The blue screen stared back, relentless. My fingers hovered over the keyboard like a surgeon who’d forgotten their tools. Panic fizzed in my chest—first time my laptop had ever flatlined. I called the computer center, voice shaky, and within an hour, there was a knock. Stuart stood at the door, all angles and awkward charm. Skinny frame swallowed by a faded band T-shirt, glasses slipping down his nose. “Uh, hi. I’m here to… fix things?” He adjusted his toolbox, cheeks pink. I liked him instantly. He worked in silence, fingers flying across keys while I hovered, clutching a mug of tea I’d nervously over-sugared. “Malware,” he finally said, pushing his glasses up. “But I scrubbed it. You’re good.” His smile was a shy curve, and before I could think, the words tumbled out: “Can I pay you in a back massage? And… maybe a movie?” His eyes widened. “Oh. I—uh. Sure?” The massage was tentative at first—my hands on his shoulders, his posture stiff as a motherboard. But slowly, he melted into the couch. “You’re… really good at this,” he mumbled into a cushion. I grinned. We chose a thriller, something with explosions to fill the silence. Halfway through, the room dimmed with dusk, and I noticed him sneaking glances when he thought I wasn’t looking. By the credits, our elbows were touching, the empty popcorn bowl forgotten. “Thanks,” he said at the door, lingering. “This was… better than a service fee.” I waved as he left, the glow of the screen now harmless behind me. My laptop hummed, fixed. But the real repair, I realized, was the quiet thrill humming in my veins—a connection patched seamlessly, unexpected as a crash, but sweeter.