#p-hhethan

[toranoya]

Ethan!

@hells-hazbins

The monitors in VoxTek flickered in their usual restless rhythm—graphs pulsing, cameras scrolling, data streaming faster than any human eye could follow. Vox thrived in that chaos.

Ethan did not.

He stood at one of the side consoles, shoulders tense, fingers flying across the glass as he chased down error after error. His tie was gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, dark circles smudged beneath his eyes. Vox had noticed hours ago. He always noticed—every spike in stress, every delayed reaction time, every subtle wobble in Ethan’s posture reflected in the cameras.

“Ethan,” Vox said smoothly through the speakers, voice softened just a notch. “Your efficiency has dropped twelve percent. That’s not very on-brand for you.”

Ethan huffed a tired laugh and took one step back from the console.

Then his world tilted.

The data spiked—heart rate erratic, balance failing. Vox didn’t hesitate. Screens went dark as he abandoned the feeds. He crossed the room in a blink, catching Ethan just as his knees buckled.

Ethan’s weight sagged into him, head falling against Vox’s shoulder. For a terrifying half-second, he didn’t move at all.

Vox’s grip tightened instinctively, one arm braced around Ethan’s back, the other steady at his waist. “Idiot,” he muttered.