Chapter Text
Toge’s Monday booted like a bad patch, and for a second, he thought maybe that StarCraft all-nighter had cooked his brain after all. In the face of a life-and-death emergency, his priority queue was catastrophically mis-sorted, but all he could do, frozen mid-step, was process thoughts one by one, as they came to him.
1) He was late. Like late-late, astronomically late, for standup, where he usually dumps a neat string of tasks and keeps on mute like a trained ghost.
2) He was supposed to buy curtains. He did not. He put three sets in three carts, panicked at colors, and bought a retro 3DS instead. Teal. Rare edition. Needed a screen repair.
3) There was a man outside his window.
Let’s stress-test that: there was a man outside his window. His window, on the second floor. His window into his office, where he’d just walked in with his T-shirt halfway on, nothing but boxer briefs below, hair in open revolt, and a tiny, incriminating dot of mint still clinging to his lip from a drive-by toothbrushing.
When the brain booted back on enough for the alarm bells to start ringing, he panicked with prehistoric speed: full-body duck, knees popping, reverse crab-walk out of the room, spine to hallway wall like a lizard spotting God. Heart status: attempting jailbreak via throat.
Somewhere between oh no and oh no oh no, a memory pinged: that building email he flagged “later” and then buried under memes. Façade works begin Monday, 08:00–17:00. Expect noise. Plan accordingly. But nothing in that fucking email mentioned a man outside his windowsill, so Toge had done what he always did, and had planned accordingly by doing nothing at all.
To make matters worse, his work PC lived in there. Monitor, ergonomic keyboard, big-boy chair, all in there. He could technically Slack from the hallway like a feral raccoon, but the thought of fat-fingering to thirty colleagues sent a nausea comet through his gut. The only route was through.
Shorts. He needed shorts. He sprinted to the bedroom, grabbed the first pair (black, athletic, forgiving), yanked the T-shirt the rest of the way down, and checked himself in the mirror. Ears red. Sleep creases doing a topographical map of his cheek. Hair refusing every treaty. He flattened his fringe with wet hands. It sprang back up like a middle finger. Fine. Coffee, then desk, then existential dread and possibly denial.
The kitchen calmed him by muscle memory. Mug. Beans. Bloom. Pour. A dash of oat milk that accidentally turned into a lot of oat milk. Whatever. He needed a prop more than he needed good coffee anyway. Just something to carry that said I am a controlled adult doing morning things, not a gremlin spotted in his underwear.
Back to the office. Pause at the threshold. Inhale. Walk in like it’s your space (it is) and like there isn’t a stranger bolted to your exterior wall (there is).
Then, because the universe truly had a score to settle, Toge finally risked a glance towards the window and really looked.
This was bad. This was bad, bad.
The guy was offensively hot for someone holding a power tool. Tall, even half-crouched on the plank. Broad shoulders under a dark T-shirt already a shade darker at the spine. Safety harness crisscrossed clean over his chest, clipped to a lifeline by a carabiner that winked like a tiny lighthouse. Heavy canvas trousers with real pockets doing real pocket things. Tool belt low on the hips, all competent weight: chalk reel, box cutter, pencil shaved at a weird angle only tradesmen seem to understand. Impact driver in hand like a casual threat. Helmet shadowed his eyes just enough to make the mouth do the talking: friendly, soft corners, a grin built for reckless sunshine. A battered cap clipped to his belt by the strap. Shaggy hair at the nape, somehow illegal under both safety regulations and Toge’s cardiac health plan.
Act normal, his brain suggested helpfully. Normal, right. He could do normal. He could do boring. He was great at boring. He set the coffee down with ceremonial quiet, rolled his chair out, sat like this was Monday in a boring IT office. Through the glass, the man glanced up, nothing invasive, just the reflex of someone checking the edge of his workspace, and their eyes collided for less than a second. The man’s gaze flicked away immediately, courteous, like he was used to not existing from the inside in. Polite. That helped. But only just a little.
Toge gave a tilt of acknowledgement and put his round, thin reading glasses on as if that in itself could convey professionalism. Then, a small lift of the chin that said we are two independent adults engaging in parallel tasks; please continue to exist in your own lane while I perish quietly on my side of the barrier. The man nodded back, equally casual, and returned to whatever precise godlike act involved measuring a line against a brass plumb bob and marking the frame with the side of his pencil. Actual professional competence, not whatever Toge was trying to cosplay. Great. Tall, broad, (probably) hung and competent. The worst kind of attractive.
He woke his PC, urging his blood back to his upper section. Login. Slack: detonated. Post-standup debris everywhere: checkmarks, threads, someone arguing about doc formatting like it mattered to their souls. He typed with surgeon calm to steady his own pulse: Morning, so sorry, running late. Picking up PR #1428, finishing UploadService refactor. Still blocked on thumbnail endpoint naming; will post options after review. Enter. Stare at his own text like it could somehow absolve him.
Outside, Hot Construction Man set the plumb, checked his tape, and leaned out to call something down. The glass ate his voice; the laugh still travelled, shoulders, teeth, the shape of sound. The driver buzzed twice, quick and tidy. Somewhere in the bones of the building, a new piece of metal clicked into its slot.
Inside, Toge groaned. He should have bought the fucking curtains. But he didn’t because he doesn’t even like curtains. Contrary to what his vampire-like complexion might indicate, he does like light. He likes how afternoons turn the plane tree outside into a projector and wash green over his wall, he likes the neon purple from the sign across the street flooding his office at night. But he should have bought them.
Future Self, annotating this moment: “Title of the saga - The Consequences of Not Buying Curtains.” He could hear Ghost Nobara in his head, which was rude because she was not here and yet she was still infuriatingly right: second-floor exhibitionist with none of the swagger. Accurate and rude.
He sipped coffee, scorched his tongue for dramatic effect, and opened his IDE. Code. Blessed, bloodless code. A function name glared at him like it knew exactly how unclothed he’d been thirty minutes ago. He told himself not to look up. And then he looked up.
Harness adjustment. Long legs folding into a comfortable kneel. Forearms doing that veiny thing Toge swears he saw in a porno with construction guys. Sawdust in a galaxy pattern no sane person should catalogue, and Yet toge wondered what it would like under his thumb.
It was fine. This was fine. He would simply not engage, and later, much, much later, he would Google curtain rods like a twenty-six-year-old adult with boundaries and a tape measure. Back to Slack. Occupy the hands so they don’t wave like a drowning man. Will draft API naming options before lunch. Send. Reread twice to ensure he seemed like someone incapable of being rattled by a handsome stranger with an impact driver, even though he was exactly that.
He allowed himself another micro-glance. A second polite second nod, the I see you, but let’s both pretend I didn’t version. Through the glass, the man answered with an equally modest smile and went back to his line.
He had a handsome smile. Why the fuck did he have to have a handsome smile?
Toge let out a tortured breath and sank an inch in his chair. He could do this. He could work. He could pretend this was any other Monday and not the opening cutscene to a story his future therapist would absolutely enjoy. He opened a new file. He typed. He did not, under any circumstances, look up for the next thirty seconds, but that’s about how long he lasted.
Every time the impact driver purred or the plank creaked, his eyes did this treacherous little hop to the glass. He had always assumed “construction guy” meant older, sun-cured men with cigarette voices and utilitarian bellies. The species famous for catcalling in movies and knowing seventeen synonyms for “stud”, who would surely not bode well with Toge’s painted fingernails and the piercings glinting in his cheeks. Not… this. Not Greek-statue-in-a-harness with forearms like a guy posing for a raunchy calendar. Not a tool belt sitting like it had personally trained his hips. Not shaggy hair doing crimes beneath a helmet and a mouth that looked genetically engineered to apologise sweetly and then grin like he meant it.
If OSHA had a thirst-trap category, this man was noncompliant, and Toge wanted to put in a formal complaint.
Guiltily, he opened the email he’d thrown into the “later” dungeon and actually read it. Façade Rehabilitation Schedule (BUILDING-WIDE). Bullet points marched like a firing squad: scaffolding on east elevation; daily presence 08:00–17:00; occasional interior checks; estimated duration: 3–6 weeks. He stared at the 3–6 weeks until his soul performed a neat little swan dive into the trash. Three to six weeks. Weeks. In geologic time, that was basically forever. In horny, curtainless second-floor time, that was a prison sentence.
It had been almost a year since Toge had seen a man naked. Probably forever since he’d seen anyone as good-looking as the man with the power tool squatting outside his window. Conclusion: he would not survive. They would find him in a month, desiccated at his desk, Slack still open, cause of death listed as “refused to buy curtains and perished of thirst.”
Against all odds, somehow, by a carefully curated regimen of peer-reviewed denial and microdosing on code review comments, he made it to lunch. He manufactured a meal from the fridge that could legally be described as “food-shaped”: poured the last of his cereal into a chipped bowl and drowned it in soy milk. It was a miserable excuse for lunch, soggy and a little stale, but it gave him something to do with his hands while he paced the kitchen like a fugitive.
He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, tragically, and, knowing, knowing, this would end badly, pulled out his phone. The group chat with Maki and Nobara was titled “God’s Strongest Bitches”, because Nobara had made it eight years ago and refused to change it. There were 117 unread messages. He scrolled past the latest fight about skincare and Maki’s ugly gym shorts and finally typed:
[Toge 12:38]
Fine you win
I hope you’re happy
I should have bought the stupid curtains
[Nobara 12:39]
I am ALWAYS right and also ALWAYS happy to BE right
So? Did the sun finally burn your pasty flesh
Did a pigeon land on your PS5
[Toge 12:39]
I live on the second floor in a glass box and god has sent punishment
[Maki 12:40]
Did you spill coffee on your keyboard again?
Because I told you like a million times not to put your cup there
[Toge 12:40]
NO
[Maki 12:41]
No what?
[Toge 12:41]
No to coffee
Yes to EMERGENCY
There is a man outside my window
[Maki 12:41]
A WHAT?
[Toge 12:41]
A MAN
[Nobara 12:41]
CALL THE POLICE???
[Maki 12:41]
Is this a break-in scenario or a religious vision
[Toge 12:42]
Construction
Scaffolding
Harness
Tools
(power)
[Nobara 12:42]
That explains nothing??
[Toge 12:43]
Just end me
There was an email. About construction. They’re working on the building or something
But of course I ignored it, so of course I forgot
And now I have a MAN WITH A DRILL OUTSIDE MY WINDOW
[Nobara 12:45]
LOL so you get to spend your days with a 55 beer-bod grampa who thinks your nails are a gateway drug
[Maki 12:45]
He’s already judging your piercings from ten meters out, I can feel it.
[Toge 12:47]
GOD I WISH
[Nobara 12:47]
…oh?
[Maki 12:47]
Clarify??
[Toge 12:48]
He’s… not old
[Maki 12:48]
Define not old
[Toge 12:49]
Ok he’s young. Our age young. I don't fucking know
[Maki 12:49]
… ok?
[Toge 12:50]
And he doesn’t have a beer bod or whatever you just called it
[Nobara 12:50]
Oh, this is getting good, proceed
[Toge 12:51]
He’s… hot
[Maki 12:51]
Hot
[Toge 12:51]
Yeah, hot
[Maki 12:51]
Define hot
Toge took a deep breath. Images of construction man sprang up in his head, uninvited and with them, it wasn't the only thing that sprang up to attention. This was a disaster. This was a horrible, awful, humiliating disaster.
[Toge 12:53]
Just hot, ok??
[Nobara 12:53]
Words, Inumaki
[Toge 12:53]
FINE
He’s like stripper construction-man hot
Like “Magic Mike but someone actually knows how to hang a plumb line” hot
Like “i cannot do my job with a constant hard-on” hot
[Nobara 12:54]
You’re telling us your apartment has spawned a live-action thirst ad and you… didn’t… buy… curtains…
[Toge 12:54]
YES
I hate you for being right
And I hate me more for doing this to myself
He stuffed another spoonful of cereal in his mouth and glared out the kitchen window like it might protect him from further judgment. He could hear his past self: I don't need curtains. I live on the second floor, who’s gonna see me?
Well, tell that to the wall of muscle posted right outside his window.
Past Toge: defeated. Current Toge: slumped into one of the kitchen chairs, thumb hovering over his phone that buzzed diabolically with what he could only imagine were his two supposedly best friends taking a piss at his misery.
[Nobara 12:55]
LMAO. Not you getting the Premium Contractor Experience (™) delivered to your window 💀
[Maki 12:55]
Magic Mike: Building Code Compliant.
[Nobara 12:55]
Does he do birthdays? Asking for your 27th.
[Toge 12:58]
SHUT UP
This is serious
He nodded at me all friendly
WHO DOES THAT
[Nobara 12:58]
A man who wants to climb your scaffolding, obviously
[Maki 12:59]
EW
But true
[Toge 12:59]
I'm logging off
[Maki 13:00]
Don’t you dare
Now post a picture for science
[Toge 13:00]
NO
absolutely NOT
He’s RIGHT THERE
I’m not risking getting caught taking spy shots like some pervert
[Nobara 13:00]
POST
PICTURE
[Toge 13:01]
No because then it’s like I’m ACTUALLY looking. I’m being very professional about this
[Nobara 13:01]
Professional??? Knowing you, I just HOPE you were wearing pants when you met him
[Toge 13:03]
…define pants
[Maki 13:03]
No. No. Don’t do this to yourself.
[Toge 13:04]
I was wearing underwear. And a shirt that was… mid-process
It was early
The point is: he saw the panic scuttle. I am DEAD
[Maki 13:04]
This is pure natural consequences
I warned you about this, exhibitionist
You are now a second-floor zoo animal. “Do not tap the glass”
[Toge 13:05]
I hate both of you. Also
I hate him more, and I don't even know him
[Maki 13:06]
Is he annoying
[Toge 13:06]
No
He seems
COMPETENT
[Nobara 13:06]
🤤
[Maki 13:06]
Competent is code for “veiny.” Rate the situation on a scale of 1 to “I’m Googling curtain rods during standup.”
[Toge 13:07]
11
The harness does an x across his chest like a crime
The thing on his belt that clips? carabiner? It’s way too close to a spot I REALLY shouldn't be staring at
Also his mouth is… friendly. which is illegal
Like what the hell. I want to trade him for the 55 yo homophobe
[Nobara 13:07]
“Friendly mouth” is going on your tombstone
[Maki 13:08]
“Here lies Toge. Death by carabiner flirtation”
[Nobara 13:08]
So what’s the battle plan, General
Besides dying at your desk.
[Toge 13:09]
I’m going to do my job. not look
Buy curtains. and then burn my apartment down and move to the sea
If I still can't focus on my work even after that, then go and rub one out in the bathroom and admit I have reached a historical new low
[Maki 13:09]
Reorder that to “buy curtains” first.
[Nobara 13:09]
This is already a historical new low
Now… PICTURE
[Toge 13:10]
Absolutely not
[Nobara 13:10]
WHY NOT
[Toge 13:10]
I will not commit a felony
[Nobara 13:10]
It’s not a felony, it’s anthropology
[Maki 13:10]
Zoomed photo of forearms will suffice
Or a line drawing. We know you can draw
Toge dropped his phone face down on the table and groaned into his bowl. Why did it have to be him? Why did the universe hate him this much? Why was he so single and so lonely and so utterly pathetic that he was thirsting over a walking heterosexual red flag?
He briefly debated throwing his phone across the room, but he couldn’t afford to lose the only two people who tolerated him. He picked it up again and typed with all the resignation of a man halfway through a nervous breakdown.
[Toge 13:14]
I’m not sending a pic. Stop asking
[Nobara 13:15]
FINE
Written description will suffice
[Toge 13:15]
He’s like a golden retriever with a jackhammer
Tan. Tall. Dark hair
Has a toolbelt
Arms the size of my head
Smiles like a himbo in a toothpaste commercial
[Nobara 13:16]
So you are in love
[Maki 13:16]
Wait
Is he actually hot, or are you just projecting because you haven’t seen a man since last year?
[Toge 13:16]
I’m being haunted by the physical embodiment of heterosexuality
Of course, I think he’s hot
[Nobara 13:16]
Hot AND straight??
Baby, you’re doomed
[Maki 13:17]
I mean… do we KNOW he’s straight?
[Toge 13:17]
HE WORKS CONSTRUCTION
He probably drives a truck and eats raw eggs and has never heard of moisturizer
He waved at me like it was NORMAL. Who waves?? WHO SMILES???
[Maki 13:18]
Normal people. You’re feral
[Toge 13:18]
Of course I’m feral
I haven’t seen another dick in a YEAR
I was literally brushing my teeth in just boxers like a fucking loser. It’s like he caught me in the wild
I’m a cryptid to him now
[Nobara 13:19]
A hot cryptid
Who should code shirtless
He’s probably already in love
[Toge 13:19]
Stop joking 😭😭
I have to work in that room
He’s right outside my window
Like five feet away
He can SEE me
[Maki 13:20]
Just ignore him?
He’s literally doing his job??
[Toge 13:20]
I can’t do this
[Nobara 13:20]
Do what
[Toge 13:20]
ANY OF THIS
[Nobara 13:20]
Maybe try a bit of flirting?
You know… short shorts, bite your pen, write ‘wanna do it?’ on the window pane?
[Toge 13:21]
I am BLOCKING you
[Nobara 13:21]
Fine. Be boring. UGH
Do NOT wave
Do NOT write on the glass
DO buy curtains today.
[Maki 13:21]
And no licking the pane after he’s gone
[Toge 13:22]
I wasn’t going to lick the pane
[Maki 13:22]
You thought about it
[Toge 13:22]
…maybe
[Maki 13:23]
Also, stop making eye contact with your food while you text me about a man
Eat like a person.
He glanced at his bowl, suddenly accused. Outside, the harnessed man shifted, adjusting something on the frame with neat, sure motions. Toge angled his phone to hide the scandal of his own gaze from no one at all.
[Toge 13:25]
They said 3–6 weeks btw
[Nobara 13:25]
Congrats on your summer romance arc
[Maki 13:25]
It’s spring
[Nobara 13:25]
Congrats on your pre-summer romance arc
[Toge 13:26]
It’s not a romance arc.
He is a construction worker, and I am a tragic aquarium exhibit
[Nobara 13:26]
Yes, but you think he’s hot
[Toge 13:26]
Yes, because I have no self-control
And now I also have no dignity left
Thirsting over a trad-masc construction worker dude who screams STRAIGHT red flag
[Maki 13:27]
You keep saying it, but you don’t know that
[Toge 13:27]
I DO
[Nobara 13:27]
Look, if he smiles back more than twice, he’s at least “construction-curious”
That’s science, bitch
[Toge 13:28]
Please be serious. I am at work
[Maki 13:28]
Yeah?? So are we??
And yet we have to deal with your gay drama
So, action items:
Hydrate. Protein. Curtains
Then you will sit away from the window for ten minutes like a civilised organism.
[Toge 13:29]
I hate you both
[Nobara 13:29]
Stop ogling, start chewing
He put the phone face down and exhaled, feeling both roasted and steadied, which was the trademark Maki/Nobara blend. The microwave beeped, offended to be ignored. Outside, the driver purred again; a chalk line snapped; a white puff kissed the glass and drifted away. He told himself he would buy curtains on his break. He told himself he would finish two tickets first. He told himself a lot of things.
He picked up his spoon, took another slurp of his lunch cereal, and, because he possessed the survival instincts of a moth, looked up again at the hot, sweaty man he could glance at through the crack left in the kitchen-to-office doors.
By midafternoon, he’d wrestled his brain into a fragile truce: eyes on code, hands on keys, fidget limited to acceptable workplace behaviours like pushing his round silver readers up his nose, flattening his fringe, pushing the readers up again because gravity hates nerds. He had not looked at the window in… seven minutes. Personal best. He celebrated by not hyperventilating.
But then, the drill hit like a jump scare. Not the tidy buzz of the driver, no, this was the rotary hammer doing war crimes to masonry. He jerked, chair squeaking, cursor teleporting into the middle of a variable name that did not deserve such treatment. Reflex yanked his gaze to the glass.
Hot Construction Man glanced over, winced a tiny sorry with his eyebrows, then went back to it. It was hot out, the kind of hot that glued a T-shirt to a back and made a harness print itself onto a body like carbon paper. The fabric clung in disrespectful topography; sweat traced routes a cartographer would be proud of. He braced and leaned, and the drill screamed and Toge’s soul performed a clean factory reset.
Do not lick the window pane. Have an ounce of respect.
Focus. He looked away. He typed three normal human lines of code. The drill crescendoed like a blender eating forks. He looked back.
Break. Blessed break. Hot Construction Man thumbed the trigger off, unhooked the drill, and fished a folded façade plan from the pouch behind his belt. He scribbled with his carpenter’s pencil for a few seconds, then pressed the paper flat to the window with gloved fingers, careful of the tape line. The kanji were big and blocky, mirrored just enough to read from inside, like a magician’s trick:
I’m really sorry
Loud part = 10 min
It was such a stupidly considerate sentence that Toge felt himself soften on a cellular level. Weaponised decency. Illegal. He pawed blindly for a Post-it, nearly took the whole stack, and scribbled back with the emergency pen he kept for signing packages:
ok! thanks for the heads-up :)
He stuck it to the pane, palm splayed, trying not to think about how high his heart rate had gone for a note that said basically “sounds good.” Through the glass, the man read it, looked up, and smiled, quick, real, the kind of smile that had no business being deployed in a workplace.
Catastrophic.
Toge felt his ribs argue with his lungs about who got to be dramatic. He peeled the note down before he could add hearts like a feral fool, smoothed it against his desk to keep (why??), and returned his hands to his keyboard like a respectable citizen.
The drill started again, loud, yes, but somehow bearable now that it came with a countdown and a smile. Ten minutes, he told himself. He could do ten minutes. He could do anything for ten minutes. He pushed his glasses up, flattened his hair, and wrote the cleanest function of his entire day while the wall vibrated and the universe, unfortunately, made literally no sense.
Somehow, Toge had survived the catastrophic event known as ‘yesterday’ even though the day had ended with a less than dignified panic wank and a whole tub of ice cream. Today, however, was a new day.
A good day, he told himself. A day for which he was now prepared, so that meant that whatever had possessed him yesterday, to stare at a clearly straight Hot Construction Man would not afflict him now. He had proof: a COLD shower (caps in his head like a warning label), an alarm fifteen minutes earlier, an outfit selected by a civilised person and not a laundry goblin. Real shorts with a button. Fresh oversized T-shirt without ramen stains. Socks that matched on purpose. Hair coerced into a truce. Round silver readers polished like he was about to defend a dissertation titled I Am Not Ferally Attracted to Exterior Wall Men.
Toge sat at his desk. Hot Construction Man was outside his wall, crouched over something. Toge ignored him. A small win, he told himself, that basically foreshadowed a successful non-thirsty, non-humiliating day. He took a sip of his iced coffee and opened his IDE. He even typed “optimise” in a comment like a man who held a respectable job and did not possess the brain and hormones of a sixteen-year-old boy.
Focus plan:
A) Pomodoro: 25 minutes on, 5 off.
B) Do not look at the window.
C) When horny brain tries to look at the window, push glasses up, flatten fringe, repeat steps A–C until death.
Also, iterating for no one in particular: he was not attracted to the guy outside his window.
He’d thought about it at length last night, after post-nut clarity hit, and he reached the following conclusion: being attracted to a random guy working construction would be utterly ridiculous. The scientific explanation: he was simply horny and lonely because he had been single for a while and had, at most, kissed the concept of sunlight in recent memory. That was all. Biology plus proximity. A math problem, nothing more.
Click. Type. Click. He wrote a neat little function header that made him seem employable, then stared through it like a ghost scaring itself. From outside: the soft clink of a carabiner. The creak of plank. A shadow passed over the desk: harness geometry, moving like the world had shoulders.
He did not look. He adjusted his glasses. He flattened his fringe. He did not look.
He looked.
Hot Construction Man (HCM in short, scientific designation pending) was very busy existing with unnecessary conviction. Same kind of dark T-shirt as yesterday morning, except the weather had ideas and the fabric now clung in rude, sweaty honesty. The sleeves had been rolled up to give Toge a striptease of huge, round biceps. The safety harness made an X across his chest like he’d been gift-wrapped by OSHA. He measured, reached, braced; his tool belt clicked softly when he shifted, the chalk reel tapping like a metronome for Toge’s poor, misfiring heart.
Nope. Absolutely not. He spun back to the screen so hard his chair protested and typed “syntaxsyntaxsyntax” into a file, then deleted it before HR could have a say.
He didn’t look at the window. Nope. Not today, Satan. Yesterday? He might have been a weak man. But today? Today, he would be strong.
He made it twenty seconds before glancing toward the glass again. Still there. Still working. Still built like the entire Olympic wrestling team. And unfortunately, still throwing occasional glances his way.
Back to the scientific explanation, because math always calmed Toge. This wasn’t about the man. Not really, because Toge had already established that it would be ridiculous to be attracted to someone that looked… like him. No, this was about stereotypes failing him. Construction guys were supposed to be middle-aged and vaguely cylindrical, with balding heads and opinions about rebar. They were supposed to ignore him or judge his piercings and haircut from ten meters out, and he would ignore them back, and everyone would have a healthy day.
Instead, he got a golden retriever with power tools plopped outside his window, that, mind you, still didn't have curtains. Friendly mouth. Laugh that showed up even when the glass ate the sound. A dark grey cap clipped to his belt like a personality trait. And forearms. Unnecessary forearms.
You are not attracted, he told himself, internally, like a man leaving a voicemail for his future ghost. You are merely a victim of: A) isolation, B) testosterone, C) the way that T-shirt is breaking several international laws.
It had been… what? A year? Since he’d touched a man. Since a man had touched him. Since anyone had slid fingers under his shirt with intent and not said, halfway through, ‘This would be easier if you just… talked’. (It would not. That had been Boyfriend #2, who narrated sex like a podcast and tried to “translate” his signing out loud to “help.” Spoiler: not helpful). Boyfriend #3 (The Ex) had perfect teeth and a talent for making silence feel like a character flaw. In-between: a run of hookups that were mostly elbows and apologies, and men who acted like Toge writing a line on his notes app was a burden instead of basic human communication.
You’re fine, he told himself. This is proximity. Isolation. Horny brain chemistry. You are not attracted to the dude literally hammering your wall.
Pause. A glance. He typed “refactor” into a commit message and tried to commit to the bit. From outside, a routine symphony of competence: measure, mark, driver buzz, pause. Toge focused on things that did not involve biceps. Ticket #1428 needed tests. The thumbnail endpoint needed a name. Somewhere in his backlog, a tiny red dot screamed for triage. He inhaled. He exhaled. He wrote a test stub and, for a full twenty seconds, believed in himself.
A plank rasped. His eyes flicked on instinct. Fine. A glance. One (1) medically necessary glance.
HCM crouched, checked alignment, and leaned, the harness snugging across his back like a scandal. A bead of sweat slid down the column of his throat and vanished into the collar. He wiped his wrist across his forehead and grinned at something a floor below, quick, sunny, no witness but the glass.
Back to math. Back to math. Math was safe. Math did not have an erection and a myriad of horny thoughts. Toge took a deep breath, then opened his notebook and under the data structure design for a new object class, he started writing:
Chances HCM is gay
P(Attraction | Blue Collar, Impact Driver, Dad Cap) ≈ statistically straight.
Stereotype prior: 0.93.
Posterior after smile exposure: do not calculate.
He added a margin of error for “friendly mouth.” Still straight. Definitely. Almost definitely. Close enough. If heterosexuality had a stock photo, it would be this moment, captioned: Gonna grab a beer after shift, man?
Straight, Toge informed himself sternly. Blue collar. Statistically straight. Not even your type, so put it away.
He dragged the window with his IDE over the actual window, like software could be a shield. He lined up two docs, maximised them, and pretended he did not know exactly where the silhouette of a shoulder would pass in his peripheral vision.
New plan:
A) He was going to finish this ticket before lunch.
B) He was going to eat at his kitchen table like a dignified mammal.
C) He was going to order curtains. Real ones. With rods. And whatever those little ring things were called. He would google “ring things.”
He typed. He focused. He absolutely did not scroll back in his mind to the way yesterday ended, with the apologetic note on the façade plan pressed to his window, loud part = 10 min, and the smile that had punctured him cleanly. Weaponised decency. Rude.
Not attraction, he reiterated, because lies get easier with repetition. Just horny. Attention scurvy. I am a sensible adult who can tell the difference between genuine desire and the fact that his shoulders look like they were designed by a committee.
Outside, HCM braced, measured, and, just once, let his gaze slide across the glass like he was checking reflection and line at the same time. His eyes snagged on the bright square of Post-its near Toge’s monitor. He blinked, a tiny crease of concentration at the brow, and then looked away. Toge, who had decided to be blind about it for health reasons, filed it under window glare things and pushed his glasses up again like that could pin his heart to his face.
Focus. Code. Blessed bloodless code. He wrote a docstring. He wrote a test stub. He refactored a helper into something neat and readable and imagined, very academically, what his hands would look like sliding over those harness straps to unclip them. Nope. Bad. Brain to horny: stop designing user flows.
Horny to brain replied: one last look. For science. A peer-reviewed stare. He would look directly at Hot Construction Man and be objective like a spreadsheet. Observe: not his type. Observe: straight and obnoxious. Observe: not even that hot.
He looked.
…He was absolutely that hot.
The T-shirt clung like legal trouble. The jaw did a 5 p.m. shadow at 10:23 a.m. A vein clocked in on the forearm like it had a timesheet, and the only KPI it cared for was how hard Toge’s cock was. The dad cap on his belt went click against his thigh like a metronome for intrusive thoughts such as: what would it feel like if I licked that spot?
Okay, but statistically straight, Toge reasoned. And also, maybe the face wasn’t—
HCM glanced up. Eye contact, unambiguous. A small, easy smile like sunlight. He swiped sweat off his temple with the inside of his wrist, and that dumb, stupid, useless, EVIL T-shirt rode up to expose a sliver of tanned skin and the black waistband of his underwear peaking from underneath his canvas trousers.
The world around quieted down as if to capture Toge’s demise in 4K slow-mo: he shrieked, chair wheeling back, knees going up to make rough contact with the desk, and Toge knocked over his coffee with the grace of a baby deer learning about ill-timed erections. The glass went over; a caffeinated tidal event cascaded across the desk, took a left turn at his mousepad, and made a credible attempt on the ergonomic keyboard.
He yelped in complete silence and entered Crisis Mode: paper towels, sacrificial t-shirt from the back of a chair, frantic blotting, whispered apology to the keyboard he didn’t deserve. He lifted the glass, which made that humiliating glug-glug sound like it was laughing. He dabbed at the edge of his trackpad like he was performing last rites. A single dark drip clung to the corner of his desk, swelled, and fell in slow motion onto his shorts-that-weren’t-sweatpants because he was civilised now (they had a button!).
Incredible. New low. Lower than yesterday’s panic scuttle. Lower than the cold shower. Lower than googling “what are the ring things called for curtain rods” and misspelling “grommet” three times.
He surveyed the battlefield: coffee freckles on the monitor bezel, a damp, mocha-scented mouse, one (1) tragic napkin graveyard. Then, for reasons known only to migrating birds and gays in denial, he walked to the kitchen.
Why? Unclear. He opened the fridge, stared at a jar of pickles like it held answers, closed the fridge, pressed his palms to the cool countertop, and breathed.
Regroup. Reset. New plan:
A) Stand up. Breathe. You are 26, a senior developer, and in possession of a fully developed brain capable of self-control.
B) Drink water that cannot spill brown.
C) Do not, under any circumstances, make eye contact again with exterior wall men who smile like that.
Yeah, that made sense. Toge nodded and recited his new plan in his head like a mantra. He opened the fridge again, stared at the same jar of pickles, closed the door and went through the list once more. Good plan. Great plan. Boring plan. Boring was good. Boring was great.
For five blessed seconds, the kitchen counter cooled his palms, and his brain played dead. Then the thought arrived like a raccoon: ok, but what about coffee?
Yes. Coffe. He needed a new coffee. But then, his brain added: ok, but what if we made a second coffee?
Horrible idea. Amazing idea. Neutral, neighbourly, hydration-forward. It was the worst idea and the best idea, all wrapped up in gay panic and the shaking hands of a man who had not touched grass in three days. But it made sense, no? Mathematical sense, Toge added, to post-rationalise what would surely be another catastrophic event. If they exchanged beverages like civilised urban mammals, the awkwardness would dissipate, and also the crush would die in the light of day because up close HCM would be (A) violently straight, (B) dumb, or (C) annoying. Science, bitch.
He made one iced coffee. He stared at it. Then he post-rationalised the post-rationalisation with the grace of a man struck by delusion.
Firstly, this was just a mere attempt at diplomacy, nothing more. They would be co-workers in a shared co-working space for the foreseeable future, and they had already established a written-communication channel yesterday. This was just… continuing the thread. Secondly, dissipating the mystery through close-range interaction would collapse the thirst illusion. HCM would say “bro” in a way that would act as a cold shower, and Toge’s horny thoughts would get a well-deserved wake-up call. Lastly, it might have been late spring, but the weather screamed 29°C and HCM was sweating through an OSHA-approved X. Water would be kinder, yes, but coffee had more plot.
Very happy with his scientifically-backed delusion, Toge assembled the second coffee with the precision of a bomb tech: mason jar, the good ice, fancy concentrate, oat milk measured like an apology. Condensation beaded, ominous. He dried the jars twice. He wrote labels because he was a functioning adult and not a raccoon in an oversized tee:
- ICED COFFEE — oat milk — no sugar
- IF OAT ALLERGY: I HAVE WATER
- NOT POISONED :)
He cringed at the smiley, but figured it would be even worse to block it out now, so he capped the lids. He held both to his chest like twin planets of bad decisions and only then realised the logistical flaw.
The window.
He had to open it. Like a human. And hand a drink to another human. And attempt… conversation. While being profoundly mute.
Right. Cool. Script time.
He snatched a Post-it from his fridge and wrote, block kanji: FOR YOU (if you want!) then below it, smaller, because his hands wouldn’t stop, – Toge (I work in here). He grabbed his phone and typed a fallback card in 72-point font: Hi. I’m mute. Coffee? (for you). Thank you for the note yesterday. He practised holding the phone at “polite read” distance and not “desperate fan sign” distance. He practised the sign for coffee, two fists, grind the beans, then panicked about whether he was doing JSL like a clown and decided pointing was universal.
He took three deep breaths. He took one panicked gulp of his own iced coffee (mistake: brain freeze). He marched to the office carrying both jars and his dignity (currently MIA, soon to be declared KIA).
Window: unlocked. Screen: slid. Heat slapped him; sawdust and sun moved in like they paid rent. The plank was a meter away. HCM crouched and measured. Up close, the competence had pores. The T-shirt still clung like legal trouble. The harness X still postured rude geometry. The jaw still looked like it begged to be kissed.
He considered bailing, but his last shred of willpower kept him pinned in place, enough to finally tap the frame. HCM glanced over. His eyes snapped up instantly, and Toge could see they were a grey colour that reminded him of the static in his first monitor, oddly comforting and nostalgic. Surprise flicked through HCM’s face, warm and easy, then that same small smile, sunlight finding metal. He stood (illegally tall), unhooked a glove with his teeth (illegally hot), and stepped closer on the plank, careful and sure (illegally gentle).
“Everything okay?” he asked, and his voice was smooth and calm, totally not the register of your usual construction worker who devoured a pack of cigs on his lunch break. “Was I loud again? Sorry, doing my best to keep it down.”
Toge signed before his brain could get a say, “You’re fine. Not loud. Hi!”
HCM blinked, warm and helpless, and Toge realised the errors of his ways. “I—sorry, I don’t… I’m not sure I got that!” He mimed a little wave of defeat, then the universal my bad shrug. Of course, he apologised for not understanding. Weaponised decency, part II.
Right. Phone. Plan B.
Toge held up his screen with his gigantic text: Hi. I’m mute. Coffee? (for you). Thank you for the note yesterday.
HCM’s mouth did the soft oh that meant you did a nice thing and I’m going to feel it fully. He glanced at the jar, back at Toge, and his face lit up. Unfair. Catastrophic. Hot. TERRIBLE.
“Sorry for the noise,” HCM said anyway, because apparently apologising was a personality trait. Then he pointed to himself, clear and slow, “I’m Yuta.” A little two-finger tap to his chest like punctuation. He pointed at the jar. “Is… is uhm… that really for me?”
Toge nodded so hard his readers slid down his nose. He swiped, typed with thumbs that had suddenly become mittens, and held the phone up again: Yes. For you. It’s so hot.
And because he didn't want to leave room for interpretation, even though there was no conceivable way HCM could misunderstand that, Toge took the phone back and added, in big, big font: OUTSIDE. HOT OUTSIDE.
HCM—Yuta, Toge corrected—grinned, bright and easy like a dog who just learned a new trick. He took the jar with that clean, born-on-rooftops catch, checked the label, laughed softly and mouthed, “Thank you, Toge.”
Careful with the name. Like he liked saying it. He popped the lid, took a sip, closed his eyes for one beat of sinful appreciation, and breathed out a tiny oh that’s good that the glass still couldn’t kill.
Then, gentler: “Really. Thanks. I’ve been dying for a coffee and I can’t get off this scaffold until 12.”
Then, to make matters worse: dumb smile, thumbs up, a little salute at the helmet brim. Sun on his face (his face was also handsome, of fucking course). T-shirt clinging in ways outlawed by several countries (that T-shirt was now officially Toge’s archenemy).
Afraid that if he doesn't keep his hands occupied, he’d end up ripping that offensive cotton adversary apart, Toge typed one more unnecessary explanation in his notes app, because his survival instinct had died heroically three minutes ago: If you hate oat or are allergic, I have water (please do not die on my window)
Yuta huffed a laugh he mostly swallowed, shook his head, mouthed a dangerously sexy, “No, it’s perfect,” and, because fate enjoys theatre, tipped the jar toward Toge in a mini cheers before setting it safely by his tools.
That was the moment Toge’s CPU hit 110% and throttled. He nodded, bobbleheaded, lifted a hand in a small wave that might also have been goodbye before I spontaneously combust, and slid the window shut with museum-curator care.
Back at his desk, he sat. Very still. Heart doing parkour on his ribs. Coffee ring drying on the mousepad like a crime scene outline. He could work. He could absolutely work. That hadn’t been awkward; that was normal neighbour behaviour between two civilised urban mammals exchanging caffeine and names. He was normal. Yuta (oh no he had a name in his head now, capital letters and everything) was… unfortunately even more stunning up close. And his voice, what little got through in their small exchange, was soft. Not shy, not mumbly: soft like he was careful with people.
New data, scribbled on the whiteboard in Toge’s skull:
- Name: Yuta (aggressively dog-coded. Has a nice, soft ring to it. We’ll stick to HCM for now because calling him Yuta makes my knees go weak)
- Decency: Weaponised (apologises for physics, salutes, reads labels, says thank you)
- Looks: Worse up close (illegal T-shirt, jaw, biceps, chest, long legs, forearms. WHY. WHY. WHY??)
- Communication: Great (didn’t flinch at “I’m mute.” Said his name slow. Said Toge like a real word)
- Straightness: Statistically likely (unconfirmed. Do not compute after smile exposure)
- Threat level to productivity: TERMINAL
He put his face in his hands, then took it back out because fingerprints on glasses were a hate crime, and stared at the backup jar sweating on his desk like a tiny beacon of his terrible judgment. He had done a brave, neighbourly, hydration-forward thing. He had also handed his crush a caffeinated reason to smile at him again.
He reconsidered every life choice that led to owning windows. He sat. He typed. He repeated, internally, like a calming phone menu:
You are fine.
This is fine.
You are normal.
Coffee is normal.
Windows are normal.
Yuta’s mouth is— reset, try again.
He got two lines into a function before, tap tap, something clicked gently against the glass and he jumped hard enough to add 46 spaces to a variable name. HCM (Yuta) stood there holding the mason jar, now empty (how was it empty already), with an apologetic tilt to his mouth. He mimed a question with his eyebrows: return? okay?
Okay. Right. Doorway to hell, part two. Toge unlocked the window and lifted. Heat and sun spilt in. Yuta leaned closer on the plank, careful as if the air were fragile.
“Hey,” Yuta said. Soft voice, again. “Wanted to bring this back. That was… uh… unfairly good.” He tapped the jar with a knuckle and winced like maybe tapping was rude. “Sorry if I startled you. Again. I seem to be doing that a lot.”
Toge’s hands, treacherous, signed “You’re fine,” before his brain remembered the language mismatch. Yuta gave the same warm, helpless blink as before.
Phone. Right. He typed and held it up: You’re fine. Thank you. Glad you liked it.
A beat, then he types, You can keep the jar if you want and instantly wanted to walk into the sea.
Yuta’s mouth did a tiny laugh he kept mostly inside, eyes crinkling. “I… think you might need it more than me,” he said, and handed it over. Their fingers didn’t touch (the universe had SOME pity left), but the care was there, the way he adjusted for the grip, the way he waited for Toge to have it before letting go.
“Also,” Yuta went on, slower and clearer so Toge could track the shapes over the construction noise, “if it’s too loud later, we’re doing anchors by the corner at two. I can try to keep the worst of it away from your window.” He pointed, drew a little map in the air with his finger, then caught himself. “Sorry, I’m just talking.” He huffed, sheepish. “I talk a lot.”
Toge typed, thumbs suddenly too big:
Talking is ok.
Thank you for the heads-up.
I have headphones.
Then, because his frontal lobe had left the chat, he almost typed down something like your voice is nice, but he caught himself and he backspaced fast enough to scrub a hole in the screen.
New line, safe: Notes on the window were perfect.
Yuta nodded, relieved. “I can do more notes.”
He tapped two fingers at his chin and flicked them away, wildly wrong, pointy and upside down… but it was his attempt at thank you in sign language from a YouTube thumbnail. And when he looked at Toge like, did I do a thing? Toge almost dropped the empty jar right on his foot.
Unfair. Illegal. Evil. Incredibly sweet.
Toge’s heart pitched over the railing, but he corrected gently from his side of the glass, slow demonstration: two fingers at the chin, flick away. Yuta mirrored it, tongue between teeth in concentration, then got it right. He grinned like he’d just landed a trick on his first try.
“Thank you,” he said again, this time with hands and mouth both, and there went Toge’s core temperature.
Yuta gestured to the scaffold with his chin. “I’ll get out of your hair. Uh… Toge, right?” He shaped the name with care again, as if wanting to make sure he’d remember. At Toge’s nod, the grin widened, not cocky, just pleased to have gotten something right. “I’m bad with names, so I try to repeat them. Just in case you’re just as much of a mess as I am... name’s Yuta.”
Yes, Toge was a mess, but for other reasons altogether. Yuta, HCM repeated, as if Toge didn’t already have it carved into his brainstem. Still, Toge nodded with the speed of light because he wasn’t sure what else to do.
“If I bother you later—” Yuta lifted his hands, surrendered whatever he’d been about to add, and settled for a thumbs-up. “Uhm. Yeah. I’ll keep it quiet as I can.”
Toge typed a last, safe thing—good luck—and raised the jar like a tiny toast in return. Yuta returned the gesture by practising that little sign again, then stepped back into the work, the soft smile lingering, like he hadn’t just rewired Toge’s whole internal circuitry.
Window down. Air conditioner up. Toge sat. He put the second jar on the desk like evidence. He told himself, out loud in his head but whisper-quiet, “That was normal,” and listened to his pulse try to kick down a wall.
New mantra, revised:
You are fine.
This is fine.
You are normal.
He is nice.
His voice is soft.
You are NOT fine.
You are DOWN BAD.