Sheldon Cooper was many things—predictable, rigid, allergically consistent—but he was not someone who negotiated his weekly timetable.
Which is why Penny Teller felt her stomach tie itself into a sailor's knot as she approached him outside the apartment, hands wringing, heart thudding.
"Hey, sweetie," she said lightly. "So… I need to talk to you about Wednesday night."
Sheldon paused mid–key insertion, eyes narrowing.
"Wednesday night is Halo Night. Preceded by pizza. Preceded by the weekly sweeping of the living room. Preceded by my 6:15 hygiene cycle."
"I know," Penny said, trying to smile without sweating through the drywall. "But the Cheesecake Factory asked me to come in for a short shift—"
"No."
He said it instantly.
Like a reflex.
Like breathing.
Penny sighed. "Sheldon—"
"Penny, I cannot simply rearrange Halo Night. It occupies a precise temporal slot. You wouldn't suggest relocating Christmas to April."
"Well actually," she said carefully, "some cultures—"
"No," he repeated firmly, clutching his messenger bag strap with both hands. "I require stability."
"I know," she said again, softer.
And that softened him.
Just slightly.
Barely.
But she saw it.
"You don't even have to move the whole night," Penny continued. "Just… shift it by an hour? Or—God forbid—play without me this week?"
Sheldon looked properly scandalized at that.
"Don't be absurd. Your competitive recklessness provides necessary stimulation to my prefrontal cortex. Without your improbable kill ratio, the game is simply not balanced."
Penny blinked. "…thank you?"
He took a long, excruciating breath.
Then exhaled through his nose like he was preparing for surgery.
"Very well," he declared. "We will shift Halo Night by exactly one hour."
Penny gaped. "Really?"
"Under protest," he clarified. "Severe protest. But yes."
She smiled so wide it almost hurt.
Across the hall, Leonard, Raj, and Howard all watched the exchange over the railing with stunned expressions.
Howard whispered, "Dude. She just patched his schedule firmware."
Raj: "Sheldon doesn't bend. He breaks other people."
Leonard stared at Penny, eyes narrowing with dawning comprehension.
"Oh my God," he said, "he actually likes her."
---
Later that night, Penny was sprawled on her bed surrounded by sketches, production notes, and a horrifying invoice from the small print shop.
The limited-run print of Issue #2 was almost ready.
…and if the first issue caused a tiny buzz, this one would cause at least a medium buzz.
Which meant more eyes.
More speculation.
More risk of discovery.
"Ugggggh," she groaned into her pillow.
[SYSTEM NOTICE: User anxiety spike. Suggested Action: controlled breathing.]
"No," she muttered. "Suggested action: stop being a coward."
But the truth was, she liked being Elisabet.
The anonymity.
The creative freedom.
The safety.
The distance.
And right now, that distance felt like it was shrinking.
Subconsciously she heard tell tale knocks and automatic she said, 'Come in.' Before jumping up as soon as she realized what she did.
Sheldon stood studying a page left out on her desk.
A penciled panel.
Sentinel standing at a star-map table, one hand hovering over a holographic constellation, eyes sharp and thoughtful.
Sheldon tilted his head.
"Hm."
Penny shot upright. "NONONONO—don't look at—!"
"Penny," he said, pointing at the sheet, "this gesture—Sentinel's hand posture. It is extremely specific. Identical to the way I position mine when analyzing orbital trajectories."
Her soul briefly vacated her body.
"Oh? Really? Wow! Crazy coincidence!"
"It is not a coincidence," he said calmly.
Penny's heart skidded to a stop.
He looked at her—not accusingly, but with an oddly… quiet, considering gaze.
"I believe this artist studies people very carefully," he continued. "It is a sign of empathy mixed with strong pattern recognition. Rare traits in combination."
Sheldon sweet Sheldon wasn't saying she was the artist, even now...with the proof before him. He was waiting for her to be ready to tell him.
Penny swallowed hard. "Must be a really observant artist."
Sheldon nodded once.
"That is my hypothesis."
She waited for him to finally tell her he knew.
He didn't.
He simply left, humming, "Soft Kitty" under his breath like a man thinking deeply.
It was almost worse.
---
Penny dropped by Stuart's the next afternoon, trying desperately to act normal.
She made it five steps past the register before he stepped into her path.
"Penny."
She froze. "Stuart."
"You and I need to talk."
About ten thousand internal alarms went off at once.
"Wh—about what?"
He gestured to the back office.
"It'll just take a minute."
She followed him in, heart jackhammering.
"Okay…" she said. "You're scaring me, Stuart."
He held up a stack of twenty beautifully printed copies of Starfall Valkyrie — Issue #1, each with a blank space on the inside cover.
"I want you to sign these."
Penny's stomach dropped into her shoes.
"…I—I can't."
But Stuart just smiled gently, in that particular way artists recognized immediately in one another.
"Penny," he said softly, "I sell comics for a living. I can spot brush lines. I can spot style consistency. I can spot nervous twitchy guilt from a mile away."
She stared at him in horror.
"You know," she whispered.
"I didn't," he admitted. "Not until you said that."
Penny covered her face with both hands.
"Oh my God."
He chuckled. "Your secret is safe. But listen—people love your work. And your next limited print run is coming in soon. If you want them signed… it'll make the release special. And it'll make you proud."
She trembled.
"But… what if people figure it out? What if they find out it's me?"
Stuart shrugged gently.
"Then they find out it's a badass woman who writes good comics. And that's not exactly a tragedy."
Penny exhaled shakily.
"No pressure," he added. "Just… think about it."
But she already knew she would.
For Sheldon.
For herself.
For the future she hadn't dared imagine until she began drawing again.