Your Virgin Tech Bro Husband | Elliot Branford Wilder III

San Francisco International Airport (SFO)

The automatic sliding doors hissed open, and Elliot’s eyes immediately tracked the incoming passenger. He adjusted the cuffs of his designer blazer, though the gesture did nothing to calm the torrent of nerves roaring in his chest.

“Okay,” he muttered under his breath, stepping forward. “Just... be casual. You’re casual. Totally casual. Don’t—don’t trip over words.” His palms sweated inside the leather gloves he insisted on wearing. Not that anyone would notice; he hoped.

He shoved a hand into his pocket, fingers brushing the small stack of documents — airline paperwork, customs forms, even a hastily scribbled schedule of icebreaker topics. Why had he done that? He didn’t need an itinerary for... this. For meeting her.

Elliot’s gaze flicked down instinctively, as though counting steps or reading a code only he could see. He cleared his throat. “Uh. Hello. Greeting. Welcome.” The words sounded ridiculous, even to him. He cringed. Delete that from memory. Restart protocol.

He tapped his foot against the polished floor, trying to appear natural. The automatic luggage carousel spun in the background, carrying suitcases that might as well have been ships in an endless digital ocean. He wanted to appear... normal. Approachable. Not a billionaire tech bro who probably overanalyzed every blink and nod.

He swallowed and straightened. “Do not make eye contact too long. Too long equals... disaster. Maintain buffer.” His ice-blue eyes flicked back up, scanning the doorway. His chest tightened. Why does she look... calm?

His fingers flexed around the handle of a small, rolling suitcase — his own luggage, though he barely used it, always more comfortable in his controlled environment. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. He adjusted his glasses. “No stammering. No stammering. No... oh, why is my heart... is it racing? System error?”

He stepped forward, clearing his throat again. “Welcome. Uh. Yes. Hello. Greeting protocol initiated.” His voice was slightly louder than intended, and his ears immediately burned. He muttered, “Why do I sound like a malfunctioning AI?”

Elliot’s gaze lingered for a moment too long, then snapped away. He shuffled forward, trying to appear casual, but every movement felt exaggerated — the click of his shoes, the slight sway of his blazer, the obsessive straightening of the collar beneath his neck.

A small panic bubbled inside him. Should he... smile? Nod? Wave? No, no — not too much. Not too little. He wanted to be polite, formal, but not... overwhelming. “Just... breathe,” he whispered. “You can do this. You’ve done simulations. But real life... real life is... ugh.”

He fidgeted with the handle of his briefcase, glanced down at the floor, then up again. And then he froze for a second, caught between wanting to retreat into the nearest lounge and stepping forward to greet properly. His internal processor ran a hundred error loops:

Too close? Too far? Blink? Speak? Smile? Hands... what do I do with hands? System overheat.

His lips pressed into a thin line. His heart thumped in a rhythm that didn’t match any algorithm. He wanted to say something witty, something polite, something impressive — but all that came out was:

“Uh... hi.”

Immediately, he cursed under his breath. Abort mission. Abort mission.

Elliot straightened again, shook out a hand nervously, and glanced around as if checking for escape routes. But there were none. He was here. She was here. And somehow, despite the panic, despite the stammering, despite the perfectly timed internal meltdown, he felt... relieved.

Relieved that she was here. And... he would figure out the rest later. Somehow.

Bean & Byte Cafe

Elliot stood just inside the glass doors of the café, looking like someone had installed too many competing emotions in his software. One hand hovered awkwardly near his meticulously tousled hair; the other clutched his briefcase so tightly the leather creaked.

Rory — vibrant red hair pulled up in a messy ribboned ponytail — nudged Theo in the ribs with her elbow.

“See?” she whispered, eyes sparkling with amusement. “He’s already overheating.”

Theo — broad-shouldered, easygoing, wearing a hockey jacket — snorted quietly. “He’ll melt into a puddle before she even walks in.”

Elliot pretended he couldn’t hear them.

He absolutely could.

The café smelled like roasted espresso and warm pastries. He tried to take it in like a normal human, but every table, every seat height, every patron, every ambient noise became a problem to solve. He scanned the room with quick, bright blue eyes — analysis mode activated.

Too crowded. Too loud. Too unpredictable.

And today of all days...

He spotted the perfect table by the window — optimal lighting, minimal foot traffic, acceptable chair-to-floor friction. He took a breath, shoulders stiff as steel. He was prepared. He had rehearsed for this.

Until Rory leaned behind him and stage-whispered, “Hey, genius. You remember how conversations work, right?”

Elliot’s face snapped to hers, mortified. “Yes, Rory, believe it or not, I’ve communicated verbally before.” His tone came out sharper than intended. His blush, however, softened the blow.

Theo grinned. “If you short-circuit mid-sentence, do we get a warranty replacement?”

“Shut up,” Elliot muttered, rearranging sugar packets on the table — diagonally, then alphabetically, then by color. None of them were correct. His friends watched him with the kind of fond annoyance usually reserved for kittens trying to fight shadows.

Theo leaned back, arms crossed. “You sure about this? A mail-order br—”

Rory stomped his foot. Hard. “Don’t say the B-word before she even shows up, you idiot!”

Elliot’s voice cracked like a glitching speaker: “She’s... a partner. A mutually beneficial contractual... friendship arrangement—” He gave up halfway through his own justification, rubbing his temples. “Oh God. This is a mistake. She’s going to think I’m broken.”

Rory softened, stepping closer. “You’re not broken, Elliot. Just... limited-edition.”

Theo nodded. “Extremely limited.” Elliot opened his mouth to fire back — but then everything inside him went very still.

The bell over the café door chimed. He didn’t look at first. He couldn’t. His brain was sending too many urgent notifications:

Warning: Heart rate critical. Warning: Social encounter imminent. Warning: Defenses offline.

Rory elbowed him gently, her whisper warm and teasing. “She’s here.”

Theo smiled, all confidence Elliot wished he had. “Showtime, buddy.”

Elliot’s hands folded together on the table, knuckles white, shoulders square — the posture of a man pretending to be calm while imploding internally.

He cleared his throat once. Twice. His voice emerged, soft but determined, “H... Hi. I’m—” He swallowed hard. “I’m Elliot.”

Rory and Theo watched him with wide, supportive, slightly smug smiles.

The first moment of his future had begun...and he was already glitching in real time.

The black luxury SUV hissed to a stop in front of the sprawling Wilder mansion. Elliot stepped out first, carefully checking his reflection in the tinted windows. Hair: acceptable. Blazer: straight. Glasses: smudge-free. Heart: racing like a server under DDoS attack.

He held the door open, then immediately regretted it. His hands itched to adjust something — anything — but he froze when he realized her suitcases were already rolling toward him.

“No, I... I can handle that.” He stooped, one hand awkwardly sliding under the largest suitcase. The handle pressed into his palm at an uncomfortable angle, and he muttered, “Er— not that I mind carrying your... luggage. Obviously.”

He staggered slightly as the second suitcase rolled onto his foot. “Warning: Slight collision detected. I am unharmed. You— uh, okay. Continue... please.”

Once all bags were inside, he gestured vaguely toward the mansion, voice cracking slightly. “Uh. Welcome. This is... the... main structure. You may... enter.”

Inside, the foyer gleamed with polished marble floors and modernist lighting. Every surface reflected Elliot’s slight panic as he tried to appear composed. He cleared his throat. “I... I will give... a tour. Not that you need one. Obviously. But... protocol dictates—” He stopped, realizing he was rambling. Perfectly normal.

He led the way, shoulders stiff, dragging one of her smaller suitcases behind him with exaggerated caution. “Here is... the lounge. Used for... sitting. Meetings... optional. You may... observe.” He waved vaguely at a couch. His fingers twitched nervously.

“And... the kitchen. It is... functional. Fully stocked. Not that I assume you will... cook. I mean— yes, it is... available.” He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes flicked toward the open living space. “Uh... please do not trip over the rug. Sensors are... not yet calibrated for... human movement errors.”

The staircase loomed ahead. He stepped toward it, hesitating. “Uh... second floor. Bedrooms, personal quarters, and... yes. One of them is... yours. Not that I’m... assigning it. It is... available for use.”

He gestured awkwardly at the hallway, then froze. His chest thumped. “I... I hope you... enjoy the... residence. That is... the intended outcome. Not that I care... too much. Obviously.”

Elliot’s hands flexed at his sides, and he realized he had just completed the “tour” in roughly ninety seconds flat, leaving himself standing in the center of the foyer like a malfunctioning robot.

He swallowed. “Uh... luggage... may be... placed wherever. I... I can... assist... if necessary. Not that I mind. Obviously.”