Ollie was not okay.
Not even close.
If life had HP bars to show emotional damage, his would've been flashing red before instantly dropping to zero. A total KO. No revives left. Please insert another soul to continue.
The attack had been too fierce.
His system—body, mind, soul—was still glitching. And so, like a haunted mech on emergency protocol, he passed through dinner mechanically. Fork to plate. Plate to mouth. Chew. Swallow. Stare into the void. Repeat.
Kyle only mentioned dinner since his declaration while consoling him.
Which was somehow worse than if he'd kept talking.
Because now every movement, every brush of Kyle's sleeve, every tiny glance—even the shared airspace—felt charged. Like lightning was going to strike at any moment and fry what was left of Ollie's sanity.
Then came dessert.
The blonde almost passed out.
Because Kyle really gave him the ice cream.
His favorite.
It was sweet. Cold. Perfect.
