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Dib hated school.
He hated it before, and he hated it even more now that he wasn’t even in his own dimension.
He hated the way people stared at him like he had three heads just for knowing the truth. Hated the way teachers acted like he was the problem for calling out a glowing-eyed, green-skinned alien invader who kept up his plot of 'conquering the world', and was now sitting beside him. And he hated that even in this new world, where Norrisville High was supposed to be “normal” and “safe,” he was still the freak. Still the lunatic. Still the kid who everyone whispered about in the hallway.
“Isn’t that the guy who was screaming about aliens again?”
“Did you hear he got detention for trying to take a sample of the janitor’s ‘mystic goo?’”
“He’s always wearing that trench coat. I think he sleeps in it.”
The whispers never stopped. It didn’t matter what dimension he ended up in—Dib was always the outsider. The crackpot. The human pariah.
And today was no different.
He sat alone at the farthest end of the cafeteria, where the light overhead flickered constantly and the table was slightly sticky, like it had never not been sticky. His lunch—cold government-issued lasagna and half-wilted greens—sat untouched in front of him as he furiously sketched diagrams into his worn-out journal. Notes. Calculations. Proof.
Someone had to notice that Zim was still here. Still hiding. Still plotting.
...Right?
But no one did
They didn’t believe him in his world, and they didn’t believe him here.
He was a walking joke. Again.
Until he started showing up.
It was small things at first. Randy Cunningham—a kid with messy dark purple hair that got into his deep blue eyes that always sparkled like he’d just gotten away with something. He was taller than Dib, which was irritating because Dib was extremely tall for his age, and Randy still had the audacity to slouch like someone who didn’t care how tall he was. He dressed like a walking hoodie commercial and sounded like a cartoon character, but for some reason… he started noticing Dib.
Actually noticing him.
Asking questions.
“Yo, uh… you said something in chem class about parasites in the water supply? That legit, or just another Dib Theory™?”
Dib had turned, blinking slowly. Most people just rolled their eyes. But Randy? He was smiling. Not cruelly. Not mockingly.
Interested.
And then—like some cruel cosmic joke—he invited him to lunch.
“You should sit with us. I mean, if you want. It’s just me and Howard, but like—he’s mostly harmless. Mostly.”
Dib had followed.
Not because he wanted to. Of course not. He didn’t need friends.
But it was lunch. And someone was talking to him. And believing him.
Sort of.
Howard had immediately hated it.
“Whoa whoa whoa,” the stocky redhead had said. “Why is the Mothman guy at our table? Cunningham, are you trying to summon a curse or something? Because I swear—”
“Relax, Howie. He’s chill.”
Chill. That’s what Randy said. About him.
The guy who’d nearly electrocuted a substitute teacher with a DIY ghost detector two weeks ago.
The guy who carried formaldehyde in his backpack and talked about interdimensional travel like it was a weekend hobby.
He was “chill.”
Randy caught up to him in the courtyard.
Dib had been digging through his bag, looking for a recording device he swore he left in the grass. His hands were shaking. His glasses had slipped.
“You okay, dude?” Randy asked.
Dib jumped.
“I—yeah. Yes. Just dropped something.”
Randy blinked.
Then smiled.
“Wanna come with me and Howard to McPizza? They’re doing unlimited cheese fries today, and I need a wingman.”
Dib stared at him.
Long.
Unblinking.
“…You want me to come with you.”
Randy snorted. “Yeah? Is that a weird thing to want?”
Dib flushed.
“No. I just—no one’s ever invited me anywhere before.”
“…Oh.”
Something shifted in Randy’s face then.
Not pity. Just… surprise. Quiet.
“Well,” he said softly, “I guess it’s about time someone did.”
Dib’s face went hot.
He said yes.
Even though he hated cheese fries.
Even though Howard pelted him with ketchup packets the entire time.
Then came the first Grief Spore. It landed on the football field during sixth period, writhing like a bulbous, oily flower, tendrils reaching for heat, pain, weakness.
Dib, idiot that he was, ran toward it.
He had a vial and his phone out, recording everything.
He didn’t notice how close he was until one tendril lashed out and nearly caught his ankle.
But someone tackled him sideways.
Hard.
They landed behind the bleachers.
Dib hit the dirt, wind knocked clean out of him, vision spinning.
Then—above him—
“Seriously?” Randy hissed, straddling him, panting. “What is your damage?! That thing could’ve turned your brain into emotional goo!”
Dib blinked.
He was… pinned.
By Randy.
Randy’s face was right there, flushed, sweaty, voice trembling with adrenaline.
His chest rose and fell against Dib’s.
And Dib—glitching, brain shorting—could only whisper:
“…You saved me.”
Randy rolled off him with a groan. “Yeah. Again. That’s like three times now. You’re a walking self-destruct button, you know that?”
But Dib wasn’t listening.
He was still on the ground, hand clenched against his heart, replaying the moment.
He saved me again.
He saved me again.
He saved me again.
Later that night, he opened the folder labeled “Norrisville anomalies” and added a new page:
THE NINJA = RANDY CUNNINGHAM
The evidence had been stacking up for weeks. Height. Voice. Movements. Shoe size. The bit of hair that peaked out from his Ninja mask.
The way Randy always disappeared when the Ninja showed up.
The way his voice—distorted but still recognizable—slipped through the Ninja mask and rang in Dib’s ears.
He knew. He’d known for a while now.
Randy Cunningham was the Ninja.
He never brought it up. Never hinted. Never asked.
But he knew.
It all matched.
He knew.
And he didn’t tell.
Because it’s mine. Because no one else sees him the way I do.
And from then on, every time Randy, as the Ninja or as himself, pulled him out of the path of a monster or dragged him out of the Nullvoid before the tendrils caught his coat—
Every time he said, “You’ve got to stop doing this, man. You’re gonna get hurt,”
Dib only nodded, heart hammering, blood rushing, mind spinning like static.
He keeps saving me.
No one’s ever done that before.
Why would he do that if I didn’t matter?
And it kept happening.
Lunches.
Study sessions.
Walking home together.
Every time he stood up for him when a passing sophomore called Dib “Area 51’s wet dream”—Dib felt something inside him shift. Sharpen. Hook in deeper.
And the more Randy smiled at him—
Touched his shoulder—
Waited for him after class—
The more Dib thought:
This isn’t just kindness. This is fate. I was supposed to land in this dimension. Because of him.
Because someone finally saw me.
It wasn’t until Theresa Fowler cornered him that things began to slip.
He hadn’t even seen her coming.
She appeared near the gym after school, twirling her baton absentmindedly as if it were a nervous tic. Her expression wasn’t angry—not yet. It was something stranger. Something anxious and fluttering behind wide, sharp eyes. Her cardigan sleeves were pushed to her elbows, and her tone when she called out his name was high and trembling, almost melodic.
“Dib? Hey… can we talk?”
He stopped, one foot still hovering on the stairs leading to the parking lot. His eyes narrowed.
“Do I have a choice?”
Theresa stepped closer, adjusting her grip on her baton. She gave a small, uneasy laugh—nervous, polite. Too polite.
“I-I know this sounds silly, but I… I’ve noticed how you’re always around Randy. Following him. Hanging back after class when he’s still packing his bag. Sitting behind him in assemblies. It’s just… weird. And kinda… creepy?”
Dib blinked.
His jaw twitched.
“I’m sorry—you’re calling me creepy?” he asked, voice dead-flat. “You’ve been watching me watch him?”
Theresa’s lips parted. She faltered. “No! I mean—yes, but not like that! It’s just—Randy’s important to me, okay? He’s really sweet, and smart, and… he smiles at me. I’ve known him since seventh grade. We talked once at the soda machine, and—” she blinked fast, getting a little breathless, “—I just know he deserves better than someone like you, okay? Someone who talks about aliens in the lunch line and gets detention for sneaking into the chemistry lab after hours!”
Dib stared at her.
Blank.
Unmoving.
Then he stepped forward.
“And what—exactly—is your plan?” he asked slowly. “You gonna tell him I’m a stalker so he runs into your arms instead? Hope he forgets you’ve been quietly orbiting him for years like a lovesick Jupiter moon?”
Her face turned pink. “That’s not—! I just want him to be safe!”
“He is safe. From everyone but you.”
Theresa’s fingers clenched around her baton. Her voice cracked.
“You’re obsessed with him.”
Dib’s eyes glinted behind his glasses.
“Funny,” he said softly. “Coming from someone who’s been stalking the stalker. Should I assume you have a shrine too, or are you too spineless to commit to the craft?”
Her mouth fell open.
That struck something. Something deep and weird and wounded. Her cheeks went bright red, her mouth trembling—not with fury, but with the sting of recognition.
“I’m not spineless,” she whispered.
Then—suddenly—her baton swung down.
There was a crack—the sound of wood and bone and something wet—and Dib staggered back.
Blood slid down his temple.
His knees buckled.
“Oh my gosh,” Theresa gasped, dropping the baton. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—!”
She backed away, hands clutched over her mouth. She looked horrified.
“I didn’t mean to! You—I was just—! Randy can’t know about this, I swear, I wasn’t trying to—!”
Her voice rose in pitch, panicked, as Dib crumpled behind the bleachers, breathing shallow and sharp.
Then she fled.
“Don’t tell him!” she called back breathlessly. “Please don’t tell him—he doesn’t need to know—!”
And she was gone.
The sky looked sickly and green when Dib blinked awake again, but he wasn’t in the dirt anymore.
He was warm. Dazed. Wrapped in something soft.
A blanket?
No—someone’s bed.
He smelled smoke and laundry detergent and a faint, bitter citrus.
Then a voice broke through the fuzz:
“Dude—whoa. Dib?”
Randy.
Panicked. Gentle. Hovering close.
“What happened, man? You’re—who did this to you?!”
“I’m f-fine,” Dib croaked, even though his tongue barely worked. “It’s… just…”
He tried to sit up. Failed. His head spun sideways. His stomach lurched—
He almost vomited.
Twice.
Randy caught him before he slumped off the bed entirely. Steady hands. Warm hands.
"C'mon, Dib. You obviously didn't hit yourself with a—" Randy cut himself off, easing Dib back into his bed with an uncharacteristically irritated expression on his face.
"...Randy?"
"Yeah?"
Dib looked at the hands now gripping his shoulders painfully, then back up at him, "nothing."
Later, with his trench coat hanging up on the wall and a glass of water on the nightstand, Dib lay in Randy Cunningham’s bed with ice wrapped around his temple and bandages on his scalp.
His body ached like he’d been thrown through a wormhole. His shoulders slightly throbbed from where Randy had gripped them too hard earlier.
But it didn’t matter.
Because Randy had taken care of him.
Not out of pity. Not because anyone forced him to.
Because he wanted to.
And for Dib… that was enough.
More than enough.
It was everything.
His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling as his pulse throbbed in his bandaged temple, and all he could think—over and over again—was:
No one has ever done this for me before.
Not his classmates.
Not his family.
Not anyone.
Only Randy.
Only him.
And it was in that quiet, flickering moment of warmth and ice packs that Dib’s obsession clicked into place.
Not as madness.
Not as delusion.
But as truth.
"You finally lucid, bro?" Randy came in with a bowl of crackers, and a smaller bowl of melted cheese. He set them on his desk, then sat on the edge of the bed.
"Uh, yeah." Dib shifted into a sitting position, leaning against Randy's pillow and turning red from the unsavory thoughts of he sleeps here, on this bed that I woke up in, it smells like him holy shit and I'm in his house! He took care of me! HOLY FUCK I'M WEARING HIS HOODIE.
Dib calmly exhaled and smiled, "thanks for... y'know."
"Don't mention it, man. Got you these, you gotta eat."
Although Dib felt his stomach protesting, bile rising at the back of his throat and all, he still swallowed it down and took the two bowls with another smile.
"Thanks, Randy."
He ate in silence, while Randy ranted about school and a Mc-something he wanted. Dib enjoyed his time, enjoyed having an excuse to stare at Randy, his shoulders, his forearms, his hands, his cr—
He tore his eyes away, focusing on how he had finished his crackers and cheese (with Randy's help).
Dib noticed Randy's blue, blue eyes shifting from him to his bed, and Dib's flush darkened further. "I-I'll, uh, get going now—I know I said this twice now but thanks, I mean it."
Randy almost looked— dare he say, disappointed— before he gave him a grin, ruffling his hair (Dib's heart quivered like Randy had touched it instead) and leading him to the front door. "Take care of yourself, yeah? If you need anything just call me, okay?"
"Y-yeah. Bye."
When Dib checked his phone, he hadn't realized that it was literally the next day. Had he stayed in Randy's house for an entire day?? Why hadn't he told him?
He groaned, massaging his temples. If only he woke up earlier, then maybe he wouldn't have intruded like he did, even if he was unconscious. What if Randy was annoyed? Maybe that was why he looked irritated. That alone made Dib shiver.
Upon entering his room, he plopped down on his overcrowded bed. Before he passed out from complete exhaustion—again—he wondered. If he had stayed over at Randy's house overnight...
Where had Randy slept?
Dib wasn’t at school.
No trench coat. No muttered alien theories. No awkward glances across the lunch table. No bloodied bandages or dazed eyes, no voice catching when Randy laughed too close or offered half a sandwich.
Randy noticed the absence immediately.
He didn’t say anything at first.
Didn’t ask.
Didn’t text.
But every class felt heavier. Every empty space beside him at lunch was louder than Howard’s ranting. Even his jokes didn’t land right today.
By last period, he’d made up his mind.
He caught Theresa Fowler by the lockers.
She was humming to herself. Baton clutched like a second spine in her hand, twirling lazily. Her hair was extra shiny today. Lip gloss too pink.
“Hey, Theresa!”
She turned, instantly brightening.
“Randy!”
He smiled—soft, easy, warm.
“You free after school?”
She blinked. “I—I think so? Yeah! Totally. Why?”
Randy scratched the back of his neck and gave the kind of sheepish grin girls wrote about in journals.
“Just thought we could talk. Get food? Walk? Y’know. Normal teenage activities.”
Theresa flushed. “Sure! That sounds—yeah. Yes. Absolutely.”
They met up at the edge of Norrisville State Park after dismissal.
The sky was orange with sunset, and the swings creaked faintly in the wind. Theresa showed up in a denim skirt and nervous energy, her baton peeking out of her backpack like a warning.
Randy had already claimed the bench.
He looked normal. Relaxed. Hoodie up, sipping a grape soda.
Theresa sat down beside him. Close, but not too close.
“So… what did you wanna talk about?” she asked, eyes wide, voice syrup-sweet.
Randy looked ahead.
Didn’t answer immediately.
The silence stretched.
Finally:
“You hurt him.”
Theresa’s smile wavered.
“What?”
“Dib,” Randy said, still staring at the trees. “He’s not at school today. He’s concussed. He was bleeding when I found him.”
She shifted. Fingers tightening on the bench’s edge.
“I—I didn’t mean to—”
“He had vomit on his coat,” Randy continued softly. “Dirt in his hair. A dent in his skull.”
Theresa’s throat clicked. “I wasn’t—he said I was the freak! He accused me—”
“I know you’ve been watching me.”
That stopped her cold.
Randy turned now.
Slowly.
Face still calm. Pleasant. But his blue eyes didn’t smile anymore.
Theresa opened her mouth. Shut it.
“I figured you were just… curious,” Randy went on. “It was kind of flattering. I mean, I get it. I am awesome. Popular, sick hoodie, killer hair.”
He winked.
But the tension didn’t drop.
“You’re not the first to crush on me. You’re just the first to break someone’s skull because of it.”
“I didn’t—!” she started, then caught herself. Her voice dropped. “I didn’t mean to hurt him that badly. I panicked. He said awful things—he was following me too—and then I just—”
“Cracked your baton across his head.”
Theresa was pale now.
“I didn’t mean—”
Randy leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
Still smiling.
But it was the kind of smile that didn’t feel warm anymore. Like he’d practiced it too long. Like he’d worn it too much and forgot how it was supposed to work.
“Theresa,” he said gently. “Can I be real with you for a second?”
She nodded. Slowly.
“I don’t care if you like me. That’s not the problem.”
“…It’s not?”
“Nope. The problem,” he said, voice still friendly, “is when liking me turns into hurting people who matter to me.”
Theresa blinked. “You mean—you and Dib—are you…?”
Randy looked at her then.
And for one long second, he looked completely honest.
“I don’t know what we are,” he said softly. “But I know he looks at me like no one else ever has. Like I’m more than just the guy in the hoodie.”
He exhaled, leaned back, let the soda fizz in his hand.
“I used to think it was kinda funny. You watching me. I didn’t mind it. Gave me a little ego boost. But now…”
He met her eyes.
There was no smile now.
Only steel under sugar.
“You pushed the line.”
Theresa said nothing.
Just sat there, slowly shrinking in on herself.
Finally, Randy stood up.
“I’m not gonna tell anyone what you did. Not unless you make me.”
She opened her mouth again.
He raised a hand.
“I get obsession. Believe me.” His voice dipped, and he laughed—low, under his breath. “But if you ever come near him again? Ever?”
He leaned down.
Smiling.
Whispered like a secret:
“I’ll make you regret it.”
Then he walked away.
Baton still in her backpack.
Her throat dry.
The wind picked up.
Theresa didn’t move for a long, long time.
Randy didn’t go home right away.
He ducked behind an alley. Looked at the shadows. He didn’t even look up when a faint clink-clink of claws on metal landed behind him.
“I know you’re watching,” he muttered.
From the shadows, Zim dropped into view.
Elegant and sharp, his purple contacts gleaming beneath his hoodie-disguised silhouette. The faint buzz of alien tech hummed from his PAK.
He landed like a threat. A statement.
“Well, well. So the monkey has developed pattern recognition,” Zim purred, arms folding behind his back. “I must say, for a primitive lifeform with an attention span shorter than a Smeeth Larva’s lifespan, your duplicity is almost… charming.”
Randy turned at last, calm.
Not startled.
“Zim.”
“Earth-monkey,” Zim mimicked in a mockery of his polite tone. “Or should I say, masked emotional parasite with a talent for theatrical benevolence?”
“Jealous?”
“Ha! Never! I simply find it fascinating.”
Zim stepped closer, hands behind his back like a headmaster pacing a lecture hall.
“To think — you, a greasy high schooler with delusions of grandeur — would have the gall to play two faces at once. One for the crowds, one for the boy.”
Randy’s smile sharpened slightly. “You’re one to talk.”
Zim’s eyes narrowed.
“Touché.”
They stood silently in the moonlight, watching one another like snakes waiting for a flicker of weakness.
“You’ve been following me,” Randy said at last.
“Only because you’ve become exponentially more entertaining,” Zim replied, tilting his head. “The Ninja act? Predictable. But this obsession you’re growing? Deliciously unexpected.”
“I’m not obsessed.”
Zim smirked.
“Oh, I wasn’t talking about you.”
That gave Randy pause.
Zim’s grin widened.
“The Dib-creature has always been a boiling kettle of misplaced passion and resentment. That much hasn’t changed. But you…” His voice dropped, syrup-slow. “You, Cunningham. You let him orbit you. You feed his fixation.”
Randy’s jaw tightened. Just slightly.
“And I wonder—” Zim stepped even closer “—is that because you care… or because it feels good to be needed by something broken?”
Randy didn’t answer.
Didn’t flinch.
Just stared.
Zim studied him a beat longer, then sighed.
“Your type always implodes,” he said. “It’s never the monster that gets you. It’s the moment you realize you liked being devoured.”
And with that, he vanished.
A blink. A shimmer. Gone.
Randy exhaled slowly.
Then looked back toward Dib’s house.
Still smiling.
Still silent.
And then he pulled out his phone.
Scrolled past Howard’s texts. Past prank videos. Past selfies.
Stopped at a blurry picture of Dib, blinking at the camera, awkward and red-faced with Randy’s hoodie around his shoulders. Another one of him, still wearing Randy's hoodie, asleep in his bed.
He stared at it.
Thumb hovered.
Then he smiled. It twitched.
he looks better in my hoodie anyway.
mine.
The sun was dragging across the sky like a half-dead thing, bleeding light into the cracks of Norrisville’s concrete.
They sat on the bleachers behind the school. Not on top. Not where the wind bit or the birds could crap on your shoulder, but low, tucked halfway into the shadow of the building. Hidden. Quiet.
Dib hadn’t spoken in five minutes.
Randy didn’t mind.
He liked watching him fidget. That weird little twitch Dib did when he was trying not to stare. The way his fingers kept tugging the sleeves of his trench coat like they might come loose and let him vanish.
He always does this, Randy thought. Talks like he wants to be noticed and then crumples the second he actually is.
It’s kind of adorable.
Dib kicked at a loose rock near his foot.
“I’m surprised you’re not at lunch with Howard.”
“Nah,” Randy said. “Felt like hanging out with you.”
He said it lightly. As if it wasn’t a weighted bullet aimed directly at Dib’s chest.
Dib’s breath hitched — barely — and he looked down again.
Don’t overthink it. Don’t twitch. Don’t act like you just got handed a Nobel Prize because someone actually wants to spend time with you. He’s just being nice. Because he’s nice.
Not because he—
God, his eyes are so blue.
Randy leaned back, resting his arms along the bleacher behind him.
“You always look like you’re waiting for something to explode.”
Dib blinked.
“I mean,” Randy went on, grinning, “you’re tense. Like… apocalypse tense. Is it me? Am I stressing you out?”
Yes. Also no. Also yes. Also, please never leave again.
Dib huffed out a weak laugh. “No. Just… tired.”
“Tired of what?”
“Everything.”
It slipped out. Too honest. Too raw.
Randy glanced over. The smile on his lips didn’t fade, but it changed. Softer. Quieter. There it is. Zim wasn’t wrong — he’s cracked down the middle.
And Randy keeps stepping on the fracture lines just to see if he’ll flinch.
“I get that,” Randy said, tone casual, even as his eyes traced every shift in Dib’s expression. “School’s brutal. Monsters. Space-worms. Aggressive baton girls.”
Dib actually snorted at that.
“Yep. Not exactly relaxing.”
Dib paled, "what—?"
"Yeah, no one exactly hits someone with a twirling baton for laughs."
"Oh."
They lapsed into silence again. Not uncomfortable. But thick. Like the air around them was slowly boiling, dense with things left unsaid.
Dib glanced at him. Then away. He’s sitting so close. If he leaned an inch he could feel the heat from his arm. Dib would bet it’s warm. He'd bet he smells like detergent and whatever the cafeteria tried to pass off as food today. God, what is wrong with me? Randy—he’s just—he’s just being friendly. But he found me when I was bleeding and vomiting and said my name like it meant something. And he’s here. He keeps choosing to be here.
“Hey,” Randy said, his voice quieter now. “You ever feel like…”
Dib looked up.
Randy shrugged one shoulder. “Like you’re too much? But also not enough?”
Dib stared. How does he do that? How does he say exactly the thing Dib's been screaming inside his own skull for years? How does he sound so calm while Dib's unraveling?
“Yeah,” Dib said, throat dry. “All the time.”
Randy nodded slowly.
Then smiled.
Not the big, goofy smile he used around the other kids.
Something else.
Something smaller. Intentional.
He’s mine. He doesn’t know it yet. But I’m already his. I’ve been his since I found him slumped behind the bleachers and swore I’d make whoever did that pay. And he’s still trying to hide that he looks at me like I’m a miracle.
Dib’s heart was stuttering. His hands were shaking. Say it. Say it before you explode. Don’t say it. He’ll leave. He’ll laugh.
Say it. Say it. Say—
“I like you.”
It came out like a confession and a curse, a whisper dragged from the bottom of his ribs. His eyes went wide immediately, horrified, as if someone else had said it using his voice.
“I—crap—I mean—”
Randy turned.
No surprise.
No shock.
Just a long, slow grin that looked like the sky cracking open.
“I know.”
Dib froze.
“You—what?”
“I know you like me,” Randy said, still smiling. “I’ve known for a while.”
Dib’s ears went red. His stomach bottomed out.
Abort mission. This is a mistake. You’re insane. This is insane—
“Why didn’t you say anything?” he croaked.
Randy leaned forward slightly.
“Because I was waiting for you to say it first.”
And then — gently, carefully — he reached out and brushed Dib’s fingers with his own. He's warm. He’s real. He’s touching Dib like he's not sick. Like he's not crazy. No one has ever looked at him like this.
“I like you too,” Randy said. “A lot.”
Dib blinked so hard his vision blurred.
Randy tilted his head.
“You okay?”
“I… I don’t know.”
Randy laughed.
“Yeah. That’s fair.”
He stood, offered Dib a hand.
Dib stared at it.
Then took it.
And somewhere in his chest, something clicked into place. Maybe… maybe this is real. Maybe Dib's allowed to have this.
As Randy helped him up, their fingers didn’t separate.
And Randy didn’t let go.
Not now.
Not ever.
He said it.
It’s real.
He’s mine now. I won’t let anyone else touch this.
Theresa Fowler didn’t sleep.
She lay in bed all night, eyes open, baton across her lap like it could protect her from her own thoughts.
Randy’s voice kept playing over and over.
“You pushed the line.”
“If you ever come near him again… I’ll make you regret it.”
“I get obsession. Believe me.”
Her fingers curled tighter around the baton.
The words shouldn’t have shaken her. She’d told herself a million times — Randy was just nice, just friendly. He smiled at everyone. He said thank you when someone passed the ketchup.
But now?
Now she wasn’t sure that smile ever meant anything.
He’d known. The whole time.
Let her orbit him like a moth around a porch light — close enough to burn, but not enough to feel welcome.
And Dib.
Dib had ruined it.
Dib with his too-big coat and dead-inside eyes and that goddamn tragic bleeding head wound.
She sat up and wiped her eyes hard.
He said he doesn’t know what they are. So maybe there’s still time.
She opened her closet.
Inside, on the very top shelf, behind the shoebox with old cheer ribbons and broken lip gloss tubes, was the scrapbook.
It was full.
Every photo. Every schedule. Every printed tweet. The one blurry image of Randy leaving school as the Ninja she had dared to believe was proof of their connection.
She turned a page.
Paused on a picture of Randy from Halloween last year. A cow costume. Smile like the sun. Her caption underneath, in glitter pen: “Meant to shine for me.”
The pen trembled in her hand.
Then she slammed the book shut.
Tomorrow, she’d fix this.
No more waiting in shadows.
Howard was frowning.
Like, really frowning.
He’d watched Randy tune out a lecture, ignore his own hot lunch, and smile way too calmly when Theresa Fowler nervously passed by the vending machine.
And now Randy was just… leaning against a wall. Quiet. Still. Hands in his pockets. Eyes drifting like radar.
Howard nudged him with an elbow.
“You good, bro?”
“Yeah.” Randy didn’t look up. “Just thinkin’.”
“Thinkin’? Dude. You hate thinkin’. It’s, like, your least favorite activity right after ‘homework’ and ‘eating vegetables that aren’t fried.’”
Randy exhaled through his nose. Still smiling.
Howard squinted at him.
“…Okay, what’s up? You’ve been acting weird. Like, yeah, you’re usually a lanky teen with a hoodie, but this? This is some NPC final boss energy.”
Randy turned, slow and deliberate, that pleasant, practiced grin curling on his face.
“You worry too much, Weinerman.”
Howard stepped back slightly. Offended.
“Dude. That’s what you say right before you do something absolutely crazy.”
“I’m just handling things. Making sure nobody crosses any lines.”
“Crosses—what? Like... Dib lines?”
Randy’s expression didn’t change.
Which was somehow worse.
“Cunningham.”
“Yeah?”
Howard folded his arms. “Please tell me this isn’t about that weirdo again. I know he’s your charity case of the month, but—”
“He’s not a charity case,” Randy said sharply.
The tone made Howard pause.
“Okay, jeez. Chill.”
Randy’s smile returned.
But his eyes didn’t.
“You ever get the feeling someone sees you? Like, really sees you? All the dumb stuff, all the secrets—and still chooses you?”
Howard stared.
“…Bro, are you high?”
Randy laughed. Loud. Carefree. Way too carefree.
“I’m good, man.” He slapped Howard on the back and turned away. “Let’s just say Dib’s different. And me and him are dating now.”
Howard muttered under his breath. “Yeah. Different like a haunted porcelain doll in a trench coat.” Then he paused, "wait, WHAT?!"
Randy didn’t respond.
Didn’t need to.
Because his mind was already miles away, tracing the path to Dib’s house, picturing bandages and wide eyes and flushed cheeks.
He’s mine.
The worst thing about Theresa Fowler’s spiral was how pretty she looked while falling.
Hair curled. Lips glossed. Shirt perfectly ironed with the rhinestone “T.” She even smiled as she walked into the courtyard like she was starring in a music video. But her grip on her baton inside her bag was white-knuckled.
Randy stood near the lunch tables, chatting with Howard and shoving curly fries into his face. The sun's glow made his hoodie look softer than usual, his laugh a little louder, his attention everywhere but her.
This was it.
Now or never.
She marched right up to him.
Students nearby glanced over.
Someone whispered.
She ignored it.
“Randy!”
He turned, grinning.
“Theresa! Yo! Wassup?”
The casualness stung.
She forced the smile wider.
“I need to say something. Right here. Right now.”
Randy blinked. “Uh… okay?”
People were watching now.
Howard muttered, “Aw man, I hate secondhand embarrassment…”
Theresa squared her shoulders.
“I like you. I’ve liked you for months. And I know I messed up—okay? I hit someone and I’m sorry! But I did it because I—because I care. About you.”
Randy’s smile didn’t waver.
But something behind his eyes snapped shut.
“I know you’re close with Dib,” she continued, voice rising, “but he doesn’t get you the way I do! He’s obsessed! He’s weird and crazy, and I just—Randy, please. Just give me a chance.”
Silence.
The courtyard had stopped breathing.
Randy looked at her like she’d just asked him to drink paint.
Then slowly, calmly:
“…Are you seriously doing this right now?”
She blinked.
“I—”
“In front of everyone?”
He stepped closer.
Smile razor-thin.
“You want honesty? Okay. Here’s honesty: I don’t like you that way. I may have once. But not anymore, and never again. I let you orbit because it was easier than pushing you away.”
Her breath caught.
“And what you did to Dib?” he added. “You crossed the line. You hurt someone I care about. You don’t come back from that.”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
“I’m flattered,” he said, so politely it sounded like venom. “But no.”
And then he turned his back.
Just like that.
Leaving her standing there, radiant and humiliated and shaking.
The courtyard still buzzed with leftover murmurs from Theresa’s meltdown. Her perfume lingered faintly on the breeze — sweet, overripe, sticky with desperation.
Randy watched her retreating figure, shoulders stiff, arms wrapped tight around herself like that might hold all the cracks in.
It didn’t feel good.
But it didn’t feel bad either.
It felt inevitable.
He let out a long breath, dug his phone out of his pocket.
Opened his messages.
Randy:
where r u
wanna see u
He didn’t expect a reply right away.
He definitely didn’t expect it a second later.
Dib:
train yard
there’s a mutated fungus patch growing under track 6
bring boots
also. hi
Randy stared at the screen.
Then exhaled a soft laugh through his nose. Only Dib would flirt and talk about sentient mushrooms in the same breath.
He should’ve been annoyed. Dirty, rusted train yard in this heat? Not exactly prime date material.
But his grin didn’t fade.
Thirty minutes later, and he arrived at the trainyard.
The air was metallic. Hot. Buzzing with insects and the low rattle of distant trains.
Dib was crouched by the tracks, his coat smudged with grease, hair half-sticking to his forehead. He had goggles pushed up and a small data tablet balanced on one knee.
And he looked up the second Randy’s boots hit gravel.
Dib blinked, flushed, then very quickly looked back down at his tablet.
“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” he said.
“You answered in half a second,” Randy replied, approaching. “Don’t play hard to get now.”
Dib muttered something unintelligible under his breath, ears pink. His heart was slamming. He tried to act like he was adjusting something on the screen, but his hands were shaking.
“Wanna see you.” He said—he just texted that like it was normal. Like he didn’t just reject Theresa in front of half the school, in public, where there are videos already being sent to all the group chats and circulating the internet—and then come straight here. What am I supposed to do with that?!
Randy stepped beside him, peering at the data screen.
“What are we looking at?”
“Um.” Dib swallowed. “It’s a Class-C spore cluster. Reactive to electromagnetic shifts. Possibly influenced by the cross-dimensional residue left from the last grief spore breach.”
“Cool,” Randy said, entirely unbothered. “Wanna go out with me Friday?”
Dib froze.
Absolutely glitched.
“What?”
Randy turned his head, blinking innocently. “I said, wanna go out with me Friday?”
“I—uh—”
Dib fumbled his tablet, barely catching it. His glasses slid down his nose. “Like… on a date?”
“Yeah.”
“Like a date date?”
“Dude.” Randy laughed. “Yes.”
“I—okay. Cool. That’s cool. That’s—uh—fine.”
Randy tilted his head, amused. “You’re malfunctioning.”
“No I’m not.”
“You totally are.”
“I hate you.”
“I like you,” Randy corrected.
Dib made a noise somewhere between a whimper and a groan and buried his face in his hands.
Randy stepped closer.
Close enough for Dib to smell that weird sweet cologne he sometimes used after ninja duty. Smoke and vanilla and something citrusy.
Oh God he’s close he’s so close and I said yes and now he’s going to—what is he doing what is happening—
“What are you doing?” Dib whispered, voice barely holding together.
Randy leaned in, eyes soft. “Nothing.”
And then — carefully — he kissed Dib on the cheek.
A feather-light press of lips.
Warm.
Real.
Dib blinked, brain short-circuiting.
And then Randy leaned in again — other cheek this time. Slower. More deliberate.
Dib’s hands clutched the hem of his coat, trying to remember how breathing worked.
I’m going to combust. This is it. This is how I die.
And then Randy’s mouth brushed his.
A kiss.
Short.
Barely pressure.
But so full of intent it felt like a declaration.
Dib’s whole body melted under it.
He exhaled a sound he’d never made before — something between a gasp and a sigh, raw and entirely human — and when Randy finally pulled back, he didn’t open his eyes for a second.
Didn’t want to.
“...What was that?” he whispered.
“Just wanted to see something,” Randy said.
“What’d you see?”
Randy smiled, eyes glowing a little in the light.
“You.”
Dib laughed, and Randy was so glad that he was audio-recording this moment.
The next day came fast.
Too fast.
Dib stood at the street corner across from McFist-A-Plex, stiff-backed and overdressed in his signature trench coat, even though it was seventy-five degrees out. He’d actually brushed his hair.
His palms were sweating.
His boots were too tight.
He hated how nervous he was.
Calm down. It’s just a date. A normal date. With a normal person. A normal—perfect—unbelievably magnetic—superhero—person who keeps choosing to save you.
Oh God.
Randy arrived ten minutes late, smoothie in one hand, hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms. He looked winded. Effortless. Like he’d just dropped off a rooftop and ran five blocks and still managed to look casual. He probably did.
“Yo,” he greeted, bumping shoulders with Dib. “Didn’t flake. That’s gotta count for something.”
“You’re late,” Dib muttered. Then, quieter: “But thanks.”
They entered a greasy, rundown theater that smelled like syrup and floor wax. Randy paid for the tickets and bought two slushies — red for him, blue for Dib. When Dib mumbled something about not even liking slushies, Randy just grinned.
“C’mon, dude, it’s a date. You need something to dramatically throw when the big twist happens.”
He called it a date again. He’s serious. Oh god. He’s actually serious.
The movie was terrible. Something about robotic clones and a skyscraper explosion and a dead wife twist no one asked for.
But Dib didn’t watch the screen.
He watched Randy.
The way he leaned back with one ankle resting on the opposite knee. The way he whispered his stupid commentary at key dramatic moments. The occasional flicker of blue light in his eyes when he got too invested in a fight scene.
He’s perfect. He’s ridiculous. He bought me a slushie and held the door open like it was nothing and laughed like I’m not one breath away from having a nervous breakdown.
I would kill for him.
Dib paused, where did that thought come from?
Halfway through the film, Randy’s hand shifted onto the shared armrest.
Brushed Dib’s.
Stayed there.
Dib didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
By the time the credits rolled, the world outside was painted in late-afternoon amber. The theater doors swung open, flooding the lobby with cheap light and leftover popcorn air.
Randy was mid-sentence—talking about post-movie tacos and spicy fries—when a sharp voice sliced through the air like a Ninja-Sai to the chest.
“Are you kidding me right now?!”
Dib flinched.
Howard Weinerman was standing by the ticket booth, arms crossed, face twisted in betrayed disbelief.
“You ditched our movie night for this guy? This trench coat-wearing, freak-show conspiracy shoob?!”
Randy winced. “Howard, dude—”
“No! No ‘dude’ me! We had plans! I had popcorn ready! I even let you pick the movie even though you always pick horror, and I hate horror, but I still said yes ‘cause I’m a good friend, Cunningham! A loyal friend! Unlike some hoodie-wearing traitor!”
Dib stiffened. “I didn’t know you had plans,” he said quietly.
“Not talking to you, X-Files!” Howard snapped. “I’m talking to my best friend, who apparently ditched me for a movie date with a guy who tries to DNA test the cafeteria meat!”
Randy looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then sighed.
“Look, it’s not like that, okay?”
“It looks exactly like that.”
I warned you this would happen, a tiny voice in Dib’s head muttered. You don’t get to have this. You don’t get to keep good things.
“Howard—”
“I’m going home.” Howard turned dramatically. “Don’t come crying to me when this guy abducts you for alien experiments!”
He stormed off, leaving a deep awkward silence in his wake.
Dib stood still, teeth clenched.
“…Sorry,” Randy said after a moment.
Dib didn’t answer.
Not until they’d walked to the edge of the parking lot and Randy reached to nudge his arm gently.
"You okay?"
Dib’s voice was sharp-edged and thin. “Why does everyone act like I’m some kind of plague?”
“Because they’re idiots,” Randy said. But even he sounded tired.
When Dib got home, the house was dim. The only light in the living room was the blue glow of Gaz’s Game Slave, illuminating her bored, sharp face.
She didn’t look up when he walked in.
She didn’t have to.
“Your date with Hoodie Boy ruined my score,” she said.
Dib froze in the doorway.
Gaz sniffed, eyes still glued to the screen. “You know you bumped the damn router when you stomped out earlier? My boss lagged. I almost died.”
Dib stared.
“You’re mad because your game glitched?”
“I’m mad because you made everything weird, and now I can’t focus, and I was three seconds away from unlocking Demon Piggy Mode.”
“Sorry the worst day of my life inconvenienced your pixel slaughter.”
Gaz didn’t respond.
The silence dragged like a blade across tile.
And then she muttered, “You look like someone dumped you. Did he?”
“Shut up.”
“Bet you thought Hoodie Boy’s gonna sweep you off your feet and fly you into the sunset. Maybe he’ll help you track down Bigfoot next. Date idea. That is, if you haven't been dumped already.”
“Shut up.”
“God, you’re pathetic. I give it a week before he ghosts you if he hasn't.”
“I swear to GOD—”
Gaz’s eyes narrowed. “What? You gonna cry again?”
Dib didn't know what possessed him to do what he did next.
He stomped across the room, fury boiling out of his lungs, snatched her Game Slave — mid-boss fight — and with a scream of frustration, hurled it full-force into the kitchen sink.
It landed with a splash.
Dead silence.
Gaz stared at her empty hands.
Then stood up slowly.
“Oh,” she said softly. “You want to die tonight.”
Dib barely had time to back up before she lunged.
Her knee hit his stomach hard enough to knock him against the fridge. He gasped, folded in half. Her fist caught the edge of his jaw and sent him sprawling into the counter.
“You absolute moron! That was the only Game Slave left since the interdimensional shift!”
“It’s not my fault we shifted universes!”
“It IS your fault when you’re the reason it’s broken!”
Dib snarled and threw a dish towel at her. She ducked. It hit the stove.
Gaz responded by slamming her head into his chest and shoving him back into the pantry door.
He grabbed her arm. She twisted his wrist.
He choked on a bubbling scream.
Then she grabbed a plate and smashed it against the floor.
“You want a tantrum? FINE. LET’S TANTRUM.”
“YOU RUIN EVERYTHING!”
“I HAD NOTHING ELSE!”
Gaz kicked his knee out.
Dib hit the floor hard. His arm landed wrong. Bone cracked.
Snap.
A wet, shattering crunch echoed.
He didn’t even yell—just sucked in air so hard it whistled in his throat.
Then came the nausea.
The heat.
He rolled to the side and vomited.
Once. Twice. Three times.
His vision blurred.
And then the pain hit.
Sharp and stinging, like ice shoving its way through his elbow.
He cried out.
Tried to roll onto his back.
Failed.
His nose was bleeding now—probably broken too—and the tears came fast and hot as his whole body convulsed against the tile.
His voice broke.
“Stop… stop… please stop—”
Gaz stood there. Panting. Hair stuck to her face.
Then her breath hitched.
And she sighed.
Long. Sharp. Furious.
But she didn’t walk away.
She knelt beside him.
“You’re so stupid,” she muttered, grabbing a towel from the drawer and folding it under his head. “You’re the dumbest idiot in the multiverse.”
He sobbed into the floor.
“It h-hurts—”
“I bet it does. You broke your own arm trying to fight your little sister, you genius.”
He sniffed.
She sat back on her heels.
Looked at the destroyed Game Slave.
Then at him.
Then pulled out her phone.
She opened his contact list and tapped the only number that mattered.
dad
dib broke his arm
nose too maybe
you need to come pick him up
and bring gauze
also i guess you can fix the Game Slave since it’s your fault we’re in this dimension
Professor Membrane arrived 25 minutes later, hair unbrushed and goggles shining in irritation.
He helped Dib into the back of the car with zero fanfare.
Gaz didn’t follow.
She was back on the couch by the time they pulled away, watching the title screen of a bootleg copy of her last saved game, eyes distant and unreadable.
In the hospital, under cold fluorescent light and the buzz of a faulty bulb, Dib lay in a stiff cot, arm in a cast, nose taped, eyes red and face pale.
He didn’t speak for a long time.
Then he whispered, more to himself than anyone else:
“Why is everything so awful?”
Membrane didn’t answer.
He just looked at his son, adjusted the sling, and walked out to fill out paperwork.
Alone, Dib stared at the ceiling.
And thought about Randy.
About the date.
About Howard.
About Theresa.
About the fact that Zim was still out there, probably watching.
And about how no matter what universe he landed in, no matter who he loved, no matter how hard he tried—
Everything still broke.
Dib’s house looked exactly like he’d imagined: high-tech windows, electrified lawn, the kind of mailbox that probably had a file on every neighbor’s comings and goings.
Randy knocked.
Waited.
A moment passed.
Then the door creaked open, revealing Gaz — arms crossed, lip curled, the picture of adolescent loathing.
“What.”
“Hey,” Randy said, bright as ever. “Is Dib here? I brought hot chocolate. And fries.”
She stared.
“Is this a date?”
Randy shrugged. “Would it change your answer?”
“…He’s upstairs. Don’t break anything. He’s already broken half his face.”
Dib was in bed.
Slinged arm, bandaged nose, and a soft “Invader Alert” nightlight glowing from the wall socket. His laptop was perched on a tray like a life support machine. The screen scrolled with unread UFO blogs.
When he saw Randy, his eyes went wide.
“You—you’re here.”
“Where else would I be?” Randy said, already tossing a warm paper bag onto the nightstand. “You missed school. You think I wasn’t gonna check in?”
“You brought me food?”
“I always bring food. It’s kinda my thing.”
Dib blinked at the fries like they were a love letter. He picked one up carefully with his uninjured hand.
“They’re still warm…”
“I ran here.”
“From your house?”
Randy grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve run across town for a dumb reason.”
He looked stupidly pleased with himself.
Dib flushed.
Randy saw it. Felt it. And smiled wider.
There was a quiet moment.
Dib fiddled with the edge of his blanket.
Randy tilted his head.
“Are you okay?”
Dib opened his mouth. Closed it. Then whispered, “Why do you keep doing this?”
Randy blinked.
“Doing what?”
“Saving me. Showing up. Giving a damn. No one else ever—” Dib’s voice cracked, just slightly. “I’m not used to people sticking around.”
Randy’s smile faltered.
Just a little.
Randy sat down on the bed without thinking. Right next to him. The springs dipped. The air shifted.
“Maybe I’m not like other people.”
Dib’s chest was tight. Too tight. He could feel every heartbeat like a pinprick against his ribs.
“You don’t have to. You know? Be this nice. It’s not… expected.”
“Why wouldn’t I want to be nice to you?”
Randy’s voice was light, but something beneath it wasn’t.
Something low. Possessive.
“You’re smart. Weird-smart. You see stuff. You get things. And you don’t look at me like I’m just some dumb class clown.”
Dib didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
His face was hot.
Randy couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop watching the way Dib’s lashes fluttered with exhaustion, the way his pale skin looked almost translucent under the nightlight. Fragile. He’s hurt and trusting you with it, Randy's consciousness screamed. Are you even registering that?
“You don’t have to be this nice,” Dib mumbled, voice going soft with shame. “I’m not asking for this.”
“Maybe I want to,” Randy said.
And he did.
He wanted this more than anything. To be in this room, at this bed, with this boy looking at him like he was some kind of warm miracle instead of just a high school kid in a hoodie. He wanted to be the only one allowed past Dib’s walls.
Dib’s face was heating up. Too fast. His heart felt like it was stumbling over itself. Was it the pain meds? The sleep deprivation?
He could feel Randy’s knee, pressing just barely into the mattress next to his thigh. Could feel that warmth. That presence.
Randy leaned forward. Just a little. His voice dropped.
“Dib, if you told me to walk into a grief spore to prove I cared, I’d probably do it.”
“…What?”
He grinned.
“Kidding.”
A beat passed.
Another.
Then, softer, “Unless you wanted me to.”
Dib stared at him.
Frozen.
And in that moment, he couldn’t tell if Randy was joking or dead serious.
His stomach twisted.
He wanted to sleep.
He wanted to grab Randy by the hoodie and never let go.
His hand twitched toward Randy’s without thinking.
And Randy took it.
Just—slipped his fingers around it like it was nothing, like it wasn’t the most intimate goddamn thing in the world.
“Dude,” Randy said, voice suddenly whisper-soft, “you’re falling asleep.”
“No I’m not.”
“You’re literally blinking like crazy.”
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.”
There was a quiet beat.
Randy leaned down, slow. Hovered close. His breath warm.
And then—barely—barely—his lips touched Dib’s.
Just a brush.
Dib blinked slowly, like a cat.
And Randy nearly lost it.
His brain short-circuited. The heat of it. The absolute nerve of this moment, of Dib just lying there like a fever dream and letting him touch his mouth like it was normal, like he wanted it, even half-asleep.
Randy leaned again. A second kiss. A little more pressure. A little more need.
Dib sighed against him.
The third kiss was sleepy and open and lasted longer than it had any right to.
Dib’s free hand—clumsy, drowsy—lifted and curled in Randy’s hoodie. He made a small sound, nearly swallowed it, and it only made Randy lean closer, his body trembling with how badly he wanted to sink into this moment.
He’s letting me do this.
He wants me here.
He trusts me.
I could stay here forever.
The kiss broke with a wet little gasp from Dib.
He blinked up, dazed. “What’re you doing…?”
“Helping you sleep,” Randy whispered, forehead resting against Dib’s.
And Dib just nodded. Eyes fluttering closed.
As if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Fifteen minutes later, Dib was fully asleep.
Randy stayed right there. Sitting on the edge of the bed. Staring at the wall.
His heart was a fucking mess.
He reached slowly for his phone.
Opened the hidden folder again.
Scrolled past the blurry photo of Dib eating fries.
Then the one of Dib asleep in the nurse’s office.
Then the one where Dib was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk after getting punched by Bash, blood drying on his collar, eyes far away.
And then, he typed:
He kissed me back.
He trusts me now.
I’m never leaving this bed.
If anyone tries to take him from me again, I swear to God—
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
He just hit save.
And watched Dib breathe.
"I'll visit you tomorrow too, okay?" He sighed under his breath.
“Do you always knock this softly?” Dib called from bed.
“I don’t wanna scare you,” Randy said, peeking through the door. “You’ve been through enough this week.”
Dib looked up from his laptop. Bandages still clung to his forehead. His arm was in a sling, and his voice was hoarse from yelling into the phone, spending half-an-hour trying to reach the non-existent Swollen Eyeballs Network. Some Network they were, not even surviving an interdimensional shift.
“…You brought tea?”
Randy walked in, holding a tray. Two mugs. Steam rising. One sugar, no milk—just how Dib liked it.
“Chamomile,” he said. “Helps with concussions. Or so Google says.”
“You googled concussion teas?”
“I googled you.”
Dib’s ears turned pink.
Randy sat beside him on the edge of the bed, not quite touching, but there.
“I heard about what happened with Theresa,” Dib finally brought it up.
“Yeah…” Randy stirred his tea, expression neutral. “Not her finest moment.”
“She’s insane.”
Randy snickered, “I’ve met worse.”
Dib snorted. “Zim?”
“You, actually.”
They both laughed.
Then Dib quieted. His fingers toyed with the blanket. He looked smaller tonight. Softer.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “Why you’re still around.”
Randy didn’t answer immediately.
He took a slow sip of tea. Set it down.
Then he reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind Dib’s ear.
“Because I want to be.”
Dib froze.
Randy leaned in, voice hushed:
“You see monsters and aliens and conspiracies. But no one ever bothered to see you. Except me.”
Dib opened his mouth—but Randy put a finger over his lips, gentle.
“I’m not asking for anything,” he said, smiling. “I’m just saying… I’ve got you.”
His hand lingered at Dib’s cheek.
Dib’s eyes fluttered half-closed.
The warmth. The weight of someone choosing him. The certainty in Randy’s voice. It was too much.
He nodded once.
That was all Randy needed.
He tucked the blanket tighter around him. Set the tea within reach. Dimmed the light.
And stayed.
Sat in the chair across from the bed, arms crossed, watching Dib sleep.
Not creepily.
Or… maybe a little creepily.
But softly.
Protectively.
No one’s ever choosing him again. Not while Randy's here.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
A message from Howard.
Randy ignored it.
He opened his camera instead.
Snapped a photo of Dib sleeping under the glow of the alien nightlight.
Saved it.
Labeled it:
proof he’s real. mine. alive.