ghostytypewriter

[ghostytypewriter]

Chapter 4: Lip Gloss & Power Plays

We take the second shot in tandem—glass clinks, mutual grimace, and then an immediate reach for sushi. I grab a piece that’s swimming in too much wasabi and nearly cry, fanning my mouth while he howls at me.

“You do this every time,” he says, wheezing through his own spicy regret.

“Tradition,” I gasp, chasing it with water like it’ll undo my poor decisions.

Before I can recover, he strolls over to the speaker and hits play. Chapple Roan fills the room with glitter and grit, the opening synths a jolt of electricity straight to my spine. I groan playfully. “You’re trying to get me in the mood to dance before we’ve even left.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Just setting the tone.” 

It works. I’m moving almost on instinct, hips swaying as I cross the room to my cupboard. The second shot seemed to be getting to me. He plants himself behind me on the bed, a self-appointed fashion judge, arms crossed and grin smug. I rifle through my options, holding up pieces to the mirror.

“Too cold for this dress?” I ask, dangling a silky black number in the air.

“Mmm,” he hums noncommittally, “ehhh”

“Fair,” I mutter. “Too warm for sleeves?”

“Depends. Are you aiming for ‘casual chaos’ or ‘main character energy’?”

I finally settled on a grey cropped tank, broken-in jeans, and my black bomber jacket. I hold it out in front of me like a fashion exhibit. He gives a slow, deliberate thumbs-up.

“Fits the vibe,” he says. “You look like someone who might start a bar fight and then win it with charm.”

I nod once in agreement, satisfied, and start to change. He gets up to fill Scruffy’s bowls, muttering a little goodnight to the cat, then grabs his wallet and—without asking—my ID. I roll my eyes affectionately. He always insists on carrying it “in case you get distracted again and leave your entire bag in the booth.”

As I lean toward the mirror to finish my makeup, he walks back in and plants his chin on top of mine from behind. His weight is warm, grounding, and very much in the way.

“Babe,” I warn, trying not to smear my eyeliner.

“What? I’m helping,” he mumbles into my hair, mussing it slightly.

As I finish applying my cherry-glossed lips, he meets my gaze in the mirror, eyes dark and full of mischief. Before I can say anything, he spins me around, grabs my face in both hands, and kisses me—biting gently at my bottom lip, sucking it between his with just enough pressure to make me forget how to breathe.

He pulls back, smug. “Yum. Cherry.”

My brain short-circuits. I stutter, heat rising to my cheeks. “Y-you—”

“Me?” he says, already stepping back with the swagger of a man who thinks he’s won.

Nope. Not tonight.

Heady from the drinks, and with newly acquired confidence- I grab him by the belt loop and yank him close, lips brushing the shell of his ear. I feel his breath catch. Good.

I let my fingers skim down to his sternum, drawing lazy circles, watching his pupils dilate. Then I bite lightly across his chin, kissing down his jaw, inching lower until—

Slip.

My lip gloss is now in his jacket pocket. I pat it once, smirking up at him.

“Hold that for me, cherry thief,” I whisper.

He freezes, mouth parted, unsure if he should grin or combust. I walk off, brushing past him casually like I didn’t just hijack the upper hand. His laugh rumbles out a moment later—deep and delighted—and I hear it follow me down the hallway like a bow on a very well-played game.

Game, set, lip gloss.

We were finally ready—cat fed, playlist loaded, keys in hand. He slung the rest of the tequila into a tote, tucked under his arm alongside the leftover snacks from the store: seaweed crisps, strawberry Pocky, a bag of Cheetos and some rogue rice crackers that had broken loose in the bottom of the bag. I grabbed my lip gloss from his pocket on the way out, just to make a point, and he grinned like I’d just kissed him again.

The air outside had settled into that soft, humming kind of night where everything feels just on the edge of something good. Our footsteps echoed quietly against the pavement as we walked the short distance across the complex toward our friends’ place. More lights were on now, the promise of the weekend pulsing behind half-open windows. Music floated from somewhere above, and we passed a couple we recognized from game night a few weeks ago, arms full of seltzers and smiles.

By the time we reached Tara’s door, we weren’t alone. Two more friends had caught up with us—Liv in an oversized flannel and hoops big enough to signal air traffic, and Kevin balancing a speaker and his infamous bottle of “experimental punch.”

I knocked twice and pushed the door open to the usual chaos: outfits scattered like breadcrumbs, someone straightening someone else’s hair in the hallway, a pair of boots flying across the room in search of their match. The pre-party was alive and still in its larval form—everyone mid-transformation.

I stepped over a duffle bag, raised the tote above my head, and grinned.

“We come bearing gifts and reparations,” I declared.

A chorus of cheers met us. Someone yelled “Tequila!!” like a battle cry, and another person immediately started digging through the bag for snacks.

He leaned in close, whispering, “Look at you. Forgiven before the first shot.”

I shrugged, smug. “Told you. They miss the snacks.”

He laughed, tugged me into the glow of the living room, and just like that, we dissolved into the tangle of half-dressed friends, buzzing speakers, and warm yellow light. The night had only just begun.

[ghostytypewriter]

Chapter 3: Pregame Rituals

By the time we reached our building, my legs ached, the kind of tired that came from more than just pedaling. But it was the good kind. He opened the door with the back of his hand while still holding all our bags, and I heard the familiar meow echo through the hallway.

“Home,” he muttered.

Our apartment was dim and cozy, half-lit by the yellow light above the kitchen sink. My cat, clearly offended by our delayed arrival, pounced at my socks in protest. I knelt to give her a scratch behind the ears while he set the bags down and unpacked the pantry offerings with surgical precision. I watched him place each item where it belonged—rice here, snacks there, drinks in the fridge—like he’d been doing this his whole life.

Without missing a beat, he pulled out two shot glasses and that cursed bottle of tequila, setting them on the counter with a flourish. “Pregame for two,” he declared. “Sushi and shots.”

I wrinkled my nose. “You know how I feel about tequila.”

He just laughed, eyes bright. “We’ll get you a fruity cocktail later, princess. 

I stomped over dramatically, the barstool squeaking as I wedged myself between his legs, took the bottle, and tilted it back. It burned, instantly. I made a face so contorted it could've won awards, and he burst into laughter.

“God, you're cute when you're suffering,” he said, before pulling me into his lap like I weighed nothing. A piece of sushi hovered in front of me, his fingers nimble, his expression smug.

“You know the rules, babe,” he said. “Food first. Knowing you, this is probably the first thing you’ve eaten since that tragic little yogurt cup this morning.”

He wasn’t wrong. I sighed in mock defeat and leaned forward, letting the sushi brush against my lips. As I chewed, he kissed my temple, and for a second—right there on that stool with his arms around me, my cat watching like a tiny judgmental chaperone, and the hum of pre-party chaos rising faintly from the street below—I remembered what it meant to feel full in every sense.

Tonight, there’d be trivia and tangled arms and someone yelling too loud over nothing important. But for now, it was just us.

I tilted my head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his fingertips lightly circling my knee—lazy, rhythmic, and just grounding enough to keep me from floating off into the hum of comfort. The tequila buzz was settling in, all soft edges and low laughter, and the sushi tray sat between us, already missing half its contents.

“So,” I said, mouth half-full, “what did you end up doing at the lab today? Did you finally figure out what was up with that reaction that smelled like a tire fire?”

He gave a low chuckle, leaned his chin against the top of my head. “Not quite. It still smells like the end of days, but we did get some decent data. Dr. Ramesh thinks it’s the catalyst degrading, but—”

“Wait—didn’t you say last week it was probably that weird contaminated sample from the undergrad who sneezed into the hood?”

He grinned. “Exactly. But of course, no one believes me. I’m just a humble assistant with functioning nostrils.”

I snorted. “Justice for your nose.”

He laughed, and then his tone shifted into something more mischievous. “Oh, and speaking of strange happenings,” he began, the hand that had been tracing patterns on my knee now idly curling a strand of my hair around his finger. “Guess who was very publicly dumped at the front desk of the gym today?”

I gasped, already wide-eyed. “No.”

“Oh yes,” he said, lowering his voice like we were huddled under a fort made of gossip and old blankets. “The guy who works reception—you know, the one who always tries to guess your major based on your water bottle brand—was in full witness mode. Apparently, he pretended to be on a call the whole time but left his Bluetooth speaker on.”

I gasped again. “No! Who was it? What happened? Were there tears? Was it dramatic? Was there a scene?”

“Yes. Yes. Kind of. And absolutely,” he said smugly, clearly savoring every second. “So this couple walks in—looks normal, right? She’s holding a smoothie, he’s holding the door. They go straight to the counter. Then she just… sets the smoothie down like it’s her resignation letter and says, and I quote, ‘You care more about your protein intake than my emotional needs.’”

I was practically vibrating. “That’s poetry. That’s performance art. What did he say?”

“He blinked. Just blinked. And then said, ‘That’s not fair, I offered to share my creatine.’”

I lost it, laughing so hard I had to set down the soy sauce bottle before I knocked it off the counter. “That’s the most gym guy breakup I’ve ever heard.”

“There’s more.”

“Tell me everything,” I whispered, fully curled into his chest now, like I could absorb the story through osmosis.

He kept playing with my hair, voice slow and dramatic, dragging it out like a bedtime story with scandalous cliffhangers. “The receptionist said the smoothie was acai, and she left it behind. He drank it after they left.”

“No,” I said, clutching his hoodie. “That’s evidence.”

“That’s a snack,” he corrected.

Just then, my phone buzzed against the counter, breaking through our giggly haze. I blinked down at it, recognizing the chaos before I even unlocked it—the group chat.

A new message had just come in from Tara:

9:30 meet-up at mine. Then the New f st brewery. Apparently it's good vibes. Then we hit The Street for Liv groupmates’s roommate’s DJ set at midnight. Let’s not be late this time, people.

A chorus of thumbs-up and gifs followed instantly. My phone kept buzzing with reactions—someone had already dropped a selfie of their outfit and another had started a poll for shot choices.

I turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “F st, huh?”

He nodded, still smiling. “Finally something new. And Liv’s someone’ someone is playing tonight?”

“Yep,” I said, tossing my phone aside. “We’ve got about an hour.”

He nudged his nose against my cheek. “That’s enough time.”

“For what?”

“For more sushi. And maybe one more shot… if you don’t make that face again.”

I smirked. “No promises.”

He leaned in and whispered, “But you’ll still go, right? Even if you’re tired?”

I paused, looking at the cozy disaster of our kitchen, our cat now sprawled out like a puddle of judgmental fluff, the empty bottle winking at me from the counter.

I kissed his cheek. “Only if you promise to dance with me.”

“Always,” he said, already reaching for my cardigan.

[ghostytypewriter]

Chapter 2: The Aisle of Quiet Things

Inside, the Asian market was a pocket of warmth and fluorescent light. The bell above the door gave a half-hearted jingle as I stepped in. The store clerk looked up from his newspaper, gave me a small nod and that same amused smile he always wore, like he was in on some quiet secret about me. Maybe he was. Maybe anyone who’s seen you at your worst—sleep-deprived, sweatpants-wearing, ramen-grabbing worst—knows more than they let on.

I didn’t linger. I didn’t need to. I walked straight to the back, weaving past towers of Pocky boxes and rows of instant udon. And there he was.

Exactly where I knew he’d be.

Bent slightly forward, thumb grazing his chin, eyes narrowed at the mochi shelf as if this time he might actually consider something other than the green tea one. He wouldn’t. He never did. He knew what I liked.

I crept up, silent as I could, until I was close enough to breathe in the faint mix of his cologne and the freezer’s faint chill. Then—tap. One finger to his shoulder.

He turned fast, startled for only a beat before his face softened into that open, quiet smile he saved just for me. “There’s my hardworking girl,” he said, voice low and warm, and then pulled me into his chest like he could squeeze all the tired out of me.

I didn’t even fight it. Didn’t need to. I sank into him, head tilted just beneath his chin, feeling his hands press steady against my back. His fingers found a loose strand of hair and tucked it gently behind my ear—an old habit, like punctuation on a sentence only we knew.

He shifted slightly, arms still around me, positioning me between the shelves as if we had all the time in the world. He glanced at the green tea mochi again, then down at me.

“Same old?” he asked.

I looked up at him, caught the glint of mischief behind the softness. “Yes, please.”

He reached over my head, plucked the box down like it was second nature, and dropped it into the basket with a little flourish. I rolled my eyes playfully.

We stood there for a second, both not moving, like the world had momentarily agreed to pause just for us. The hum of the refrigerators. The flicker of a ceiling light. The soft crinkle of a plastic wrapper being opened somewhere in the next aisle.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, brushing his hand down my arm.

“You’re warm,” I replied, leaning in just a little more.

He kissed the top of my head, and I closed my eyes for a breath. In a world that spun too fast, this moment—between fluorescent lights and freezer shelves—felt like the safest kind of still.

“I got you,” he whispered.

And for once, I let myself believe it.

As we left the store, our shadows stretched long under the orange glow of the streetlights, dancing on cracked pavement and half-faded chalk drawings from someone's afternoon. The bag in his hand swung gently between us, full of tiny joys—wasabi peas, rice crackers, and, of course, my green tea mochi. He joked about them melting before we even made it home, but his grip on the bag said otherwise.

I fiddled with my bike lock, fingers clumsy from the cold, when he suddenly plucked my backpack off the ground. I turned, halfway scolding, but he was already slinging it over one shoulder like it belonged to him. “I’ll carry it,” he said, like it wasn’t up for discussion.

And just like that, we fell into rhythm, the kind only two people who’ve grown into each other’s lives can find without trying. The sky behind us deepened into indigo, the last remnants of sunlight lost behind the skyline. Around the corner, the faint hum of a pre-party swelled—bass thumping through concrete and voices spilling out like a spillover laugh. The frat house was alive, and so was the town. The weekend had clocked in.

“We could skip,” I offered, side-eyeing him as we passed a group hauling cases of beer up a staircase like ants on a mission.

“We could,” he echoed, “but…” He didn’t have to finish.

I sighed. “I know, I know. I’ve been ghosting the group lately. They’re getting dramatic about it.”

He smirked. “They miss you.”

“They miss the snacks I bring,” I corrected.

“Same thing.”

By the time we reached our building, my legs ached, the kind of tired that came from more than just pedaling. But it was the good kind. The full kind. He opened the door with the back of his hand while still holding all our bags, and I heard the familiar meow echo through the hallway.

“Home,” he muttered.

[ghostytypewriter]

Chapter 1: Just One More Class Been feeling some kind of way so just starting this story here

Sitting in the back of my Psych class, all I could think about was the clock finally striking that glorious 8 PM. It had been one of those days—four classes, two work shifts, and a club meeting squeezed in between. My brain was fried, barely holding onto the mental checklist of everything I’d dragged myself through. As the day crawled to a close, all I craved was the sweet relief of doing absolutely nothing. My blissful dreams of nothingness were pleasantly interrupted, my phone buzzed. I didn’t even have to look—I already knew who it was. 

"Sushi’s happening. You want dessert or should I surprise you? Don’t say no, you’ve earned it."

His texts always had this way of slicing through the noise in my head, like he knew the exact moment my energy hit empty. I stared at the screen, smiling like a fool in a mostly silent classroom.

"Tiramisu?" I typed back, my shoulders had suddenly relaxed, and I realized how hard I had been clenching my jaw all day. The relief was welcomed.

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

"Done. And I’m getting you that mochi too, because I know you’ll steal mine if I don’t."

I could’ve cried. Not from hunger (okay, maybe a little), but from that simple, stupidly sweet feeling of being thought of—even when I felt like a ghost floating through the chaos of the day. The clock ticked closer to 8, and suddenly, the finish line didn’t feel so far away. 

The class stirred as laptops clicked shut and chairs squeaked across the floor. I was already halfway out the door before the professor finished their final sentence—an act of mercy for myself and for the slow stampede of undergrads that was about to clog the exit.

I figured surprising him might be more fun than texting back again. Besides, I didn’t feel like heading straight home. A little detour felt right. I could walk my bike the rest of the way after. So I slipped past the rest of the class.

The night air brushed my skin the second I stepped out. Spring was just starting to settle in—chilly nights that still whispered of winter, even as the days warmed up. I had, like an idiot, worn a skirt that morning when the sun made promises it clearly didn’t intend to keep. As I swung my leg over the bike seat and started to pedal, the cold breeze grazed over my thighs, sharp and electric, like it was teasing me for my fashion choices.

Clairo's voice hummed low in my ears as I pushed off, "Juna", the notes soft and warm against the cool bite of the wind. I pulled my cardigan closer around my shoulders, tucking my chin into the collar as a shiver ran down my spine. The streets were quieter now, just a few scattered headlights and the buzz of the streetlights waking up. Above, the sky had melted into a dreamy mess of purple and blue—like someone had taken watercolors to it, then forgotten to stop.

It was the kind of sky that made everything feel like a movie, and for a minute, pedaling through the glow of spring twilight, I forgot about how exhausted I was. My legs moved slow, lazy, and I let the slow murmur of collegiate life drift by like background noise. I wasn’t rushing anymore.

As I coasted up to the storefront, the familiar neon signs flickered above me, casting a soft pink hue onto the sidewalk like a blush in the night. I parked my bike in the same spot I always did—right next to the rack with the crooked pole that looked like it had lost a fight with someone’s bumper—and clicked the lock shut with muscle memory.