"Zoey Parker, eat your food. Is your mouth a sieve? Why's shredded potato falling in my collar?"
"Can't help it. It jumped. I didn't make it fall…"
"Then let it be? Think it'll sprout legs and hop out?"
"It said, 'See ya, Mom, I'm off to sail the seas tonight,' and bailed from my burrito. Guess it felt cozier in your collar…"
"You're wasting talent not writing kids' books."
Sunrise.
Outside Seattle General Hospital.
Breakfast carts lined the entrance, folks swarming for grub.
Gus Harper carried Zoey on his back, weaving through the bustling stalls.
They bickered over a potato shred from Zoey's burrito dropping into Gus's collar.
Munching her savory burrito, Zoey mumbled:
"Man, smells amazing… but I'm parched. Gus, grab me some orange juice."
"You're not buying juice for kicks—you think I'm your personal Uber driver?"
Gus rolled his eyes, roasting Zoey's demands, then approached a juice cart vendor:
"One orange juice."
Handing it over, Zoey grinned: "What can I do? Bolted last night, no shoes."
She kicked out her bare feet, swinging them in front of Gus.
In the morning glow, her smooth ankles caught a warm sheen. Slender feet, soft, pale, like polished jade. Rounded toes, pink, playful, like delicate desert blooms. In the summer breeze, bold and striking.
"Pretty, huh?"
Gus zoned out, snapped back by Zoey's teasing tone.
"Ahem!"
Gus cleared his throat:
"Pretty what? What're you on about?"
"Keep playin' dumb, you old dog," Zoey smirked:
"Spill it—were you and Tarantino vibin' just now?"
"This, this, this… what're you sayin'…"
Gus flushed:
"I appreciate beauty, not critique it."
"Tch…"
Zoey scoffed at his lofty excuse, patting his shoulder:
"Chill, no pressure. Your freak rep's old news. I won't hold it against ya."
"Cut it out…"
Busted, Gus dropped the act:
"Not sure who's the real freak behind WindyPeak's chaos."
"Hey? You're actin' weird, aren't ya?"
Zoey flinched:
"You throwin' shade at me?"
"Nah," Gus chuckled, biting sarcasm:
"I'm shadin' that husky pillow on your bed."
Pfft—!!!
Zoey nearly spat her juice!
Face red as a beet!
If memory served, she'd passed out fever-high, clutching that Gus-faced husky pillow.
"I… I didn't…"
Zoey scrambled:
"Not what you think!"
"Sure, sure," Gus nodded:
"No stress. WindyPeak's killin' it, your nerves need a break. I won't judge."
Zoey: …
Choked, stuck.
Mad, but couldn't storm off.
…
Back at Zoey's rundown rental, Gus set her on the bed, sighed, and scoped the place.
"Real vibe," Gus said, eyeing the aged apartment.
"Why live like this? Where's your fancy $7,000-$8,000-a-month pad?"
"All your fault!" Zoey snapped at Gus's jab:
"If you weren't a gaming succubus, chased by every rival studio, I wouldn't have blown over a million, even yanked this year's salary early, to keep you!"
Well, damn…
Gus grinned.
So, he was the reason Zoey "fell to this."
Looking at Zoey, hands-on-hips on the bed, Gus laughed:
"Sorry, didn't know I was that hot. But since I swooped in and saved your brain from a 103-degree fever, let's call it even."
With that.
Gus yawned, stood:
"Alright, I'm crashin'. Takin' a day off."
"Take your meds, hit the IV on time."
"And quit stashing keys under the mat. Sketchy as hell."
After the rundown, Gus waved, ready to bounce.
Rough night for him.
Carrying Zoey was light work; the 103-degree fever was the real scare.
Doc said waiting till morning could've been bad.
Three IV bottles later, Zoey's fever broke.
Weak, wilted, but fine.
Seeing Gus leave, Zoey opened her mouth: "Uh… you just… headin' out?"
"Yeah," Gus spread his hands, obvious:
"What else?"
Room froze, five seconds.
Zoey's bright eyes dimmed, nodding.
"Alright then…"
"I'm out."
Gus turned, paused, remembering:
"Oh, right."
"Huh?" Zoey looked up: "What's up?"
"Gas prices spiked lately," Gus said.
Random line threw Zoey: "Uh… so?"
"So… tryna make some side cash," Gus said, scratching his head, sheepish:
"My place… uh… three-bedroom, two-living-room spot's too big for me. Thinkin' 'bout a roommate… split rent."
Zoey's face shifted—confusion to realization. Blushing, she played serious:
"Oh—cool. How much you chargin'?"
"Dunno…" Gus glanced around Zoey's rental:
"What's this place run you?"
"I…" Zoey bit her lip: "$1,500."
"Mine's three beds, two livings, study," Gus nodded:
"Split, it's like a one-bed. $1,500 sounds fair…"
"Cool, just askin'. Rest up, I'm gone."
Gus stepped to leave.
But before a stride, Zoey raised a hand: "Hold up, hero."
Quick!
Gus snapped back like in boot camp, pivoting to Zoey:
"What's good?"
"Ahem," Zoey snapped her fingers:
"Your roommate gig… gender rules?"
"Nah," Gus said:
"I'm a dude, long as they're not a hassle, it's cool."
"Work's light, I cook when projects aren't tight."
"Not gourmet, but I whip up chili, burgers, mac 'n' cheese, or grill steaks, salmon, mushroom soup."
"Oh, and I dig spicy. Sometimes do a hot wing challenge at home…"
Zoey fought a grin at Gus's spiel.
But "hot wing challenge" broke her—she faceplanted into the blanket, shaking with muffled laughter.
Gus, spooked: "You okay…?"
"I… haha, ugh… still feelin' rough, heh…"
Zoey, curled up, pinched her thigh to not cackle:
"How 'bout… keep it in-house, solve supply-demand internally?"
"Hmm—"
Gus turned, hid a smirk, nodded:
"Solid plan. Company folks are known quantities, works out."
Zoey, suppressing her grin, looked up, eyes sparkling: "So…"
Gus raised a brow: "So…"
Zoey nodded: "So…"
Gus nodded: "Then tell Chloe I'm stoked to room with her. Makes the commute easier."
"Gus Harper, you jerk!"
Zoey kicked at him.
This guy's too much!
Gus, ready, dodged:
"Hey—missed! Hahaha… kiddin'."
"I'll kick your ass!"
Zoey doubled down, unleashing a flurry of kicks:
"Sick or not, I'll purge this evil for the people. Die—!"
Thud!
Gus, quick, grabbed her tiny foot in one hand:
"Price goin' up?"
Warmth from Gus's palm sent a tingle through Zoey, heart itching:
"You… takin' advantage of the sick! Not cool!"
"Nope," Gus corrected: "Market-driven price shift."
"Then… let go…"
"Rip that photo off the pillow first…"
"…I'll ditch the photo."
"…I'm lettin' go."
They locked eyes two seconds, shook hands, nodded solemnly:
"Happy renting, you freak."
…
"What a freak! Damn! Even I, a freak, think Gus is a freak…"
Next morning!
Gus hit WindyPeak's project department door, catching Lucas "Luke" Brent's voice inside.
Luke finished, others chimed in—
"Yeah, our director's a total freak."
"Straight-up wild."
"Perverted enough already. Bet the gaming world's callin' Gus a freak soon."
"Hiss—next-level freak—"
'Brother Harper's bold…'
Huh???
Gus froze at the door, gut-punched!
Good news stays quiet, bad news flies?
Zoey too!
How's her mouth so fast?
Home recovering, but gossip beat her to work?
These guys too!
Project team's mostly dudes—why so chatty?
Gus's face hardened, shoved the door open!
"What's wrong with a foot thing? Why's that freaky?"
"A gentleman lusts but keeps it chill; feels deep but stays proper."
"Lord Byron wrote, 'Her feet beneath her petticoat, like little mice, stole in and out!'"
"Even Whitman said, 'The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections!'"
"Why'm I a freak? Huh? How's this different from likin' legs or hands?"
"You're judgin' me with bias, treatin' me unfair!"
Silence.
Dead silence!
Office so quiet, you'd hear a pin drop!
All eyes on Gus, shocked!
Seeing their faces, Gus coughed:
"Hey—why the stares? I ain't Tarantino, but I'm a big deal in gaming, right? Can't have a quirk?"
"…Sure… it's fine. We're grown, everyone's got their thing…"
Luke, recovering, spoke:
"But, uh…"
"We weren't talkin' quirks, were we?"
Gus: ???
Luke shrugged, awkward but polite smile:
"We were on the TTF spin-off. You mentioned 'exclusive skills' for single-weapon combat?"
"Just discussin' that…"
"Team thinks it's risky for the market, but industry-wise, it's wild. Done right, it could shake up FPS gameplay. Crazy tough concept…"
"…Not about quirks."
Silence.
Silence is WindyPeak today.
Gus eyed Luke, the team, everyone.
Ha.
Awkward laugh.
Nodded:
"Cool, I'm gonna go die now. Y'all chat."
Click.
Door shut, murmurs and chuckles spilled out—
"Hiss—Gus really offin' himself from shame?"
"Always said Gus was too perfect, almost fake…"
"For real, he gets the market, players, games. Artist among designers…"
"Artists got quirks, like Tarantino."
"Gus's quirk ain't as wild as Quentin's."
"Don't worry, freak vibes grow slow."
'Still admire the director.'
"Who doesn't have a thing?"
"Rare to shout it like that, though."
'Brother Harper's real!'
"As expected of the Director…"
Gus closed his eyes, despairing, hearing a crack of his rep shattering.
Lifetime cred—gone in a flash!
Brother's dignity—
Smashed!