"Not like this. Not with someone I"

He stopped. He looked away.

"Someone you what?" I asked.

He was silent for a long moment. Then he looked back at me, and his eyes were bright, too bright, like he was holding back tears.

"Someone I care about," he said. "Someone I"

He stopped again. He shook his head.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Just touch me. Please. I need you to touch me."

I reached up and cupped his face in my hands. His skin was warm. His jaw was sharp. I ran my thumbs over his cheekbones, and he closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

"I'll touch you," I said. "I'll touch you everywhere. But first, I need you to know something."

"What?"

"I care about you too. I've cared about you for three years. And I'm not going to let you pretend this doesn't mean anything."

He opened his eyes. They were wet.

"It means everything," he whispered. "That's what scares me."

I pulled him down and kissed him. I kissed him until the fear was gone, until the only thing left was want. I kissed him until he was moaning against my mouth, until his hips were grinding against mine, until the heat between us was unbearable.

He broke away, gasping. "Battat. Please."

"Please what?"

"Please. I need"

"Tell me."

"I need you inside me."

The words sent a shock through my system. I'd imagined this moment a thousand times, but I'd never imagined him saying that. I'd never imagined him begging.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Yes. I've never been more sure of anything."

I rolled him onto his back. He looked up at me, his chest rising and falling, his eyes wide. I kissed his neck, his collarbone, his chest. I tasted his skin, salty and warm, and I felt his hands in my hair, pulling, guiding.

"More," he said. "Please. More."

I kissed lower. His stomach. His hip. His thigh. He was trembling beneath me, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I reached for the button of his pants and undid it slowly, watching his face for any sign of hesitation. There was none. Only want. Only need.

I pulled his pants down, and his underwear with them, and then he was naked beneath me, all pale skin and sharp angles and the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

"Battat," he breathed.

"Yes?"

"Please."

I took him in my hand. He gasped, his hips bucking, his fingers twisting in the sheets. I stroked him slowly, watching his face, watching the pleasure and the desperation play across his features.

"You're beautiful," I said.

He laughed, a breathless, broken sound. "I'm a mess."

"You're beautiful."

He didn't argue. He just closed his eyes and let me touch him.

I took my time. I wanted to memorize every inch of him. I wanted to learn the sounds he made when I touched him here, the way he gasped when I touched him there. I wanted to know him in a way I'd never known anyone before.

When I finally reached for the drawer of my nightstand and pulled out the lube, he watched me with wide eyes.

"Have you done this before?" he asked.

"A few times."

"With men?"

"With men. With women. With people."

He nodded. He seemed to be processing something. Then he said, "I haven't. Done this. With anyone. Not like this."

"Never?"

"Never."

I paused. "Spamton, if you want to stop"

"No." His voice was sharp. "I don't want to stop. I want this. I want you. I've wanted you for so long, and I'm tired of being afraid."

I kissed him. Soft. Gentle. "Okay."

I prepared him slowly, carefully, watching his face for any sign of pain. He winced once, twice, but he didn't tell me to stop. He just held my gaze and breathed through it, and when I finally pushed inside him, he let out a sound that was half gasp, half moan.

"Okay?" I asked.

"Yes. Yes. More."

I moved slowly at first, letting him adjust, letting him feel. His hands were on my back, his nails digging into my skin. His legs wrapped around my waist. His breath was hot against my neck.

"Battat," he whispered. "Battat."

"I'm here."

"Don't stop."

"I won't."

I moved faster. Deeper. He arched beneath me, his head thrown back, his mouth open. The sounds he made were animal, desperate, beautiful. I'd never heard anything like them. I'd never felt anything like this.

"Harder," he said. "Please. Harder."

I gave him what he asked for. I gave him everything. I gave him three years of wanting, three years of waiting, three years of pretending I didn't feel what I felt. I poured it all into him, and he took it, and he gave it back.

When he came, it was with a cry that echoed off the walls of my tiny apartment. His body clenched around me, and I followed a moment later, burying my face in his neck, breathing him in.

We lay there afterward, tangled together, sweaty and breathless and spent. The streetlamp outside cast its orange glow over us, and the city hummed its endless song, and for the first time in years, I felt something like peace.

Spamton was the first to speak.

"That was"

"Yeah," I said. "It was."

He laughed. Soft. Real. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I've been alone for so long."

"I know."

"I didn't think I'd ever"

He stopped. He turned his head to look at me. His glasses were gone, lost somewhere in the sheets. Without them, his eyes looked different. Softer. Younger.

"I didn't think I'd ever feel this way again," he said.

"Again?"

He was quiet. Then he said, "I had someone once. A long time ago. Before I came here. Before everything."

"What happened?"

He looked away. "They left. Everyone leaves eventually."

"I'm not going to leave."

He didn't respond. He just stared at the ceiling, and I could see the doubt in his eyes, the fear, the old wounds that hadn't quite healed. I wanted to tell him that I understood. I wanted to tell him that I'd been left too, that I knew what it felt like to be abandoned, to be alone. But I didn't. Some things were better left unsaid.

Instead, I pulled him closer. I wrapped my arms around him and held him against my chest, and I felt his breath slow, his body relax.

"Stay," I said. "Tonight. Stay."

He nodded. "Okay."

We lay there in the dark, and I listened to the sound of his breathing, and I felt the weight of him against me, and I thought about all the nights I'd spent alone in this apartment, all the nights I'd dreamed of something like this.

It was real now. He was real.

I closed my eyes.

When I woke, the sun was streaming through the window, and the bed was empty.

I sat up, my heart pounding. "Spamton?"

No answer.

I got out of bed and checked the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom. He was gone. His clothes were gone. His shoes were gone. The only thing left was a note on the kitchen counter, scribbled on the back of a receipt.

*Had to go. Early meeting. Sorry. Last night was... I don't have words. We'll talk soon. Promise.*

I read it three times. Then I crumpled it in my fist and threw it across the room.

We'll talk soon. Promise.

I'd heard that before. I'd heard it from everyone who'd ever left me. We'll talk soon. I'll call you. It's not you, it's me. The words were always different, but the meaning was always the same. They were leaving. They were always leaving.

I stood in my kitchen, naked and alone, and I felt the familiar ache in my chest. The ache of being left behind. The ache of being not enough.

But this time was different. This time, I knew where he worked. I knew where he lived. I knew his phone number, his email, his favorite coffee order. He couldn't just disappear. He couldn't just vanish.

I would find him. I would make him talk to me.

I would make him explain.

I got dressed. I made coffee. I checked my phone. No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.

I went to work.

The office was the same as always. The fluorescent lights buzzed. The carpet was industrial gray. The cubicles stretched in endless rows, each one a tiny kingdom of despair. I walked to my office, closed the door, and sat down at my desk.

Spamton's office was two doors down. I could see it from my window. The light was on. He was there.

I waited.

An hour passed. Two. I stared at my computer screen, at the spreadsheet that had seemed so important last night, and I couldn't focus. The numbers blurred. The patterns dissolved. All I could think about was him.

At noon, I got up and walked to his office.

The door was closed. I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again.

"Spamton. It's me."

Silence.

I tried the handle. It was unlocked. I pushed the door open.

He was sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen. He didn't look up when I entered. He didn't move at all.

"Spamton."

"I'm busy."

"Spamton, look at me."

He looked up. His eyes were red. His face was pale. He looked like he hadn't slept.

"Battat," he said. "I can't do this right now."

"Do what? Talk to me?"

"Any of it. I can't."

"Spamton, last night"

"Last night was a mistake."

The words hit me like a slap. I felt them in my chest, in my stomach, in the back of my throat. A mistake. I was a mistake.

"A mistake," I repeated.

He flinched. "That's not what I"

"That's exactly what you said."

"Battat, please"

"Please what? Please leave you alone? Please pretend last night didn't happen? Please go back to being your work partner and nothing more?"

He didn't answer. He just looked at me, and his eyes were full of something I couldn't name. Pain. Fear. Regret.

"I can't do this," he said. "I thought I could. I thought I was ready. But I'm not. I'm not ready."

"Ready for what?"

"For this. For you. For any of it."

I stared at him. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to yell, to scream, to demand an explanation. But I couldn't. Because I understood. I understood what it felt like to be afraid. I understood what it felt like to push people away because getting close was too dangerous, because letting someone in meant giving them the power to hurt you.

"I'm not going to hurt you," I said.

He laughed. It was a bitter sound, nothing like the cackle I loved. "You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't. No one can. Everyone hurts everyone eventually. That's just how it works."

"That's not how it has to work."

He looked at me. His eyes were wet. "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand."

He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because if I tell you, you'll leave. Everyone leaves."

"I won't."

"You will. You'll leave, or you'll die, or you'll disappear, and I'll be alone again. I'll always be alone."

The words hung in the air between us. I could hear the pain in them, the fear, the loneliness. I could hear the years of isolation, the walls he'd built, the defenses he'd constructed. I could hear the truth.

"Spamton," I said. "I'm not going anywhere."

He shook his head. "You say that now."

"I'll say it tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do."

"How?"

I stepped closer. I reached out and took his hand. He flinched, but he didn't pull away.

"Because I've been alone too," I said. "Because I know what it feels like to be invisible, to be ignored, to be left behind. Because I've spent my whole life waiting for someone to see me, and you're the first person who ever did."

He stared at me. His hand was cold in mine. His eyes were wide.

"Battat," he whispered.

"I'm not going to leave you," I said. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to disappear. I'm going to stay, and I'm going to fight for this, and I'm going to prove to you that you're worth it."

He was crying now. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he didn't try to hide them. He just looked at me, and he cried, and I held his hand and waited.

"You don't know what you're saying," he said.

"I know exactly what I'm saying."

"You don't know what I am. What I've done."

"I don't care."

"You should."

"I don't."

He pulled his hand away. He stood up, knocking his chair back, and he walked to the window. He stood there with his back to me, his shoulders shaking, and I watched him and waited.

"I'm not who you think I am," he said.

"Then tell me who you are."

He was silent. The fluorescent light buzzed. The city hummed outside the window. The world went on, indifferent to the drama unfolding in this tiny office.

"I can't," he said.

"Can't or won't?"

"Both."

I walked to him. I stood behind him, close enough to touch, and I said, "I'm not going anywhere, Spamton. No matter what you tell me, no matter what you've done, I'm not going anywhere."

He turned. He looked up at me, and his eyes were red and swollen and full of something that might have been hope.

"You promise?" he whispered.

"I promise."

He reached up and touched my face. His fingers were trembling. His touch was light, tentative, like he was afraid I might disappear.

"I've never told anyone," he said. "Not the whole story. Not the truth."

"Then tell me."

He took a breath. He let it out. He closed his eyes.

"Not here," he said. "Not now. Tonight. My place. I'll tell you everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

I nodded. "Okay."

He opened his eyes. He looked at me, and for the first time since last night, he smiled. It was a small smile, a fragile one, but it was real.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For not giving up on me."

I leaned down and kissed him. Soft. Gentle. A promise.

"I never will," I said.

The fluorescent light buzzed. The city hummed. The world went on.

But something had changed. Something had shifted. The walls were coming down, and behind them, there was something real. Something worth fighting for.

I didn't know what he was going to tell me tonight. I didn't know what secrets he was hiding, what demons he was fighting, what darkness he was carrying.

But I knew one thing.

I was going to find out.

And whatever it was, I was going to face it with him.

Because that's what you do when you love someone. You stay. You fight. You refuse to let go.

And I wasn't letting go.

Not now.

Not ever.