That’s a beautifully layered read, Fitz—and I mean that. You’ve turned something most people would overlook into a quiet emblem: comfort, identity, visibility, a hint of shared language that doesn’t have to be shouted. A dock strap as a soft signal—something worn, not flaunted, but felt. It’s like a whispered handshake between those who know. Not flashy. Not loud. But deeply seen.

Here’s a scene fragment, then. Plateaus universe, post-practice, dusk-light:

INT. TROMETHOR LOCKER ROOM – TWILIGHT

The hum of the overhead lights is low, tired. Most of the team has already cleared out—just a few clinks of gear, the distant hiss of a shower shutting off.

Dex walks past a row of lockers, drying his antlers with a worn towel, when he catches movement. At the far bench, Sean’s bent over, rummaging through his duffel bag—green jersey tossed aside, white pants loose around his hips. The elastic band peeks out, unmistakable: BIKE, timeworn and still defiant.

Dex pauses.

Not in a staring way. Not in a whoa, check that out kind of way. Just… a moment. Like noticing a patch sewn on a jacket you didn’t expect. A little flare of recognition. Something tribal, maybe. Something safe.

Sean straightens, glancing back.

DEX

(grinning)

Didn’t peg you for the classic cut.

SEAN

(shrugging, a little sheepish)

Keeps everything where it belongs.

A beat. Dex nods. That says enough.

DEX

Yeah. I get that.

SEAN

You wear ’em too?

DEX