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meownotgood · 9 months ago

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pillars. / viktor x gn!reader, fluff and angst, lots of angst actually, implied childhood friends, confession kisses, mentions of death, one singular czech pet name, kissing viktor's moles, takes place during s1 act 2, so technically no s2 spoilers but some things are implied. word count: 7.9k

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"You look exhausted," You hum, your voice thick with fatigue in unison, "Don't you think you should rest?"

Viktor takes a breath deep and slow enough to hear, his hands briefly faltering as he twirls a small, bronze magnifying glass with his fingers, but he doesn't reply, nor does he turn away from his notes.

The lab is cool, quiet — aside from the distant hum of various pressure valves and idle machinery. The Hexcore thrums. Runic engravings litter each complex, geometric surface. Viktor rests his balled-up hand on his face, bony knuckles pressing into his cheek. With his inkpen, he messily scrawls something into his notebook. Low, blue light illuminates the cluttered room and his workspace. Each side of the Hexcore pulses when you approach behind him, twirling to its own complex, ominous rhythm. Acknowledging you, somewhat.

Viktor inhales sharply, and shakes his head frustratedly, crossing out what he'd just written with jittery, forceful motions.

It wouldn't be the first time you've found him here, like this, mulling over some sort of invention or idea when most of the city is already asleep. Falling into a focused routine is merely second nature. And normally, you wouldn't protest.

When you were much, much younger, staying awake as long as you could felt fun. Helping Viktor cram studying for exams in between finishing an invention the night before Progress Day became a yearly occurrence. In the weeks before finalizing blueprints for the Hexgates, you'd almost forgotten when either of you had last seen the sun. It's just that this routine has been far more absorbing, far more taxing — and the repercussions are painted clearly on Viktor's shadowed face.

He looks drained. Worn. Like if he tried to stand, if he wasn't leaning against his desk and absorbed in his research, the weight of his own exhaustion might make him crumble and collapse. The ends of his hair stick out in messy, curled strands, from where he's anxiously twirled them around his fingers.

You hate the dark bags that have made their home under his eyes. You feel a knot in your gut as you watch Viktor's hands; shaky, and imprecise. Flipping through the pages of his notebook to search for something. Tracing a sentence with the end of his inkpen, only for his gaze to flicker back to the start when the words failed to register.

You sigh. Forcing a smile, even though he can't see it, you take another stumbling step forwards. Your arms wrap around his thin figure loosely, and your weight settles gently yet firmly against his hunched back, in something of a tender, evocative hug.

Viktor shifts, his grip tightens on his pen when it almost slips. You nuzzle into the perfect, head-shaped space at the crook of his neck, breathing him in — flooding your senses with a coffee-warm richness, with the scent of ash and sweat and lingering sparks.

His gaze softens like melted honey. As if the simple press of your body to his returned pieces to himself he'd thought he lost. Brows unpinching, your heat at his neck spreads across him in waves, contradicting the collected edge kept in his tone.

"I'm not yet tired," Viktor lies, trying his hardest not to lean into your embrace. "I'd like to analyze this for a few moments longer. This page is," He shakes his head. "Incomplete. If I could find the key to what induces some form of response, then-"

As if on queue, the Hexcore sparks with energy, twirling faster, glowing with luminous constellations. Viktor swiftly moves to jot something down, but as fast as the Hexcore reacted, it's just as quick to return to normalcy.

He mutters something under his breath, slightly jostling you from his shoulders when he leans forwards in focus.

"I swear," You're grumbling; you rest your chin on the hard edge of his shoulder, glancing between the Hexcore and his notes with passive interest. "You've always been like this."

"Like what?" Viktor flips through his notebook once more. "Stubborn, I'm assuming?"

"Stubborn, yes. Smart. Terribly ambitious." You reach up, until you're able to place a few taps onto his forehead with the end of your finger. Viktor barely seems to notice. He adds onto an almost-full page by messily writing in the margins.

"I know how hard it is for you to stop those gears in that brain of yours. Once they're going, it's impossible to get them to stop."

"Mm. And you know how important this pursuit is in particular, yes?"

He reaches for a notched turn dial on the opposite side of his desk, connected to the Hexcore by a series of braided wires and support poles. Your gaze follows his hands — gripping carefully, with delicate, calloused fingers. There's a distinct pause. A moment of palpable tension, as you both instinctively hold your breath.

Viktor twists the dial. Once, twice.

The Hexcore gives off a few miniscule, pitiful sparks, like a God's first attempt at a lightning storm. And he expels a long, drowsy, disappointed sigh.

"I do," You murmur, sympathetic.

Viktor grinds his jaw, hard enough to feel it aching, but even through his fierce familiarity with self-induced destruction, even though he isn't deserving of this, he can't hope to hold onto the ragged bites of stress in his veins. Not when you're so warm, when the feeling you ignite in his chest with your voice alone is so terribly soft. He has missed this.

"But I also know," You're continuing, "Every time you get close to a breakthrough, once you let yourself rest," Viktor's head nods sleepily, struggling not to fall, and you playfully tap your index finger to the end of his nose.

"That's when you find it."

Part of him wishes he could keep himself from listening. Of course, as strongly as he wants to be better and more efficient, because taking a break is like admitting defeat, and defeat is worse than accepting he might've reached the end of his line — he knows you're right.

Placing the cap on his pen, he leaves it in the middle of his notebook, closes the pages to save his spot before hastily, reluctantly pushing it aside.

You grin. You slowly shift up, and Viktor feels your arms sliding from his shoulders, your weight leaving his body. For a second, he thinks you might move, believes you'll leave and feels a sharp grind between his ribs at the thought. Instead, you place your palms on his rigid shoulders, and you squeeze.

His lashes flutter, eyes partially rolling into his skull. His head grows dizzy, like he'd been spun. Frustration melts out of him as warmth and light take its place, shining from your touch like the kiss of stars and the rays of the sun. Bright and lovely; galaxies weaving themselves into his tired muscles.

Relaxing, he can't help but lean back, dropping his head against your waiting chest.

"I saw Jayce before I left this morning," You're murmuring. It's in one ear, and out the other at first. You lean in, speaking close to him this time, to make sure you've been heard. Your voice shudders through him, warm like candle wax. "Says he hasn't seen you sleep in days."

"In one day," Viktor corrects, rather matter-of-fact for someone who's busy melting into you like his limbs are boneless. "Technically, about twenty- no, twenty two hours. More or less. Honestly… hardly worth the over-exaggeration."

"Vik," You scoff playfully, breath fanning warmly on his skin. "You're doing it again."

Your palms move. They drift from his shoulders to his arms, fingertips gently toying with his sleeves in a foolish attempt to touch his skin. He tilts his head all the way back, and cracks his weary eyes open to look at you.

"And what is it I'm doing?"

"Saying things that make me worry about you. And then expecting me not to."

"I am not-"

Right then, before he can speak, your hands return to his now-tensed shoulders; they combat the ache in his chest and the tightness in his throat when they roll his muscles. His chest thrums with a soothing gentleness, rich and saccharine, difficult to swallow down.

"You are worried about me?" Viktor questions, sighing slightly when your hands work out a particularly old, tightened knot. "I have not seen you in… who knows how many days. I have lost count."

Your mouth forms a hard line.

"I- I know," You're answering, hands drifting down smoothly, as if they're carried on waves. They find where his tie is neatly fastened around his collar, grasping the diamond and pulling to loosen it. "I've been trying not to get in your way. Everything is just- Jayce is a counselor now, and you're busy with a thousand different things. I'm not going to interrupt your work with my stupid-"

"Our work." Viktor's tone is resolute. It holds you, grounds you against the raging winds in your mind that threaten to pull at your pieces. "Hextech was furthered by your contributions. Do not forget that."

You swallow, but it does little to chase away the dryness in your throat. In a hasty, abrupt motion, your palm grasps Viktor's shoulder, this time twisting his chair to make him face you. He eyes you with surprise for a moment, his tired gaze tender and weak enough to light the shrapnel in your stomach.

"Viktor." Your head tilts, affectionate. You reach up, and brush away the messy strands of hair that cover his pretty face and tickle his forehead. "This research, this dream of yours, it's-"

"It is a necessary risk."

Gaze wide, you freeze up. Viktor exhales sharply, glances away from you to focus on something in the distance instead — messy shelves of discarded machinery, inventions you once worked on together, etched with your signature and his — because the way you're looking at him has an ache prodding at his heart, sharp and thorned.

"Finalizing this thesis would simply be the beginning," Viktor continues, passionate, gradually starting to talk with his hands. "Think of the lives we could save, of the good we could prosper from this sort of technology. Enough to improve the Undercity for the better, to provide rationale for the potential dangers. I understand you are worried- but this is our life's work we are talking about. If we were to determine the true limits of Hextech, it would make our efforts worth it, in spite of… even if…"

He stops, trails off. Glances up, and decides he might've said too much. You understand. You have always understood where all of this is going.

The lives he could change would be worth the price, even if he was to throw away his.

Tattered threads tear from within you — unspoken, buried deep. You've become well acquainted with the taste of denial. Sharp on your tongue, thick in your throat to meld with the bile. It sits on your lips as words better left unspoken. Eats away at your skin and your flesh and your core, settles in your limbs and at the tips of your useless fingers. Reverberates, until the ringing in your ears begins to sound like him.

Piltover feels so distant, with the idle noise of the lab filling the room. Miles away, even though you're right in its heart. Nothing has ever been fair. It cast you aside, it was never your home. He was.

All you've received for ages now are fake sentiments, vague reassurances. Reminders of how terribly futile your ambitions have proven to be. Every sun has to set, every star will burn out — but fuck, you don't want him to burn.

Your mind is dizzy. Each thought spins, tipped faster and faster. Light pounds from behind your eyelids, and your stomach churns, making you nauseous. The lines blur between Viktor's figure, the floor, and the dull aura of the Hexcore, beginning to overlap everything together.

You aren't present, or perhaps you're wishing to be anywhere but here. Curled beneath the covers, hiding under your bed like you did when you were a child, running to the furthest, broken edge of the universe so you wouldn't have to imagine him slipping through your fingertips; Viktor draws you back, grasping your chin oh-so gently. He tilts you towards him, puts your focus on him to push the rest of the world into the background.

"Though, I suppose there is no harm in stopping for the night," Viktor reasons, his tone a soft murmur, devastatingly gentle. "I have missed you. I believe I may have neglected to make myself clear."

And for a brief reprieve, there isn't anything sweeter. Nothing this fatal.

His arm braces behind him, elbow resting on the edge of the desk. You follow through when he gently keeps you in place, steady on his direction; you're a compass, and he's Polaris. Your gazes don't separate, magnetized together like a hex crystal to iron.

For a moment, he forms a small pout, in a way that would have you grinning if the circumstances were different. His expression ripens, becomes soft. Almost guilty. A plea and an apology and some form of a confession, muddled into one dangerous, indecipherable nebula.

"You sure?" You're muttering, trying to keep your tone upbeat, regardless. "Your project looks like it's itching to fly away."

"Eh," Viktor shrugs, he allows his thumb to brush over your cheek. "I'm sure it can wait. It understands I have more important things to focus on."

His touch makes you ache. Guides your sorrow to entwine with his, digs in deep to grasp at your chest with such devastating familiarity.

It's an excruciating reminder of how much you have craved this. How badly it hurts, to feel Viktor's hand tremble as he touches you, slightly unsure, when you wish he wouldn't be. Exhaustion is wound so deeply into his system, you'd think he was born with it. He brushes his palm from your cheek to your jaw, caressing idly, in an absent, lazy motion. And it frustrates you, because you know you'll soon be lost, wishing you could feel his touch again.

Every pound of your heart reminds you of everything — of the brushes of fingers, when passing tools and pens at the work table. Hands solidly grabbing one another to steady anxieties, to offer familiar reminders. Nights spent categorizing constellations, while in your eyes, Viktor's radiance burned brighter than any distant galaxy.

Gentle touches pressed to weary limbs. Tightening machinery, releasing the gears on a brace. An arm offered to help him stand. Instinctually standing beside him, at the side that might need you. Fingertips exploring the notches of a spine, traveling rivers of veins, mapping out star-shaped clusters of freckles.

Tired moments much like this, but instead of protests and strives against fate, there were lovely brushes of whispers. Twin dips in the same bed, murmurs of, I'm here, you can go back to sleep. Touches that wished for themselves to be something more, something lasting. Though they knew they'd evaporate by morning.

It's far too late to still rely on daydreams.

You let the haze die out, tracing the edges of his hard knuckles as an apology before you clumsily push his hand from your cheek. Standing up straight, the lab seeming more cold and quiet and empty than ever, you choose to put distance in between yourself, and your lost love.

"Sorry. I shouldn't-" Breathe, you've got to remind yourself to breathe. Air catches in your lungs, sharp and dizzy, and you quickly shake your head. "Viktor, I-"

Gods, Viktor shouldn't have to choose between you and his ambition. He shouldn't need to place his own body in the middle of making a difference, and saving himself. There's still so much you haven't done, haven't said. The life you both dreamed of and fought for is crumbling, he still has so much he was meant to accomplish, and yet —

A hand grabs your wrist with surprising force, to keep you from taking another step back.

Viktor's brows pinch. "Do not tell me you're thinking of leaving."

Oh. Your gaze finally travels up from your feet, and he looks hurt; his voice barely manages to avoid cracking around the edges. His fingers dig into your wrist sharply, desperately.

Viktor's jaw tightens, his firm grip causing veins to show in his wrist. Your shoulders slump, and you exhale.

"I'll walk home with you. You shouldn't sleep here, it's bad for your-"

"No, no you will not," Viktor interrupts, exasperation echoed through his tone, pain and worry laced through the lines of his palms to compel them to shake. "Tell me why you are refusing to stay. It's been weeks without change, why must you run off the moment I attempt to make time for you? I doubt you have any idea how much this torments me."

Weeks of avoidance, days upon days where he'd watch you disappear too soon. Viktor would turn, he'd say something to the empty air because he expected you to be there, but you would be gone, absent from the lab or the hallways or the dorm you once shared. Bitter sentimentality, the hurt you forgot to take with you, is all that would linger in his bones.

Just how far are you willing to run — in vain, until your legs might snap — to pretend you won't lose the only thing you have left, your friend, your partner, to imagine you might escape the certainty of his conclusion?

Your gaze is flighty. It carries raindrops, flutters on soft wings, between him and the intricate, statuette angles of his face. Between the ground and the desk, and the glowing Hexcore. He has rarely seen you so unsettled. When your emotions run high, you hide them from him; unsuccessfully, he might add. Your wrist flexes beneath his palm as he feels your hand clench, and unclench.

Little by little, you're tugging his heart from between his ribs. Tearing it apart like petals pulled, like the games you used to get lost in when you both were kids; you love him, you love him not —

"I can't stay. I wasn't- I shouldn't have tried to come back to the lab in the first place," You answer, dejected. His grip only tightens on your wrist when you pull. "Viktor, please."

"Answer me. I need you to say something," Viktor grits out, voice getting louder, his shoulders tensed with frustration. "What is the cause of this- this fracture in between us?"

Your arm drops. Your bottom lip quivers, and your breath gets caught in your lungs. The expression on your face is more sore than he's ever seen it, painful enough to kill, bordering on bursting into tears.

And then, your voice quiets. "I don't want to watch you die."

The Hexcore gives off a low, rumbling sound. The lab becomes quiet enough to hear the individual ticks of machinery gears.

Viktor's grip loosens on your wrist, only slightly. He doesn't speak, he can't listen to his heart or his head when he's placed between the persistent thrumming of both. You aren't looking at him. Regret dawns on your face, then sadness, then something he can't recognize when you turn your head away. Fatigue curls into his system, and settles amongst everything else: the guilt, the anticipation. The raw, forceful tenderness.

It's a reminder that you're right.

The passing of each slow second seems to exist for just the two of you. Dragging on and on. Barely helping him to find any answers. If only there was more time.

Words could never be enough, burying your emotions like lodging a knife way deep in your chest isn't working. Your partner was made to burn bright, to exist as an act of defiance itself. To dedicate his mind and his body and his bruised hands to progress, no matter the obstacles or limitations, the past grievances or untold emotions.

So many moments were never adequately spent. Days and weeks across years taunted you, moments spent as friends and colleagues, despite half of you belonging to him.

You just needed one push, one thrust into the light to stop you from holding back, because you knew you risked ruining everything. But if Viktor continues, if the Hexcore grows more and more dangerous, if the council continues to require more of him, and what you haven't spoken about becomes true — there won't be anything left to ruin.

And as he watches you collapse, firm on the outside but weak on the inside, turning back to him because you have to, not because you want to, Viktor finally understands.

He knows this body is… wilting.

Decaying; he can feel every ounce of newfound weakness in his limbs, knows he's a servant to his own existence as it waits for him to waste away. Many from the Undercity are much less fortunate. He is grateful you are stronger than him.

More pressingly, he is acutely, abruptly aware of how little time he's spent with you — it runs as fierce in his chest as the hourglass-shaped reminders of the short span he has left. You used to be inseparable, you shared the same dreams. Your talks weren't limited to melancholy utterances of, Have you eaten yet? and, Is your leg okay? and, I never see you anymore, will this time be the last?

How he's chosen to treat himself are small deaths, in a way. Promises to join you later that led to nothing, nights of exhaustion framed by mornings of fading in and out. He's followed his own guide to avoidance, the steps were simply laid out differently. He's grown sick of it, truly. And deep down, or perhaps on the surface, he is so, terribly exhausted.

Swallowing thickly, you remain frozen in place, waiting for him to give up, for his hand to slip from your wrist. When it does, you continue to linger. Your heart pounds loud in your ears. Little glances at him greet you with his face downcast, his shoulders slumped.

You sigh — and you decide this can't be it, or perhaps you're just not ready. You draw yourself dangerously close, to trail your knuckles down Viktor's sharp jaw as a weak apology.

If there's one thing he isn't accustomed to, it's throwing logic to the wind. Viktor tries to think of this like his notes, attempts to categorize and interpret these emotions. He imagines there's diagrams and logs in his own swirly handwriting, outlines that would guide him to precisely what he needs to do.

None of it works, of course. It's a terribly juvenile line of thinking. And he's rarely one to give into impulsivity, but you make it so difficult to think, to focus.

His breathing is already quickening and sharpening, creating pockets of light in his weak lungs, even through the reminders of his own mortality's shadow. Nothing is more important than the feeling you cradle in his chest, bright and fate-defying.

It would not be like him to accept this. To fade out with a hundred contributions unfinished, a thousand words unspoken. Confessions meant to fall from his voice like meteor showers, fears and regrets with no way to form on his tongue. The thought alone leaves him troubled, choked. His jaw tightens in frustration, only relaxing when the ghost of your fingertips guides him to.

Low light frames you, the features of your face troubled; oh, he can hardly remember the last time he's seen your smile. But he remembers, knows it to be beautiful. The slight softening his gaze undergoes as it flickers across you is utterly familiar — you pointed it out, once.

Your eyes overfill with warmth, they melt like amber. Your pupils widen like big, lovesick moons. His head can't help but spin; there's so much he never realized, when you did.

His hands like to absently search for something to fiddle with when he needs to think. His fingers have a habit of tapping against something methodically: his desk, the spine of his notebook, his own forehead. The mark above his mouth follows his lips, when they tip into a smile. He's doing it now, surely. Softening in your afterimage. Gaze warm, honeyed, hopeful.

No, he isn't sure if his fate can be changed; he's treading close, but he isn't dying yet. The Hexcore is unresponsive to every stimulus he's attempted, but his research is far from complete. There are mountains of quandaries he isn't sure he can fix, pitfalls remaining just out of his control. All but one, all but this. This is something he could do, something he can change.

You almost speak. Almost give some useless, parting words when his tired, gentle eyes drift back to yours, two ships on the same sea. He's inquisitive, hesitant, his brows creased together in thought and with conviction. The mere sight of him — hair a mess, skin pallid, ignites a thousand feelings and worries in your gut; a lighter tossed to a puddle of gasoline.

It's something Viktor picks up on.

You look pained. Unsure of yourself, from the way your eyes can't quite meet his own, from how your hand slips away from his cheek, as everything in you threatens to disappear. Weary, as you gaze at him like you've already lost him.

You've forgotten how to read him, he realizes. Caught up on what you might lose, the both of you have forgotten what you could have. Viktor's heart feels like it might burst, with enough force to make the sun's implosion look weak, and you don't understand, he'd have to show you.

He takes it as a sign. Grasps the last chance you've extended to him, and runs with it as fast as he can.

His name dies on your mouth, before you have the chance to speak it. Echoes haunt your soul when his palm finds your cheek, solid, sure; Viktor pulls you in hard, threads of distance easily closed, and he presses his lips to yours with an intensity that feels vividly visceral.

It won't fix what's already been done. This isn't a promise, falling short between being reassurance and becoming a goodbye. It isn't the way he would want to confess, if fate was kind enough to give him a choice.

But Gods, logic and reason, worry and mortality are all melting into nothing. Fading and fizzing into the sky, budding and beginning anew in his lungs — because for so long, he has needed this, needed you. As fiercely as dead parchment longs to be burned.

Your body immediately goes tense in surprise. Your arms awkwardly hover in place, until Viktor's head tilts, following the gentle aria, his palm brushing from your jaw to your cheek to hold you close — as though you're still prone to vanishing, if he were to let go. Like this is the beginning of too many firsts, and even more lasts. This kiss is worthy of savoring.

So, you do. You let your eyes flutter closed. You shift forwards with a shaky step, practically stumbling into him.

It's sweeter than you ever could have pictured. The subtle roughness to his chapped lips. The slight tickle of his breath, when you pull apart for long enough to hesitate, but not enough to gain the wisdom to stop.

Soft kisses draw you further, closer. A hand holds his cheek, a palm braces to his shoulder. Careful to use little force, to avoid any accidental hurt.

Viktor follows, leans back, has you bending closer as you get caught in his butterfly effect; blue light bathes you, and the Hexcore shifts, utterly radiant. There's a moment of separation, a brief second where your eyes barely get to flutter open. A pause that promises to be your last opportunity for regret. Greedy and urgent, brutally eager, Viktor drags you back in, keeping you caught in his penumbra. Coaxing you to cage him in — to kiss him like you mean it.

The taste of you is vivid, perfect, intense, rich; you make charged electricity glitter down his spine when your fingers curl into the soft, chestnut tresses of his hair. Grasping, pulling, leaving it even messier than it already was before.

Your lips part, your breath forms an intoxicating meld with his. And he is only foolishly, stupidly human. Made of flesh and bright dreams, etched with soft skin and fervent desires. Too weak, desperate, and caught in your echo to contemplate anything but the way his own name sounds — the V is a soft vibration, the completion of the consonants makes it sound like reverence — when it's breathed into his mouth.

Hazily, he feels your palm press, shoving gently to his chest, pushing his back against the desk in a clumsy effort to bring yourself closer. His chair shifts slightly from the movement, rusted wheels grating the tile. Your palm finds its place between his lower back and the desk's firm edge, bracing some of his weight, and acting as a buffer, keeping him from pressing against it.

Viktor melts underneath you, breathes a soft noise into your mouth that begs you not to stop — as if you could. As if you haven't wanted this in an unquantifiable amount of ways, across an infinitum of discarded daydreams. You're left to steal gasps in between, clinging onto quickened sighs that rival the struggle of keeping your head above water, as wild waves crash over your skull.

Out of breath, he blindly fumbles to find your shoulder; pushes gently, silently asks you for a moment of reprieve.

You draw back immediately. You're unable to stop yourself from shuddering when he softly breathes your name. Familiar accent curling around the syllables, giving them life and importance like your name was made for him to say. To whisper, to covet, to plead.

"Lásko," Viktor coos, as his eyes grow heavy. Glinting, with a spark of zeal that tells you to stop holding back.

You're well acquainted with the warm, softhearted nickname. You know it to be something Viktor taught you himself, between gentle explorations of the few things you didn't already know about one another, when your late-night curiosity and desire to learn led you to, Oh, and what name would you use for someone special?

His jaw grits; his next words, murmured in his mother tongue, resemble a sharp, possessive swear. His head tilts with yours when you lean closer — but you shift, falling in to let your lips find his neck.

The kisses you place there are hurried, desperate; like rays of light, as if you don't have time. Obediently, he stifles a whimper, and allows his head to fall back. It leaves plenty of room for your wandering hands to crinkle and press aside his shirt collar, and you place your lips on the firm, jutting curve of his collarbone.

You find the twin moles on his neck tendon, blessing a kiss there, near desperate enough to bruise. You follow them like a treasure map, to kiss the perfectly-placed mole above his mouth. Your palms cup his face faintly. Then, you sweetly kiss the mark on his opposite cheek, your lips warm, laced with fervent sparks.

Viktor shudders, he feels lighting race up his spine and split him open like a scythe. He's been avoiding his own declining reflection for weeks upon months now, but he doesn't need to remember much of himself to still know exactly where you're kissing, like the back of his hand.

The ghost of your lips just above his mouth, and then to the apple of his cheek send a thick, syrup-sweet realization reeling through him. His moles. It reminds him of fingertips playfully tapping his face. Of soft comments and pretty compliments, portraits of his own image that he'd never forgotten because they were from you.

When you hear the hitch in his breath, he swears he feels you smile against him. He's certain, once you shift back down to his neck, to repeat the process all over again. Placing messy kisses onto his soft skin, worshiping the intricacies he would've never thought were admirable. Memorizing each placement as though it's deliberate, like making a map of the night sky's constellations. And Viktor swallows, shakes, softens.

Blindly, you search for where his hand has been kept at your side. You grasp it, and pursue the natural interlacing of fingers: yours fitting perfectly between the gaps of his.

Trying not to shudder, failing when your breath fans against the right-angle corner of his jaw, he guides his free hand to trace the small of your back. His fingertips are gentle, hesitant. Careful brushes akin to a study, an exploration.

With a dizzy mind and even more muddled thoughts, he doesn't expect when you support your weight by placing your knee on his stool, between his legs — when you lean in close and fast and hard, crashing your lips against his once more. One kiss isn't enough, so you kiss him again; you let yourself be pulled in on his current, and he forgoes breathing to drink you in instead.

Your body arches into his touch, curves when his palm presses flat to your back, attempting to feel as much of you as possible. You want to be pliable beneath his warm hands like clay, because at least being molded would leave an imprint. You'd have something to remember what this meant, what his touch felt like.

Seconds and minutes bleed into one another. You can barely tell where he begins, and you end. Two halves of the same anatomy, you can feel the thrum of his inherent light beneath your breastbone.

The Hexcore watches. Pulses, hard enough to make pens begin to roll across the desk. To topple a precarious stack of diagrams, which sends a few papers fluttering to the ground, to make the steel marbles of a Newton's cradle clumsily clink together.

Neither of you notice. The response Viktor's been searching for spikes just beyond his reach. You make him feel weightless, as though the fragility of his own vessel is more of an afterthought, until he could be ripped into fragments and you would be there to put him back together. Viktor's palm holds the back of your neck, his head tilts with yours, and you kiss. Falling into one another, only unfalling to breathe. Your atoms melt into his particles, blossoming a blur between your two shapes. Your heart pounds with his, to a rhythm so exact they could be mistaken for the same singular beat.

Finally pulling away requires a mountain's worth of strength and effort. You only do so because you've got Viktor's back pressed hard against the desk, and he's practically about to fall off his chair.

You both needed to breathe. It takes several moments for your head to stop spinning. You can barely focus on anything, but the bruising of your lips and the skip of your heartbeat. Stumbling back, sliding from his chair to offer him more room, you cup his jaw in both palms. Soft and blissfully tender, as though this is what they were made to hold.

Viktor sighs hard, gasping heavily. His skin is slightly flushed, still warm to the touch. His gaze stays on you, basking in your afterglow. You're used to him flinching away. A slight hesitation always laces through his fingers when you try to grab his hand. His muscles tense on instinct whenever your arm wraps around him, braced to help support his weight.

But this time, your palms hold his face, your thumbs brush his skin, and he melts into your touch, unburdened. Gaze fluttery, expression relaxed. Giving in at last, after countless ages of starvation.

The low light of the lab, and the soft glow of the Hexcore's rune matrix — quiet, now — frame his face in outlines of shadow and hues of cerulean. Shades of blue meld with the honeycomb of his eyes, dulling the color. Clouds over a fading sun.

He hears the slight shake in your breath first, before he feels a tiny droplet hit his cheek; and you're leaning forward, trying to hide. Eyes shut tight, as you rest your forehead against his.

"Sorry, I-" Viktor murmurs, weak and faint. So quiet, you almost fail to hear. "I know this does not… fix things."

Oh. He hasn't seen you cry since you were both kids.

Viktor remembers clumsily trying to comfort you, making a crude somewhat-flower-pinwheel out of scrap metal as a gift, because he thought it wouldn't fix everything, but it might make things a little bit easier. For a time, anyway.

Reality is often a cold, cruel overseer. Remembering how to breathe again brings sharp pain into his lungs, it returns an ache to his tired shoulders and his strained leg. His vision comes back into focus, his future returns to taunt him but this time, something is different.

He feels a spark. A newfound wave of ambition. The radiant golden hour, before a bright, final breakthrough.

"It's fine," You breathe, weak and fragile, with a meager shrug of your shoulders that says you are anything but. "I didn't expect it to."

Viktor grasps your chin, gently shifting you back to give him space to look at you. His thumb brushes a stray droplet from your cheek. He tuts: a soft, teasing, tch sound. "Ah, but for a time, the world nearly felt miles away. Did it not?"

His gaze is hopeful, almost nervous. Trying to gauge any slight shift in your reaction. Thankfully, his voice seems to swiftly bring you back to life. You laugh a bit, wiping the remainder of tears away with the back of your hand; there's the smile he's always admired.

"Like we were melting into each other," You admit, a little shy, tenderly wistful. Your heart unfurls in your chest like a bright, pretty blossom. It's fitting for the both of you to recollect, to try and analyze the intricacies of every situation. "It was…"

You're pausing, trying to find the right description, as you rest your arms around his shoulders in something of a half-hug. It was lovely? Captivating? Addicting?

You shake your head. You're glancing away, because even remembering kissing him is enough to make your heart pound, enough to tempt you to pull him in again. Viktor tilts you back towards him, his finger lightly tapping your jaw.

"Hm- Breathtaking?" He muses, "Better than you could have dreamed?"

The brief lilt of confidence he embodies, words smooth as they're carried on his accent, pleasantly reminds you of when he was younger. Far too composed, and eager to prove himself. He follows it through, coaxing you forwards with a palm to your side. You're gentle; most of your weight, you support yourself, until Viktor pulls you down, patiently and decidedly guiding you to settle against his lap.

"You know," You're cooing, head tilted, "That sounds an awful lot like a confession."

You can see each subtle heave of Viktor's chest, expanding with every long breath he takes in. It's a tight fit. His stool is barely wide enough to accommodate himself, let alone you. His brace presses into the back of your leg just slightly: jutting metal, protruding bolts. The spread of his thighs leaves you with a small amount of space, but still forces your body to press awfully close to his.

You're in the perfect position to witness every detail of his face. His tired eyes, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. His thick brows pinch slightly, forming a faux pout, and you reach up. You brush your thumb from his temple to his brow, relishing in the instant softening of his expression.

"Perhaps it is one. Or, actually-" Viktor hums, inquisitive. "It contains the potential to be one, if I decided to elaborate."

"Oh? Enlighten me."

A pause. Viktor bites the inside of his cheek as he ruminates, and your fingertips push fluffy strands of hair from his face to tuck behind his ears.

"For so long, I… ached to be close to you." His tone is calm, temperate. It twists a shiver up your spine, cool and heaven-sent. His palm trails and caresses your face; a lesson in restraint, as he tries to stop himself from pulling you in once more. "It was a pipe dream. I assumed I was… too late."

"I thought- I was sure you didn't-" Your shoulders grow tense and the bridge of your nose knots up, you twirl a strand of his hair around your finger and pull it away to admire the resounding curl. "Since when?"

Viktor exhales. "We have been effectively inseparable since the day we met, I am certain you still remember when the Undercity kids would laugh and- and make jabs at my obvious crush. But, you are searching for something specific. In that case, there is one instance."

This time, you don't have to ask him to elaborate.

A palm tracing down the column of your neck, idle yet admiring, Viktor takes one more steady, deep breath. "It was the Progress Day after we had finalized the Hexgates. The council's afterparty was… stifling. I was fortunate to have convinced you to attend. You wore such gorgeous attire. Jayce commented, stated I was unable to take my eyes off of you. I denied it. In hindsight, it was more than obvious."

The party was hardly your usual scene. Viktor was always the one who wound up convincing you to attend every Progress Day.

He'd mention you should vouch for your contributions, try to mingle. You were fine with dressing up for an hour or two, but all of the drinking and fraternizing — you found the presentations about new technology to be interesting, but everything to happen afterwards was tiring, to put it bluntly.

The occasion then was more special than most, though. There was a difference in the way Viktor asked you, sounding hopeful and stress-bound. It seemed important to him, and so it was doubly precious to you.

"I joined you on the balcony, once I was able to shake the flocks of investors." Viktor continues, thinking, thumbing through all of the details, "You'd been saving a cocktail for me all night, if you remember. Something made with rum- apple cider, I believe."

Viktor recalls overhearing several of your conversations. Your excitement to show off what you invented together was palpable. You made the room shine, he thinks. He watched you go on and on, when you thought he wasn't listening, assuming he was busy with his own consultations. Viktor zoned out of them, truly. Once the day's festivities are over, the rich folk of Piltover are more interested in finances than progress.

Your words were so kind. Viktor is amazing, have you met him yet? Every sponsor and socialite would know your partner to be intelligent, inventive, incredible. He doesn't compare. It's funny, how Viktor saw the same qualities in you.

For most of the night, you were separated; Viktor was busy with the swarm of fancy patrons, all of Piltover's finest hoping to get the latest gossip on what the partner to the Man of Progress would come up with next. Luckily, the both of you chose the same hideaway to try and escape the crowd.

"I had been waiting for such a moment- to speak with you. You offered me your congratulations. Complimented me, on my performance of the short speech you helped me to memorize. And… so clearly, I remember you said, 'I'm so proud, Viktor. But I knew you could do this.'"

I knew you could. No underestimations, never a doubt in his potential. You believed in him, even when no-one else did. When there weren't eager investors and a fawning council, just you and him, the suffocating smog of the Undercity, and his foolish dreams. Within the gaps in between, your praises sung as loud, unbidden, echoing strums.

He supposes he's going to have to ask again for your faith, just one more time.

Viktor's gaze stays focused down, for a moment. Contemplative, emotional.

"I almost kissed you right then." He glances up to you, finally. "But-" He hums, then sighs, "There were benefactors still lingering just beyond the balcony, some of which already decided to inquire extensively about my personal life. I would have hated for our first kiss to incite such a scene."

Viktor admires the tender kindling of gentleness on your face. Slightly pained, despite the hints of softness. It's his cue to find your cheek, to hold you close and oh-so softly like he did from the start; the cliff before the waterfall, his first step in to drown with you.

Nothing will ever return to simplicity. But Viktor refuses to regret this, decides he should face it head on. Every building conflict, these budding emotions, the remnants of how your lips felt on his; tenderly unforgettable, a crucial step that he refuses to forget.

You can feel the slight tremble to his fingers, the calluses on his palm —

"Vik-"

"I need to have your trust."

Your eyes widen.

"Viktor," You're starting again, "You already do- you always have. I don't want you to hesitate, you can-"

"No, no, the Hexcore," Viktor corrects. He takes a quick glance between you, and the shifting runes of his project's surface. Glowing and fluctuating, a marvel even when it is dormant. "There is much I have not yet told the council. Nor Jayce, nor you."

A newfound flicker of conviction blazes behind his sun-bound eyes. A brightened enthusiasm to solve any puzzle he's presented with, a key twisted into a door that he never thought would open.

Your gaze is curious, attentive, then clearly conflicted, and he feels his jaw start to tighten. In spite, he continues, speaks with his entire chest, even though his hands tremor at the thought, and his voice is much too soft and broken and he hates the sound it makes when it's breaking —

"You are the one thing I cannot lose." Viktor holds your face lovingly, captures you in a statue-like state of devotion, as he fights against the gnawing roughness at the back of his throat. "I believe I can solve this, but I need to know that to any end, you will follow. Please."

It's something he's already sure of, against the faint threads of doubt in his mind. Of course you would, if he was the one to ask. The both of you are knit together as endlessly as the lines that connect the constellations, he just needs to hear you say it.

You offer him a weakened smile, your touch brushing the curve of his face like fingertips would caress the arch of a flower's petal. "Do what you think is right. I trust you."

Viktor softens.

There's bittersweet catharsis in finally admitting the truth, along with an endless chasm threatening to swallow him whole — and for now, for the rest of the night, at least, he wants nothing more than to fall in with you.

"My love," He murmurs; he draws you close, with the pull of the sea to the moon. He dares to press one more faint kiss to your cheek, despite knowing how infinitely difficult it will be to pull away. "My inspiration," A kiss to the opposite cheek, then. "My little spark."

The lab remains quiet, dark, save for the low hum, and the glowing orbit of the Hexcore. Viktor leans his head against your chest, relaxes further once you begin gently toying with his hair. And finally, fully, he allows his heavy eyes to close.

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor arcane x reader #viktor arcane

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humanjarvis · 4 months ago

Text

wasting your honor

synopsis: at akso hospital’s charity gala, you realize how smart zayne is. how much smarter he is than you.

tags: fluff to angst to fluff/comfort, reader is insecure about their intelligence, reader thinks zayne deserves better, references to socioeconomic differences, potentially inaccurate references to medical terminology and protocore stuff, misunderstanding, reader ghosts zayne for a week, he comes to find her, reader tears up, love confessions, happy ending pairing: zayne x fem!reader (referred to as “she” one time), reader doesn't have to be mc word count: 2.4k

a/n: i’m rly rly proud of this it may be my favorite thing i’ve written so far please read it

“Are you sure I should be going to this?” you ask, the hesitation clear in your voice.

“Why shouldn’t you? Plenty of other attendees will be bringing their partners as plus-ones,” Zayne says matter-of-factly. “Of course, if you’re feeling unwell, it’s best to stay behind and rest. I'm sure I'll be able to manage on my own.”

“No, no, I feel fine,” you reply, chewing your bottom lip nervously. “It’s just…I've never been surrounded by so many highly educated people. I’m afraid I'll slip up, or say something wrong, or embarrass you, or…”

Before you can ramble on, he walks up to you and squishes your cheeks between his large scarred hands. “Darling,” he begins, a soft smile on his face, “none of that matters. Just be yourself, and I’m sure you’ll be the most refined person there by a mile.”

Akso Hospital’s annual charity gala was the topic of his impromptu pep talk. Each year, the event made front-page news from drawing in hundreds of world-renowned physicians to support a pressing medical cause. Tonight’s gala would be hosted by a team of legendary neurologists, and the venue—a prestigious museum of anthropology—was equally celebrated.

Zayne, who usually struggled at such events, had invited you as his plus-one with youthful hope in his hazel eyes, and there was no way you could have rejected his offer. At first, you’d been thrilled at the prospect of making an official outing together—you rarely got the chance due to his busy schedule—but as the days passed by, the anxiety of being average in a room of geniuses had caught up to you.

So as you pace back and forth before the full-length mirror, fidgeting with your dress at every turn, you can only hope that he’s right.

As Zayne puts the car in park, your stomach lurches with dread.

In the few seconds you have to panic to yourself while he walks around to open your door, the way your mind formulates last-minute escape plans would put a supercomputer to shame. Maybe you could fake sick—no, you’d told him you felt fine—or maybe with enough pressure you could lightly sprain your ankle in your hee—

The door swings open.

Fuck.

He takes your hand and guides you out of the car, and as you walk toward the museum entrance, you’re too focused on trying not to trip over your flowing gown to take in the scenery. The lights twinkling in the foggy night, the verdant plants lining the entryway in carefully arranged rows, the opulent fountain flowing over small hills of bronze coins. It’s a lovely setup, really. If only your brain would allow you to enjoy it.

After passing through the lavish front hall, decorated with colorful displays of ancient artifacts, you’re greeted by a grand ballroom layout. Round banquet tables with crystal centerpieces are scattered throughout the space, and the upscale alcohol behind the bar could probably bankrupt you with one sip.

All around you, people clad in gold watches and diamond necklaces mingle with thinly veiled scrutiny, and you silently bless Zayne for personally sponsoring your event attire.

As you head further into the room, a striking brunette woman in her 40s saunters up to you. “Zayne!” she gushes, “It’s so nice to see you could make it! With how antisocial you are, I was afraid you’d find a reason not to come. Oh, and who’s this?” she asks, eyes passing over you dismissively. “I’ve never seen you working with Zayne before—perhaps you’re in nephrology or gastroenterology?”

You have no idea what either of those words mean.

Luckily, like always, Zayne saves the day. “Actually, this is my partner. She’s accompanying me tonight.”

“Partner,” the woman repeats, her voice raising an octave in disbelief. “…What a surprise! I didn’t realize the aloof Dr. Zayne was seeing someone. How lucky you are to have him,” she finishes with a stiff smile. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, then. Enjoy your evening!” she calls as she flags down a waiter and scoops up two glasses of wine.

“That was our chief of staff,” Zayne says flatly. “Surely you can understand how she scored the position with such a charming personality.”

You chat with—or Zayne chats with, while you stand off awkwardly to the side—a few more guests before the main portion of the event begins.

Dr. Greyson had roped him into a conversation about a thrilling surgery from the day before, and an intern who’d somehow managed to get on the invite list had bombarded him with questions while you watched with a blank smile.

When the lights gradually dim and you’re directed to your seats, you let out a sigh of relief. Finally, a moment to breathe, you think.

The hours pass. Speech after speech travels in and out of your ear, the jargon too advanced for you to process before the next utterly alien word comes along.

Flipping open your program in restlessness, you realize you’ve reached the final segment of the gala just as the next speaker takes the stage.

“Again, thank you all so much for your attendance tonight,” he starts. “I’m proud to announce that we’ve raised a record-breaking amount for medical research involving Protocores—what a historic feat. Each of you should be immensely proud of your contributions.”

Your claps seem too loud in the polite applause. Shifting your gaze to the guests around you, you match their enthusiasm—or lack thereof—with an inward grimace.

“Now, before the night ends, we do have one more achievement to celebrate. Dr. Zayne Li, who I believe is here with us tonight, has recently passed an extraordinary milestone—in his time with Akso, our chief cardiac surgeon has successfully completed over 800 surgeries. To show our gratitude, we’d like to present him with the Medical Impact Award. Dr. Li, if you’re in the audience, won’t you come up and celebrate this accomplishment?”

This time, you don’t hold back your applause. As Zayne rises from his seat, an endearing look of bewilderment on his face, your heart swells with admiration. Lucky, was what that woman had called you earlier. You suppose she’d been right.

As Zayne climbs up the steps, the presenter hands him a polished wooden plaque. Saying a brief thanks, he struts to the mic, a practiced look of confidence on his face now that the surprise has worn off.

“Thank you for this honor,” he begins steadily. “It’s with immense privilege that I can stand here before you today, but I’d like to take this time to commend our fundraising efforts tonight. The millions of dollars we’ve raised will be dedicated to investigating the nature of pathological conditions that originate in Protocore exposure. This will allow hundreds of medical personnel in and outside of Linkon to treat previously unsolvable cases. In regards to my own work, I’m particularly grateful—with the generosity you’ve all shown tonight, you’ve made me incredibly optimistic for the future of treating Cardiac Protocore Syndrome. I’ll keep that in mind every day—so the next 800 surgeries can go smoothly and with quick recoveries.”

As his speech ends, your look of admiration melts into a resigned, defeated smile.

For the first time that night, the room breaks out into thunderous applause. And for the hundredth time that night, you feel like you don’t deserve to stand by his side.

You’d hope that he’d chalked up your silence on the ride home to sleepiness. When he’d walked you to your apartment door and leaned in to kiss you goodnight, you’d merely stood there in indecision, afraid to taint his brilliance with your mediocrity. And then, with a strained smile, you’d shut the door in his face.

That was the last time you’d seen him for the rest of the week. And for half of the next.

For six days, you’d been completely ghosting him, too wrapped up in your insecurities to respond to his numerous messages.

Thank you for accompanying me last night. I had a wonderful time, he’d texted on the first day.

One of the nurses came up to me and gushed over your dress. She asked where you bought it from, but I told her we got it custom-ordered, he’d said on the second.

The fourth day. Would you like to join me for a meal later? We’ve had to reschedule a surgery. I’ll be getting home earlier than usual tonight.

Last night. Please respond to me when you get a chance.

And no matter how badly you wanted to, each time your fingers hovered over the keyboard, they froze in paralyzing shame.

You’d passed the time like you had before you met him—hiding from the sun, rewatching comfort movies, and wallowing in bed with gloomy ballads in the background.

But on the seventh day, your doorbell rings.

Thinking it’s the package of pastries you’d ordered from the bakery near Zayne’s house—you always got a box when you were sad—you hastily swing open the door.

And then fight the urge to shut it right back.

Because standing on your doorstep is a tired-looking Zayne, frowning in hurt and confusion.

“Hello. Is your phone broken?” he asks worriedly, checking your body for signs of illness.

“Um…no,” you mutter, suddenly fixated on your navy blue slippers. “Why don’t you come in? If you want to.”

With an infinitesimal squint, he crosses the threshold of your apartment. All things considered, it’s a good thing he’s here, given the way your heart is beating out of your chest.

“You haven’t been responding to my calls or messages since the gala,” he begins carefully. “I was afraid something was wrong. There were so many people present—maybe you’d caught a virus. But,” he continues, taking in your disheveled yet healthy appearance, “it seems I was incorrect.”

The guilt that’s been eating at you for days suddenly devours your insides whole, and your emotional dam bursts open.

“I-I’m glad you got to go, and that you got your award—your speech was great, by the way,” you sniffle. “But while we were there, the whole time I was thinking how much more successful you are than me. How much more intelligent. I mean, that lady asked me if I was an entomologist, or whatever, and I didn’t even know what she meant! At the end of it I just…thought you’d be better off without me. That you deserve better. Smarter. That’s why I’ve been quiet the last few days,” you finish, eyes downcast.

His puzzled frown deepens at your revelation.

“Why would I expect you to possess medical knowledge when that’s not your field of study?”

Oh.

You really were stupid, weren’t you.

“You…don’t think I’m too…average for you?”

“No, have I ever indicated that I do? If so, I apologize for making you feel that way. It’s the complete opposite of how I view you,” he reveals, stepping closer. “I’m also terribly sorry I didn’t notice you were so uncomfortab—”

“No,” you interrupt him shakily. “I tried to hide it. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Zayne gives you a sympathetic grin before starting over. “Regardless, I regret not being able to take care of you like I should have. And as much as I wish you hadn’t, I understand why you took the time to process your feelings. But to make one thing clear,” he asserts, voice deepening in emphasis. “I’m the one who’s lucky to have you.”

As you look up at him through glassy eyes, your breath hitches. “What?” you croak, voice hoarse from built-up tears.

“Darling,” he begins gently. “Did you ever consider whether I like socializing with those types of people?”

Mouth parting in a small ‘o,’ you shake your head meekly.

He smiles wryly. “After every previous one of those events, I’ve gone home with an ear-splitting headache. Last week was the first time I’ve ever enjoyed going,” he chuckles. “Not because of that award—which was flattering but unnecessary considering I was only doing my job,” he quips, “but because you were there beside me.”

“No amount of medical knowledge can compare to the peace you make me feel. The comfort. I asked you to be my plus-one for one reason only: the person I love makes me happy.”

At the confession, your battered heart soars and your cheeks burn so hot you think they’ll melt off. Timidly, you inch closer to him, instinctually unsure if he’ll welcome you back into his arms.

He answers your unvoiced question almost immediately, pulling you to him by the waist before he speaks again. “Although,” he pauses, giving you a concerned once-over, “if you were truly in so much distress over attending, you could have just refused. At the expense of my own happiness, I would’ve preferred you had.”

“But you seemed so excited to go,” you groan, laying your head against his chest. You shiver at the contact—you must’ve missed him more than you realized. “I guess I was wrong.”

“Not entirely. I was excited to go with you.”

At his response, you bury yourself impossibly further into him, and he strokes your back tenderly. “Well, that was one reason I agreed—you looked so cute when you asked, I just couldn’t say no,” you grumble, lightly pinching his waist. “But the other part was…with all the hours you spend at the hospital—800 surgeries and all—we never really get to go to big events as a couple. I just wanted to take the opportunity, I guess. I thought it would feel nice.”

Zayne sighs deeply and presses a light kiss to your hair. “And it felt bad instead,” he surmises. “How can I make it up to you? I’ll ask Greyson to trade shifts with me if I need to, just say the word.”

“Well,” you start, peering up at him shyly. “There is an office party next week that I’ve been dreading going to. All alone,” you pout. “If he comes with me, the illustrious Dr. Zayne will get to see how we regular people socialize.”

Chuckling softly, he kisses your forehead. “He wouldn’t dare miss out on that. He’ll be there,” he promises, squeezing your hip in confirmation. “Now, if I’m not mistaken, I believe the bakery van just dropped something off at your door. Shall we open it?”

In an instant, you peel yourself off of him and sprint for the door before freezing in your tracks. You were forgetting something.

“Wait!” you exclaim, turning back around to face him. With a nervous gulp, you say the words you think you’ve known for a long time.

“I asked you to come with me, Zayne,” you breathe, “because the person I love makes me happy, too.”

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mariasont · 6 months ago

Note

Early seasons Spencer’s gf joining the team and quickly realizing just how used to Spencer she is bc the rest of the team’s reactions to him are so different from hers

Cinnamon Sticks - S.R

a/n: obsessed with the idea of baby spencie having a gf who just gets him while he's still an awkward, nerdy little genius! thanks for requesting bestie so sorry it took so long i am the worst LOL

masterlist

pairings: early!seasons!spencer reid x fem!reader

warnings: established relationship, secret relationship, relationship being exposed bc these two are just so in love

wc: 1.7k

Garcia burst into the bullpen like some sort of whirlwind that was practically painted in neon, her scarf fluttering behind her almost like a cape. She juggled a precariously full cup of coffee, while her phone teetered between ear and shoulder as if testing the limits of human dexterity.

"I swear to all that is holy, if my life doesn't slow down in the next five minutes —"

The sentence derailed as she misjudged her pace, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the cup. She stopped abruptly, but not quick enough to stop the scalding liquid from spilling over and searing her fingers.

"Oh, fantastic! Just what I needed!" she huffed, waving her hand like it might stop the sting.

She threw herself into the closest chair with a dejected sigh, slumping back and fixing the coffee cup with a murderous glare, like this was just another tally in a long line of grievances.

Your eyes darted up from your work, only for a moment, enough to confirm what you already knew. You hadn't been working here long, but it was long enough to recognize the phenomenon that was Garcia: a blur of movement and words, mid-rant before anyone had the chance to catch up. It was like clockwork really.

You risked a glance across the desk at Spencer, who was so absorbed in his notebook it was a wonder he even remembered to breathe. If Garcia's antics registered as white noise to anyone, it was him. But then, almost like he had a radar for being watched, he looked up, catching your gaze.

His eyebrows lifted into a subtle what can you do? expression, and you couldn't help but smile back.

That was the thing about Spencer. He had this uncanny knack for knowing exactly what you were thinking, almost as if he had a cheat sheet for your brain. And maybe he did, like his brain worked three times faster than everyone else's in the room (which, let's face it, it definitely did). But instead of that being intimidating, it was oddly reassuring.

"At this rate, I'm one bad email away from alphabetizing my entire pantry for stress relief."

Spencer's notebook hit the desk, and there it was, the shift you loved to look for. His shoulders drew back, face lighting up, the kind of thing that signaled his mini-lecture was incoming.

"Organizing your pantry is actually a practical stress management technique. By categorizing items, you create a structured environment that reduces decision fatigue. Its why people feel calmer in tidy spaces, it's psychological."

Morgan held up a hand. "Psychological, huh? Sounds like you’re just trying to justify your weird love affair with labels, pretty boy.”

“Don’t forget,” you added absently, flipping a page in your report, “it also saves time when you’re cooking. I think you called it practical efficiency."

The words slipped out without much thought, but as soon as they did, the bullpen stilled. You glanced up, heart sinking as you saw every face turned in your direction.

Morgan’s grin was the first thing you notice, wide and knowing, stretching across his face. He tilted his head, eyes bouncing between you and Spencer like he was putting pieces together in real time.

“Wait a minute,” he said, sitting forward with a gleam in his eye. “Did you just quote him? Like, word for word?”

Your cheeks heated instantly. “What? No. I mean — maybe. I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure you did,” Morgan shot back, smirking. “Man, what else has he been teaching you? You got the periodic table memorized too?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair. “Oh, please. If you’ve been around Spencer long enough, you’re bound to pick up a few things. He’s like a walking encyclopedia.”

“Well,” Spencer said, his head tilting slightly as he spoke, “your cinnamon sticks always end up at the back of your pantry. That’s why I figured you might appreciate the idea of organizing by use frequency. Like I said, practical efficiency.”

The moment the words left his mouth, you knew he’d made a tactical error.

Garcia gasped, her eyes lighting up like she’d just been handed the juiciest piece of gossip of her life.

“Oh. My. God. Spencer Reid, how exactly do you know what the back of her pantry looks like?”

You froze, rooted to the spot as the realization hit you like a cartoon anvil.

This was bad.

Spencer’s expression mirrored yours for half a second, bug-eyed panic, but he quickly scrambled for an answer.

“It’s, um… a logical assumption,” he stammered, his fingers toying with the pen in his hand, a nervous tell he couldn’t quite suppress. “Spices like cinnamon sticks always seem to migrate to the back of the pantry unless there’s an intentional system in place.”

Morgan let out a long, low whistle, rocking back in his chair with enough force to make it creak.

“Nice save. But I don’t think Garcia’s buying it.”

Garcia tapped her chin, clearly enjoying herself far too much. “Oh, no, no, no. This is too good. I mean, logical assumption my fabulous behind! Cinnamon sticks in the back of her pantry? Really? What’s next? A detailed analysis of how she stacks her cereal boxes?”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a bark than anything natural. “You’re all reading way too much into this. Spencer just knows weirdly specific things about, well, everything. That’s kind of his thing, remember?”

“Mmhmm,” Garcia hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, genius, I’ll let it slide this time. But I’m watching you.”

“Please don’t,” Spencer muttered under his breath, earning a round of laughter from the team.

Garcia spent a solid ten minutes in full interrogation mode after that, her eyes narrowing with each and every pointed question she lobbed your way. Morgan, of course, was no help. He leaned back, grinning like a kid with a front-row seat to the circus, his smirk practically screaming that he knew they were this close to striking a nerve.

Spencer and you had been so careful. You'd been dating long before you joined the BAU, but the moment Hotch had called to offer you the position, you both knew you'd have to keep things under wraps. Dating a coworker was one thing; dating Spencer Reid, a genius with an accidentally too-honest mouth, was an entirely different challenge.

You hadn't expected it to be this hard, though. Keeping the secret wasn't the worst part, it was pretending he wasn't the center of your universe every time you walked into the room. It was keeping your hands to yourself when all you wanted to do was smooth out the messy strands of hair that always fell into his eyes. It was biting your tongue when someone interrupted his long-winded tangents because the truth was, you loved hearing him talk.

The hours stretched on, and the bullpen slowly thinned out. Garcia was the first to leave, blowing a kiss to the room. Morgan left soon after, pausing to flash you one last grin before disappearing. Even Prentiss packed up for the night, muttering something about needed an extra shot of espresso tomorrow morning.

"You handled that well."

You looked up from your report to find Spencer by your desk, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other skimming lightly along the edge of the divider. His expression was surprisingly soft, almost bashful, as though he had been waiting to get you alone.

"Handled that well?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You were the one who almost blew it, Spencer. Cinnamon sticks? Really?"

He smiled, lips twitching upward as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Okay, I'll admit that wasn't my most subtle moment. But in my defense, they do end up at the back of most pantries."

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as you leaned back in your chair.

"We're lucky Garcia got distracted. If she'd pushed any harder..." Your voice drifted into a soft sigh. "That could've been bad."

"That was a close one."

The quiet that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it felt a little more substantial, if that was the word, filled with that miniscule ache that always bloomed in your chest when he was near.

Spencer stepped closer, his hand brushing against the edge of your desk. His body angled toward you, like even when you weren’t touching, he couldn’t help but gravitate toward you.

“You know,” he said, his voice softer now, “I don’t think she actually suspects anything. But we should probably be more careful.”

"Probably," you replied, drawing out the word in a teasing, sing-song tone. “Unless you’d rather keep showing off how ridiculously well you know me.”

His cheeks flushed a soft pink, but he didn’t look away. Instead, that shy, boyish smile, the one that always made you a little breathless, spread across his lips.

"That's going to be hard," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "I noticed a lot about you."

You could feel the flush creeping up to your neck, and you mentally cursed him for how easily he was able to do this to you.

"You're lucky I like you."

His smile widened, and his eyes crinkled at the corners in that way they only came out at specific moments. Like when he successfully performed a card trick for the team or when he stumbled across an original copy of a book at a library sale.

The same one you'd seen when he talked about his mom on her good days, or when you asked him on a date.

You leaned forward. "And since I like you, any chance you'd want to kiss me right now?"

"How could I not, with you looking at me like that?"

The angle was clumsy, your chair too low, his frame leaning awkwardly over, but all of that melted away the second his hands found your face. His thumbs brushed soft circles against the place where your cheek met your jaw.

His lips were soft against yours at first, testing, before growing firmer, more sure. The kind of confidence that came with a hundred familiar kisses before.

Time seemed to slow, or at least for you it did, the rest of the world nonexistent.

The sound of a throat clearing broke the spell, and you jerked back from Spencer, your chair wobbling slightly as you turned toward the sound. You immediately regretted it — your lips felt swollen, your face hot, and there was Prentiss, leaning against the doorframe.

"We were... uh, testing something," you blurted, avidly avoiding eye contact. "You know, like... oxygen exchange! For scientific purposes."

Spencer blinked, then mumbled, "Oxygen exchange? That's the best you got?"

"Shut it," you hissed through gritted teeth, not daring to look at him.

Prentiss arched a brow. "Relax, lovebirds. If this is your idea of scientific research, I'll make sure Garcia doesn't find out. You're welcome."

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join my taglist here!

#spencer reid x fem reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #reid #dr reid #dr spencer reid

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thespianinthebackcorner · 2 months ago

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Hey hey hey writers!!! Especially y'alls who are struggling to develop character or have white room/still character syndrome!!!

Look into Uta Hagen's acting techniques, specifically her 9 questions. I'm not kidding. She built off Stanislavski's techniques to help actors develop their characters and roles & bring that to the stage- specifically, and this is why I'm pushing Hagen specifically and not anyone else, their relationship with the set, props, other characters, setting (yes that's different from set), history and the play's plot, and how that changes how they act and speak. I have my textbook open I'll take some pictures.

If you need a transcript/image description I'll put it under the cut, they're a little blurry cause I'm bad at holding my phone... I know alt text is a thing but I don't want y'alls to have to scroll through a tiny box lmao.

[Image 1 alt text]

The lower part of a textbook page. The text reads:

Uta Hagen's acting exercises

[Out-of-transcript note: Most of these, with the exception of Three Entrances, are less useful in terms of writers, but you could make it work, especially for roleplay.]

Basic Object Exercise: Sometimes called "two minutes of daily life," this exercise requires the actor to replicate activities from their own daily routine in specific detail (think making breakfast or getting ready to go out). The goal of this exercise is to increase the actor's awareness of their un-observed behaviour.

Three Entrances: Starting offstage, the actor enters the environment of the scene. The actor's performance should answer three questions: What did I just do? What am I going to do? What is the first thing I want?

Immediacy: Hagen asked actors to search for a small object that they need. You can perform the exercise on a set or in your home. As you search, you should observe the behaviour and thoughts that arise as you authentically try to find something. The objective is to identify the thoughts, behaviours, and sensations you experience when you genuinely don't know the outcome, so you can use them on stage.

Fourth Side: This exercise starts with a phone call to a person you know. You should call them with a specific objective in mind. During the convention, Hagen wants you to focus on your surroundings and the specific objects that your eyes rest on. The purpose is to help actors observe how they interact with all dimensions of an enclosed physical space so they can recreate privacy on stage.

Endowment: this exercise is designed to help actors apply their observed behaviours to endow props with qualities that they cannot safely have on stage. Hot irons and sharp knives are typical examples. The Endowment excercise asks actors to believably treat objects on stage as though they have the qualities the actor needs in a scene.

Uta Hagen's exercises are her greatest gift to actors working today. She developed them between Broadway jobs to solve some acting problems she had never seen anyone tackle to her satisfaction. The result is that Hagen's exercises give actors a way to observe human behaviours and catalogue it so they can recall it onstage when useful in a role.

[Image 1 alt text end]

[Image 2 alt text]

Most of a textbook page. The image cuts off about 3 quarters of the way down the page. The text reads:

Uta Hagen's 9 Questions

Who am I? This question's answer includes all relevant details from name and age to physical traits, education, and beliefs.

What time is it? Depending on the scene, the most relevant measure of time can be the era, the season, the day, or even the specific minute.

Where am I? This answer covers the country, town, neighbourhood, room, or even the specific part of the room.

What surrounds me? Characters can be surrounded by anything from weather to furnishings, landscape or people.

What are the given circumstances? Given circumstances include what has happened, what is happening and what will happen to a character.

What are my relationships? Relationships can be with the other characters in the play, inanimate objects, or even recent events.

What do I want? Wants can be what the character desires in the moment, or in the overall course of the play. [Out-of-transcript note: I recommend figuring out both for writing, the former multiple times for whenever it changes! Outside of Hagen's technique, we call it objective and superobjective.]

What is in my way? This is the actor's chance to understand the obstacles the character must react to and overcome.

What do I do to get what I want? In Hagen's teaching, "do" means physical action.

Uta Hagen's nine questions help actors develop the granular details of their character's backstory. The questions come from Hagen's first book, "Respect for Acting," though in her later book, "A Challenge for the Actor," she condensed her original nine questions into six steps.

Uta Hagen's revised six steps to building a character are:

Who am I?

What are the circumstances?

What are my relationships?

What do I want?

What is my obstacle?

What do I do to get what I want?

Later in her life, Hagen distances herself from her first book and encouraged her students to rely on her second book, which she felt was clearer about her concepts. Both books are popular with acting teachers and students today, however. Hagen's questions and steps are the foundation for all of her acting exercises. Whether you rely on the nine questions or the six steps depends on personal preference.

[Image 2 alt text end]

Personally I like the 9 questions more, but like the book says, personal preference! So yeah, if you're a writer, try some of these out for your characters. :]

#writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #creative writing #writing encouragement #writing help #writing tips #character development

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mistbehavior · 17 days ago

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Damian considered himself someone with a mindset far too elevated to be bothered by someone’s absence.

He definitely didn’t care about how empty the manor’s study room felt when he was the only one there. He loved silence. He focused much better without someone complaining about the subject next to him, or asking which answer he picked on the last question. He had been trained by his mother—there was no chance he’d get attached to someone and feel upset just because she said she’d rather study at home for the rest of exam week.

That’s what he kept telling himself—trying to forget the small argument the two of you had during your last study session.

Damian was definitely not missing you.

But as he flipped through the pages of his book, something about the silence felt wrong. It was as if the emptiness of the room weighed heavier than he wanted to admit.

He refused to acknowledge it, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t just her voice that he missed. It was the way your annoying complaints mixed with laughter, the way your presence—loud, intrusive—filled the space better than any solitary silence ever could.

Damian wasn’t missing you.

But somewhere in the middle of his patrol, he found himself slipping into your room through the window, ignoring the fact that you had forgotten it open—despite the many times he’d scolded you for it. Not that he minded tonight.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close. Closer. Until there was no space left between you. His voice came out muffled, his face hidden against your neck.

“I missed you…” A pause. “…Say something stupid so I can insult you and feel normal again.”

𝒩otes: just a drabble bc I love him sm 😼

#damian wayne x you #batman x reader #damian wayne x reader #dc x you #robin x reader #damian al ghul #dc x y/n #batfam x reader

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calumcxke · 2 months ago

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NOTHING SAFE IS WORTH THE DRIVE (LHS) - TEASER

pairing: playboy!heeseung x inexperienced!reader

summary: lee heeseung was an asshole. you had decided that. having to work with him on a group project made things a hundred times worse. but when a heart longing to experience love for the first time meets someone more than willing to give it, the line between irritation and something deeper starts to blur.

wc: 1166 (FULL FIC 37.9K)

warnings: reader is completely inexperienced, angst, miscommunication, reader falls too quickly and gets flustered very easily, kinda slow burn but not really, heeseung plays basketball but it’s barely mentioned heeseung calls reader ‘princess’ a lot, kissing, making out

smut warnings: dry humping, oral (f rec.), unprotected sex, virginity loss (teaser does not include smut)

FULL FIC HERE

notes: hi.. i don’t know what demon possessed me and made me write a 37k fic but it’s here. finally. this fic is my baby, it’s also very self indulgent LOLLL,, tbh the only reason i’m posting a teaser first is bc i’m so scared to post the full thing right away, anyway hope u guys enjoy LOVE U ^3^ this is HEAVILY based off treacherous (t.s), bewitched (laufey), and smooth operator (sade)

you check your phone for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, the glowing screen mocking you with the time. heeseung was supposed to be here half an hour ago. thirty whole minutes.

you sigh, your fingers tightening around your phone. you had already texted him- a simple, are you still coming?- but it was staring back at you with “delivered” right under it.

your fingers tap against the table impatiently as you stare down at the open laptop in front of you. the library is quieter than usual, the hum of low voices and the occasional rustle of pages filling the space. you consider packing up and leaving, your hands beginning to collect the pencils and highlighters you had set out around you.

“you’re pretty dedicated to this, aren’t you?”

you don’t even need to look up to know who it is. finally.

slowly, you lift your gaze, leveling heeseung with an unimpressed stare. he’s standing there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, looking completely unbothered. like he hasn’t just left you waiting for half an hour.

“you’re half an hour late,” you deadpan.

heeseung grins, like he finds your irritation amusing. “technicalities.”

you scoff, shaking your head. “you said we’d meet at six.”

“yeah, and i meant it,” he says, smirking at the way you roll your eyes. “it’s just that… time is a social construct.”

is he fucking serious.

you gape at him, your eyebrows furrowed. “are you seriously trying to use philosophy as an excuse?”

“would you rather me lie?” he asks, finally sitting, slinging his backpack onto the table.

“i’d prefer you actually care about this project. it’s a huge part of our grade, heeseung.”

he waves a dismissive hand, pulling his laptop out of his backpack. “relax, princess. i’m here now, aren’t i?”

you gulp at the nickname, turning your head back to your laptop to open up the assignment. “barely,” you mumble.

heeseung chuckles, enjoying your annoyance. “fine. i had practice, it ran later than expected.”

“that’s all you had to say,” you reply, your eyes flickering up to meet his, “and a text would’ve been nice.”

“can’t really text when i’m on the court, princess.” he shoots back, tilting his head with a smile.

you exhale sharply, already regretting ever agreeing to meet with him. “can we just start? we’re already behind schedule.”

luckily, he agrees, his eyes drifting to his own laptop.

you sigh, your own attention drifting back to your laptop. all you can do is hope that things begin to go smoother than this at some point. because right now, you’re considering slamming your head into your laptop or the table.

you try to focus, you really do. but it’s hard when every few minutes, heeseung is moving. drumming his fingers against the table, shifting in his seat, clicking his pen as he reads articles on his computer.

finally, you snap, your eyes looking up at him from your screen. “are you always this restless, or do you just have an allergy to being productive?”

heeseung blinks at you, lips quirking up like he finds your irritation entertaining. “nah, i’m just bored. this class is stupid.”

“why are you like this?” you roll your eyes, glaring at him. “even if this class is stupid, it’s still an important project.”

“like what?” he tilts his head, all faux innocence, completely ignoring your second statement. “charming? fun to be around?”

you scoff. “you were late. plus you were a dick this morning.”

heeseung chuckles, shaking his head lightly. “c’mon, princess. loosen up a bit. you’re making a big deal over nothing.”

“look, i had a shitty day. you’re not making it any better,” you mutter, scoffing again. a voice in the back of your head wonders if you’ve broken the world record for scoffing this much in five minutes.

heeseung leans forward, resting his chin on one hand. “i’m sorry. you know… i’m pretty good at relieving stress.”

your jaw drops. “excuse me?” you clear your throat, trying to ignore the way his words have a blush creeping up your cheeks, instead turning your attention back to your laptop. “just focus on your work, heeseung. we need to plan out who’s gonna do what part.”

you don’t miss how he tilts his head, a knowing smile on his lips as he clicks his tongue, nodding. “alright. just remember we have to work around my schedule.”

you let out a groan, your head rolling back as you look back towards him. “heeseung!”

he only laughs in response, shaking his head at how you get embarrassed when other students give you dirty glares.

“sorry,” you mumble softly, your eyes glaring at him. “focus.”

an hour later, you guys had made relatively good progress. you had divided tasks, and heeseung had done his work, for the most part. he still found every opportunity to get on your nerves, but at least he did so while being productive.

you both pack up in silence, swinging your bag over your shoulder. you spare him a glance, mumbling out a small, “bye, heeseung.”

just as you step outside, you hear the unmistakable sound of sneakers scuffing against the pavement behind you, “where you headed?”

you turn your head slightly to see heeseung strolling up beside you, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie as he looks down at you.

“my dorm,” you reply, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder, “it’s late.”

he nods, shrugging as he continues to walk next to you, “i’ll walk you.”

you stop in your tracks, turning to face him with narrowed eyes. “why?”

he tilts his head, raising his eyebrows slightly. “why not? i have nothing else to do.”

“because…” you search for a logical reason, but there really seems to be none. you blurt out the only excuse that comes to mind. “it’s late.”

he furrows his brows, falling in place beside you as you begin to walk again. “it’s 7:30.”

you glance at him, shrugging. “that’s considered late for some people.”

he smirks, tilting his head at you, an amused look on his face. “what if i just enjoy your company, princess?”

your face heats at the nickname, and you roll your eyes, quickening your pace. “we barely know each other.”

“well, i’d like to change that.” he keeps up effortlessly, long strides matching yours with ease.

you scoff, trying to ignore the affect his words have on you. “i think you like to get on my nerves, heeseung.”

he grins, nudging your shoulder lightly. “that too.”

you sigh, glancing at him before looking straight ahead. but you don’t tell him to leave. maybe a part of you deep down enjoys the company. maybe you could allow for a part of yourself to feel wanted if the campus playboy was walking you back to your dorm. and if your heart stumbles a little when he walks just close enough for your arms to brush, you choose to ignore it.

(divider cr: @uzmacchiato)

#heeseung fanfic #heeseung x reader #enhypen fanfic #enhypen fanfiction #heeseung fanfiction #enhypen x reader #lee heeseung #enhypen ff #heeseung ff #enhypen smut #enhypen fluff #heeseung smut #i’m genuinely terrified to post this omfg

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em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

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Supersonic

Pairing: CollegeAU!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When you ask Bob Floyd to tutor you after not doing so well on your first Advanced Theoretical Physics test, you never expected him to say yes, nor did you expect him to be so enthusiastic to teach you the material either.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Reader is an Engineering Major who is just trying to take a required elective that doesn’t tank their average, Bob is a Physics Major who is an overachiever and is top of his class. We love a good tutor trope y’all, and technically it’s friends to lovers hehehehe

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (y’all, wrap it up), Bob’s a certified munch…What Can I Say? It’s in the holy scripture lol, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Fingering, Dirty Talk, Teasing, Hair Pulling, Face Grinding, Bob’s got a bit of performance anxiety (and loves praise, but the man also likes worshipping hehehe), Breast Play, Bob’s giving sub vibes in this, Handjob (I don’t think I’m missing anything)

Author’s Note: Alright. Alright. I heard the crowd lol. I heard the masses, and I finally got around to writing for THE Bob Floyd....And I came out guns blazing on this one. I hope it’s not a let down, I know y’all have been waiting for something from me regarding this cutie patootie, so I’m glad I can please the masses 😂Enjoy!!! (Side note: I’m not a physics major but I took a few courses here and there, don’t strike me down if I don’t get certain things right about the questions please! lol) This was also a request by @shewhocallstothestars but I did modify it a bit (hopefully that's okay.) 😏

P.S: Evil stuff dropping this so casually on a Wednesday afternoon! Lol Surprise tho!

Word Count: 19,626 (HA!)

The first time Bob Floyd saw you, you were late for Advanced Theoretical Physics.

Not embarrassingly late–but just enough for the heavy lecture hall door to groan open and click shut behind you with a sound that echoed far too loudly in the cavernous space. Just enough to make the professor falter mid-sentence, his marker hovering above the whiteboard as heads turned in your direction like a wave.

Your chin stayed tucked, gaze low as you moved up the steps with a quick, purposeful stride that practically whispered “please for the love of god don’t look at me.” Still, it was a walk that carried weight. Not flustered or apologetic–just sharp. Like you were used to showing up in the middle of things and moving through rooms without needing to explain why.

But even if you didn’t owe anyone an apology, you didn’t want the attention.

Especially not in the outfit you were wearing.

You didn’t mean to put on anything eye-catching, but laundry day had come and gone without mercy. Between leading three straight days of exhausting freshman orientation–clipboard, whistle, and all–and trying to get your textbooks, syllabi, and housing situation in order before classes began, your options had run out. So you’d thrown on a slightly-too-tight zip-up hoodie, your college’s emblem half-hidden under the worn zipper, and the only clean bottom you had left: a black skirt you hadn’t touched since the first day of summer.

It rode a little higher than you remembered, and paired with your bare legs and sneakers, it was far from inappropriate, but in a room where everyone else was in jeans and sweats, it made you feel seen. And not in a way you liked.

You spotted a half-empty row about midway up the lecture hall, three seats in from the aisle, and made a beeline for it, holding your skirt down as you made quick strides towards the spot that had your name written all over it. The weight of dozens of eyes prickled against your skin, but you kept moving, zeroed in on that opening like it might swallow you whole and hide you from the ogling stares.

Bob was seated near the end of that row.

His notebook was open, half a page of densely packed notes already filled in with that small, impossibly neat handwriting of his. A mechanical pencil twitched in his right hand as you approached–still mid-spin from the distraction you had caused. He looked like someone who took school seriously, but not obnoxiously so. His light brown hair was cropped short and a little mussed on the top, as though he hadn’t quite decided whether to tame it or not–or the wind got to it and messed it up on the way to class.

He was wearing a white t-shirt–simple, fitted just enough to hint at the softness of muscle underneath, but crisp in that way cotton gets when it’s been folded with care. Not stiff, but starched just slightly from the wash, like maybe he had just done his laundry the night before. His jeans were a classic blue–not faded or overly worn, but comfortably lived-in. No rips or frays.

His glasses were perched low on the bridge of his nose, the thin metal frames glinting faintly beneath the harsh overhead lights–almost silver against the warm tones of his skin. They sat just crooked enough to suggest he’d pushed them up one-handed without really thinking about it. Lenses wide and clear, catching reflections of the whiteboard, but not enough to shield the way his eyes flicked toward you the moment your footsteps slowed beside him.

He looked sun-kissed from the dying summer–like August had clung to him a little longer than it should have. His skin was a shade deeper than it would be in a few weeks’ time, golden along his forearms and the high points of his face, like he’d spent the end of break outside–on rooftops, maybe, or walking alone down sidewalks still radiating heat. His lips were a touch dry, his knuckles faintly rough. But he looked steady. Bright-eyed and well-rested. Like he wanted to start the semester with good intentions and achievable goals.

You stopped just beside him–hovering for half a second, your bag shifting on your shoulder as you nodded toward the empty seat a few spots in.

”Sorry, just gotta get by,” You murmured, voice low and unassuming.

Bob looked up fully then and immediately shifted forward, pulling his legs in without hesitation. His knee brushed the underside of the desk as he tucked himself close to make room for you, the motion smooth but stiff like he hadn’t quite expected you to speak to him. Or maybe he hadn’t expected you to sound like that–soft, a little breathless from the walk up the gauntlet of steps, but still sharp.

You moved past him in one fluid step whispering a thanks, then your scent hit him.

It wasn’t overpowering. It wasn’t the cloying kind of perfume that lingered too long in a hallway. It was just…You. Soft and sweet, but grounded–like vanilla left to steep in warm skin, the subtle warmth of almond or cream trailing just behind it. Lotion maybe. Something gentle. Something worn, not sprayed on. Like it had been absorbed into your hoodie, your neck, the backs of your knees in the early September heat.

But then there was something brighter, just beneath it–like sugar and citrus had melted into the mix. Not sharp. Not tart. Just the idea of lemon. A barely-there twist of brightness that reminded him of the first sip of a drink on a hot day. Cool. Balanced. Memorable.

It made Bob lose all his grip on the pencil in his hand, and made him straighten slightly, as his eyes glanced over to you slipping into the seat three down from his, holding your skirt against yourself so it didn’t ride up when you settled. When you shifted–once, just enough to adjust your bag or maybe smooth your hoodie–his eyes dropped quickly to your legs.

Bare and warm-looking in the stale lecture hall light. The skin smooth, catching little glints of reflection in a way that made him stare too long before he realized what he was doing.

His gaze jerked back up, and his pencil fell out of his hands. He fumbled to catch it before it rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor, and somehow he barely managed to do it. He cleared his throat so quietly that it didn’t even echo under the dome of the lecture hall. And then he exhaled once, trying to shake off the heat that creeped up his neck, fingers curling tight around the side of his notebook.

You didn’t look at him. Not once.

Not even when you pulled out your pen and your fresh, untouched notebook and started scribbling quick, efficient notes in handwriting he couldn’t quite see. Not even when your fingers fidgeted once at the hem of your hoodie like you weren’t sure if it was covering enough. Not even when you tilted your head slightly to the left, exposing the faint shape of your jaw and that one stubborn wisp of hair behind your ear.

You didn’t look back.

But he couldn’t stop glancing.

Every time there was a lull in the lecture–every time the professor turned toward the whiteboard or paused to answer a question from across the room–Bob’s eyes slid sideways. Just for a second. Just to check.

He told himself it was just curiosity. That he hadn’t seen you around before, and that this class wasn’t usually the kind that brought in new faces. Not Advanced Theoretical Physics. Not on day one. And especially not someone like you.

You didn’t fit the mold–not in the way you moved, not in the way you sat. There was a presence to you, even when you were quiet. Like you weren’t just taking space–you owned it. It made him curious. It made him distracted.

It made the last half of his notes nearly unreadable.

He’d rewrite them later. He always did.

But he’d still remember the scent you left behind when you passed him. The subtle trace of sweetness and skin-warmed citrus that had settled in the air like something meant to haunt him.

And he’d remember that you never once looked back.

—————————

You didn’t speak to Bob until the third week of classes, when you got your first ‘mini’ test back and got hit with the harsh realities of the choice you had made in picking Advanced Theoretical Physics for your upper elective.

You got a 68. You had never got a 68 in your life.

Not in high school, not in your other college courses, not in anything that involved formulas or numbers or mental gymnastics you were usually proud to be good at. Being an engineering student was supposed to make classes like this feel natural. Calculation, logic, technical problem solving–it was your bread and butter.

But this? This was humbling.

You stared down at the note the professor had written in red just beneath the grade:

”Revisit your derivations–conceptual understanding needs tightening.” You didn’t even know what the hell that meant. You had studied everything possible to prepare yourself, you knew you had been on the right track, there was no possible way this was the right grade. Your jaw flexed, and you tapped your pen once against the corner of your desk before you forced yourself to still.

You tried to breathe through the sting crawling up the back of your neck, the tightness that formed just under your ribs. This wasn’t even a midterm–it wasn’t supposed to matter. But to you, it did. You prided yourself on being able to handle anything. Being the kind of student professors leaned on. A leader. Someone who could run orientation like a sergeant and still ace quantum mechanics in the same week.

And here you were. With a 68 circled at the top of your page like a slap.

You let the paper fall face-down across your notebook and sighed hard through your nose.

Then you glanced over.

Three seats down, Bob was sitting quietly, glasses low on his nose again, flipping his test booklet over to the back like he wanted to get one more long look at it before class officially started.

You caught a glimpse of the front page as he did–and there it was. Written in the same red your grade was given in, unmistakable in the overhead light.

97.

Clean, confident. Circled big enough to make a statement.

He didn’t look smug about it. Not exactly. But there was something in the way he stared at that number, his brows lifting faintly as if confirming to himself, Yeah, that sounds right. His lips were pressed together in a close-lipped smile, the kind people wear when they’ve worked hard and know it paid off. He tapped the eraser end of his pencil against the bottom of the page once. Then again.

Pleased as punch.

You didn’t mean to keep staring–but it was hard to look away.

His black t-shirt was tucked just barely into the waistband of his jeans today, like he’d rushed to get dressed but still managed to look clean and composed. His hair looked softer, freshly washed maybe, curling a little more than normal without any product in his hair. The sun-kissed flush along his cheekbones hadn’t faded just yet, but it was slowly revealing little patches of paleness beneath it. The silver frames of his glasses caught the light again as he leaned slightly forward, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook to take pre-class notes even though nothing had started yet.

He was…Prepared. Calm, and clearly good at this.

And you were not evidently.

You sat back slowly in your seat, gaze flicking toward the whiteboard, but your mind was still racing. Not with formulas. Not with panic. But with something slower, more deliberate.

You needed help. That much was obvious.

And unfortunately–or maybe fortunately–the only person who hadn’t fumbled through the last three weeks with shaky handwriting and unsure eyes was sitting just three seats away.

Then…You made a decision you never thought you would be making in a class you expected to be good in.

You were going to ask him for help.

It went against every fibre in your being–the pride you carried like a shield, the belief that if you just studied harder, dug deeper, figured it out on your own, you’d make it through. That’s how it had always worked before. You didn’t need tutors. You didn’t ask for things.

But your test score was still burning a hole through your notebook, and Bob Floyd was still sitting three seats down, calmly annotating equations while half the class looked like they were on the verge of weeping. He definitely had the highest mark and there was no denying that, and you had to pick his brain to see if you could emulate the same genius level thinking. Maybe there was a secret to it all, and he would somehow share it with you so you could make a quick recovery and still grasp honours at the end of the semester…At this point you’d take even the craziest solutions to save yourself from another embarrassing mark.

So…You waited until the end of the lecture.

It took everything in you not to bolt out the second the professor dismissed the room. You always left quickly–efficiently–avoiding the post-class shuffle of students with questions or headphones already in. But today you stayed seated, even as the sound of backpacks zipping and notebooks slamming shut rose around you like thunder. You didn’t move, just flicked your pen closed and kept your eyes on the spiral binding of your notes until most of the room had emptied.

You packed up faster than usual, sweeping your things into your bag in quiet, practiced movements–but you left your test out, folded once, red ink still just barely visible beneath the crease. Your hands felt warm. A little clammy. The kind of nervous energy you hadn’t felt since your very first midterm in undergrad. But you stood anyway.

Bob was still at his desk, leaning forward, transcribing the last few formulas the professor had scribbled across the bottom corner of the board. His notebook looked the same as always–clean lines, small print, mechanical pencil pressed tight to the paper like he didn’t know how to be imprecise.

You made your way down the row, test in hand, and stopped just short of his space. The words were already forming in your mouth, even before he noticed you.

You cleared your throat. “Hey… Sorry to bother you. You’re Bob, right?”

His head snapped up fast, and his eyes locked onto yours like he hadn’t expected you to actually exist this close.

“Uh–yeah,” He replied, “Yeah. Bob Floyd.”

You’d caught him off guard. You could tell by the way he blinked, like he had to reset. His mouth parted slightly, lips soft and chapped in the middle, and then–almost as if he remembered he was supposed to be someone in this moment–he cleared his throat and sat up straighter.

“You’re…Y/N? Right?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He held out his hand, a little unsure. “Nice to meet you.”

You hesitated for a beat–because it wasn’t every day someone in a physics class offered a handshake–but you took it. His palm was warm and dry, his grip a little firm at first, like he hadn’t meant for it to feel that strong.

His fingers were long. His nails clean, almost manicured in a way that surprised you. His thumb brushed yours briefly, and for a second, the contact lingered just a little too long.

You let go, and Bob rubbed his hand on the knee of his jeans as you both sat in the pause that followed, air slightly charged.

You weren’t wearing anything special today–just an old cropped t-shirt that rode up when you lifted your arms and a pair of low-slung sweatpants that had long since given up trying to cling to your hips. A hoodie hung open over it all, soft with wear. It wasn’t much. Just lazy comfort. But something in the way Bob’s eyes dropped for half a second–just below the hem to a flicker of skin at your waist–told you it wasn’t invisible either.

He gulped again, trying to recover from being caught.

You cleared your throat. “So, uh… I was wondering if you offer tutoring or something. I kinda bombed that first mini quiz.” His brows lifted over the rim of his glasses–an expression halfway between surprise and amusement.

“I…I don’t offer it or anything,” He said, already fumbling a little, “But I can help, if that’s what you’re looking for…How bad did you do?” He asked, trying not to assume the worst, but knowing there was a possibility he was going to see a fairly bad mark, judging by the conversations that happened behind him when the tests were handed out at the beginning of class. You flipped the test open toward him, and he stared at the 68, a smirk drawing up on his lips. He let out a short, soft laugh through his nose, more of a warm exhale than anything mean.

”I mean…It’s not great, but I’ve seen worse.” You raised your eyebrows at him and smirked faintly.

”How comforting.” You mumbled. He shifted in his seat, thumb rubbing across the corner of his notebook like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. His gaze didn’t meet yours directly; it just hovered somewhere around your shoulder, your mouth, and your hair. He was still absorbing the fact you were in front of him asking to be tutored.

“I can definitely help you bring your grade up. It’s early enough in the semester to get it back on track.” He explained. Something in his voice steadied–like the gears in his brain had finally clicked into place. Like this was territory he knew how to navigate. Structure. Process. Solutions. A small smile tugged at your lips. A breath of relief rushed through you before you could stop it.

“Thank you so much,” You replied. And then, already leaning in with eagerness, “When can we get started?” Bob paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek as his eyes flicked slightly upward–thinking, scanning the mental file cabinet of his day.

“We could do today…You could meet me at the library,” He suggested, after a second, “I'm free after four.” You wrinkled your nose a little, already shaking your head.

“The library’s kind of a distraction for me,” You admitted. “It’s always too loud–someone’s always coughing or typing like they’re in a race. Even the reserved study rooms…I don’t know, it never really works for me.”

Bob tilted his head a little, listening closely, waiting for you to present a different option.

You hesitated for just a second before offering, more carefully now, “If you feel okay with it…We could study at my dorm? It’s definitely quieter. And there’s not much to get distracted by.”

You didn’t say it with any kind of tone. No flirt, no implication. Just facts. Just a space.

But Bob’s throat tightened anyway.

His mind, helpful as ever, immediately conjured the image–your dorm. What it looked like. What it might smell like. You curled up in your desk chair, with your hair pushed out of your face, sleeves rolled, and a half-empty mug of tea or coffee next to an open binder. Maybe your bed was still unmade. Maybe there was a bottle of lotion on your nightstand in the same scent that clung to you now, soft and sweet and skin-warmed.

He swallowed.

Hard.

Not because he had any ulterior motives. Not because he thought anything would happen. But because it had been a long time since he’d been invited into someone’s space like that. A woman’s space. A woman like you–all sharp eyes and soft smiles, casual comfort and effortless pull.

“Yeah,” He agreed, clearing his throat and nodding. “Yeah, that’s totally fine. If you’re comfortable with it.”

“I wouldn’t have offered it if I wasn’t,” You said easily, and the way you said it–so certain, so casual–made something tighten low in his stomach again.

“Okay,” He replied, and he finally looked at you. His blue eyes were steady behind his glasses, a little glassy from the fluorescents, but locked on yours. “Just email me your dorm number. I’ll bring the notes, you bring the test, and we’ll make a plan.”

You grinned, and god, it hit him like a sucker punch. Like something he hadn’t braced for.

“Deal.”

And then you turned, backpack swinging over one shoulder, hoodie hem swaying against your hips as you made your way back up the aisle.

Bob sat still for a moment. Longer than he meant to.

He hadn’t even packed up yet.

It took him another ten seconds before he finally exhaled, shoved his pencil into the spiral of his notebook, and muttered to himself under his breath–

“…Way to make this hard for yourself…You dummy.”

————————

Your dorm wasn’t anything glamorous–but it was yours, and that made all the difference.

When you unlocked the door and pushed it open after class, you were immediately met with the familiar scent of fabric softener and the faint citrus-vanilla from the reed diffuser you kept on the dresser. The room was small, technically a single dorm, but it was just enough space for you to carve out your version of comfort. Still, as you stood in the doorway, backpack slipping off one shoulder, you looked around and immediately thought that there was no way in hell it was going to stay like this, especially with a guest coming over.

You dropped your bag near the door, and got to work immediately.

The bed was first. You hadn’t made it this morning–just rolled out with your alarm still going, one arm flung across your eyes as you reached blindly for your phone, groggy and unwilling to admit the day had started. The sheets were still tangled, your navy-blue comforter half-slid to the floor, the corner twisted around your foot in your sleep. You tugged it all back with quick, practiced tugs, smoothing the fitted sheet until the last of the sleep wrinkles vanished under your palm.

Your comforter had a faint rip in the seam on the left side near your hip–stitched up once, badly, with mismatched thread. You’d done it the second week of your freshman year, the night you’d fallen asleep sobbing after a brutal call with your high school boyfriend, and woken up the next morning tangled so tightly in the blanket that it tore when you got up. You never fixed it properly. You kind of liked the scar.

You fluffed the single throw pillow you used for your head–an old one, pillowcase faded with soft clouds printed across pale blue fabric. Not the prettiest, but it felt like home. And the long body pillow you always fell asleep hugging–cream-colored, with one end slightly more smushed than the other–went right in its usual spot against the wall. A comfort thing. You didn’t sleep well without it.

Then you moved to your desk.

It was more shelf than desk, sure–but it held your brain in neat, tiny pieces. Notes, sticky tabs, a single battered wire basket for loose paper, and a coffee mug you never drank out of that just held highlighters, lip balm, and the same pair of scissors you’d had since high school. You stacked your textbooks neatly–physics, mechanics, one painfully dry thermodynamics manual–and slid your notebook on top, flipping it to the most recent page so Bob wouldn’t see your chaotic post-lab scrawl from earlier in the week.

There was a Polaroid pinned to the corkboard just above the workspace–one of you and your best friend from home, taken in your kitchen during winter break. You were both in pajamas, mid-laugh, a sliver of frosting from a baking experiment smeared across your nose. You paused for a moment, fixing the pin to straighten it, and sighed.

Your reed diffuser sat on the corner of the dresser–three pale wooden sticks soaked in a warm citrus-vanilla scent that reminded you of summer mornings and freshly folded laundry. The bottle was nearly empty now. You should’ve replaced it weeks ago, but you kept putting it off. There was something comforting about the familiar scent, even as it faded.

Near it sat a tiny glass tray shaped like a shell, where you kept rings you barely wore and two hair ties you always reached for. One had stretched out completely, the elastic barely holding together–but you refused to throw it away. It had survived too many late-night study sessions, too many chaotic mornings before class. It had history.

You lit your desk lamp–the one with the soft yellow bulb, not the bright blue-white you hated. It cast a glow across the room that made it look gentler, less like a dorm and more like a nook carved from a novel. Cozy. Private. You turned off the overhead light and stood there for a second, letting yourself just look. The soft shadows, the freshly made bed, the diffuser’s scent hanging lightly in the air.

You sigh, satisfied with your work, eyes scanning over the room once more. Everything was in its place. Not perfect, maybe–but it looked lived in, cared for, warm. It looked like you.

With that final breath of approval, you turned toward the door tucked just beside your dresser–the greatest stroke of luck you’d had all year.

An attached bathroom.

Single dorms were hard enough to land as a second-year, but a single with a private bathroom? That was near mythic. Your RA had called it the “housing lottery jackpot,” and you hadn’t argued. No communal showers meant no mildew smell clinging to your towel, no forgotten flip-flops, and–best of all–no awkward small talk with girls brushing their teeth beside you at midnight.

You stepped inside, shutting the door behind you with a soft click, and reached for your phone on the counter. 3:30 PM. Forty-five minutes, give or take.

Bob said “after four,” but something told you he wasn’t the type to be late. You weren’t sure if that meant he’d be early–but either way, you weren’t risking being caught in your towel when he showed up at your door.

Without much thought, you tugged your clothes off in a few quick motions and tossed them into the hamper tucked beside the sink. The hoodie fell in a heap, the fabric heavy with the day’s wear. Your cropped t-shirt was damp at the neckline, your waistband creased from sitting through the afternoon lecture. It all smelled faintly of the campus and the late-summer air–sun-warmed concrete, paper, and the barest hint of classroom chalk.

You flicked on the fan and twisted the shower knob until the water reached the right balance of hot–just shy of scalding.

Steam bloomed in the narrow space like it had been waiting, curling along the top of the curtain and fogging the mirror in soft, slow layers. You stepped in, letting the heat rush over your shoulders in a way that made your muscles go slack and your eyelids flutter briefly closed. You weren’t indulging, not really. You just needed to rinse the day away–strip it off like a second skin, let the tension from your shoulders drain down the tiles and vanish with the suds.

While the water beat down over the back of your neck, your thoughts began to drift.

Even though this was just a tutoring session–just notes, formulas, and a second chance at a first impression–it felt bigger than that.

You hadn’t brought a guy into your room in months.

Not since you’d drawn that invisible line in the sand–the one that said: this space is mine and mine only. Not since you started guarding your time, your energy, and your peace. You weren’t a prude–far from it. You weren’t closed off either. You just…Stopped inviting chaos into your life. And sometimes, chaos looked like someone else’s backpack thrown on your floor, someone else’s hand on your thigh or under the waistband of your sweatpants, or someone else’s voice asking, “Do you mind if I crash here tonight?”

You didn’t miss it.

But still–when you looked Bob Floyd in the eyes and suggested your dorm like it was no big deal, like it didn’t mean anything–something in your chest had fluttered. Not panic. Not excitement. Just a shift.

A crack in the routine.

Now, standing under the steaming pulse of your shower, with the scent of citrus shampoo rising like vapor and the water cascading down your spine, you realized you hadn’t really prepared yourself for that part.

Bob Floyd. In your dorm. Sitting on your bed, or at your desk…Breathing in your space.

You didn’t think it would be weird. He didn’t seem like the type to make things uncomfortable. If anything, he seemed like the kind of guy who’d knock twice even after you told him the door was open. He was polite. Mild-mannered. A little tightly wound in a way that made you think he probably alphabetized his class folders.

But you didn’t know him.

And it was dawning on you, as you tilted your face into the stream and let it blur your vision with heat, that this was only the second conversation you’d had with him. Two conversations, and now you were inviting him into the most intimate space a student could have–your dorm. Your bedroom. Your sanctuary. A place where your throw blanket still held the scent of last week’s laundry, and where your pillowcase had that faint stretch of mascara from the night you fell asleep before washing your face.

What if he thought it was messy?

What if he thought you were messy?

What if he saw the tangled cords beside your bed or the half-finished cup of coffee on your nightstand and assumed you were the kind of person who couldn’t get it together–even when your whole reputation said otherwise?

What if he looked at your 68 again, and thought you were dumb suddenly?

You hated that thought most of all.

You weren’t dumb. You knew you weren’t. You were sharp, resilient, calculated when it mattered–and still, you wondered if he’d already made up his mind about you. Academic ego like his–97s without breaking a sweat–probably came with an equally inflated sense of who could keep up. Maybe he was too polite to say it, but what if he thought you were just another pretty girl in a hard class, grasping for help she hadn’t earned?

You scrubbed your hands over your scalp trying to shake the thought loose, because it didn’t matter what he thought.

Right?

You’d asked for help. That was the whole point. And he’d agreed. He’d said yes without hesitation–well, after a small nervous stammer, but still. He’d seemed open. Kind, even. And if you were being honest with yourself–and not just stewing in self-preservation–you didn’t think he saw you that way. Not as dense. Not as helpless. If anything, he seemed genuinely surprised that you’d asked him at all. Like he hadn’t expected someone like you to even talk to someone like him.

You rinsed the last remnants of soap and shampoo off your body, letting the moment pass.

You weren’t going to overthink this.

He was coming over, he was going to sit down. You were going to go through your test and try and work through the incorrect answers, maybe laugh once or twice, and you’d be one step closer to not failing this class.

That was it.

You shut off the water, the sudden silence deafening in the tiny bathroom.

Steam clung to every surface. You wiped your hand across the mirror, catching your own reflection looking back at you–a few beads of water dripping from your hair, over your collarbones, down over your breasts, the light reflecting off of them like little glowing orbs.

You wrapped yourself in a towel, padded out onto the tile, and toweled your hair dry with slow, deliberate motions. You’d keep things light. Professional. You’d study. You’d ask questions. You’d nod along when he explained something that made sense. And then–

You paused.

Then maybe…Maybe you’d ask what his secret was. The 97. The sharp notes. The calm in his hands. The look in his eyes when he first saw you walking up those lecture hall stairs. Not because you wanted anything from it.

But because part of you was just…Curious.

You stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in the last traces of damp heat, the steam still clinging faintly to your skin like a second breath. The scent of your shampoo followed you into the room–light citrus, clean warmth, a kind of quiet comfort–and you padded barefoot across the tile, leaving soft marks on the floor that vanished almost as soon as they appeared.

Your eyes flicked to the digital clock on your nightstand.

3:55 PM.

Of course it was. Right on the edge of too early, which meant Bob would probably be here right on time–maybe even five minutes ahead, just to be polite. Just to prove he meant it when he said he took this seriously.

You crossed the room in quick, practiced steps, flipping through your clothes without ceremony. You didn’t want to overthink it. You couldn’t overthink it. You were still a little warm from the shower, your skin flushed and hair damp, and the last thing you needed was to feel sweat pooling under a too-thick hoodie while trying to understand whatever theoretical mind game was about to come your way.

So you grabbed a soft t-shirt–a light heather grey, already worn thin in spots from too many washes–and a pair of black workout shorts that hit mid-thigh. Functional. Comfortable. No-nonsense. You pulled them on in a few quick motions, not bothering with makeup or overthinking how the shorts made your legs look in the soft afternoon light that filtered through the slits of your blinds. It wasn’t about that.

You hung up your towels quickly on the hook by the door, turned to your desk, and yanked open the middle drawer with a quiet clatter. Your whiteboard markers were all crammed into a cup at the back–caps loose, labels fading. You pulled out four of them–blue, green, red, and black–and lined them up on your desk next to your notebook like you’d planned it that way all along. Some kind of subconscious need for control, maybe. Or maybe you just didn’t want Bob to see you fumbling for supplies mid-conversation.

Then you reached for the test. The test. The damn 68, still folded and creased and red-inked like a bruise on paper. You slapped it onto the desk with a sigh, the sound small but sharp in the quiet of the room. Your hands slid to your hips. You stared at it for a long second.

This was where it would start. Hopefully where it would turn around.

And then–just as your breath settled and you were about to pull your chair out–

Knock knock.

Two firm taps.

Not tentative. Not obnoxious. Just…Precisely delivered. Like he’d rehearsed it.

You sighed. Not from dread–but from inevitability. From the knowledge that this, right here, was the moment it would all shift. You rolled your shoulders once, exhaled through your nose, and crossed the room in five brisk steps.

You pulled the door open.

And there he was.

Bob Floyd stood just outside, backpack slung over one shoulder, a black three-ring binder hugged awkwardly to his chest like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He had changed. He was wearing a navy t-shirt that clung just enough to his chest to remind you that he was broader than he looked seated in a lecture hall. His jeans were dark again–clean, cuffed slightly at the ankle because they were a little too long for his legs–and his sneakers looked freshly wiped down, as if he’d paused just outside the dorm building to rub them clean against the concrete.

His glasses were perched on his nose again, slightly fogged at the corners from the outside humidity. His hair was still a little mussed, like the wind had gotten to him–or maybe he’d run his hand through it on the walk over. His eyes met yours instantly, wide and a little unsure, like he was trying to memorize the moment.

“Hey,” He said, and it came out just a little too soft.

You leaned against the doorframe, one hand curled around the edge of it, the other still resting lightly on your hip. You didn’t mean to look casual–but you did. Warm skin. Damp hair. Legs bare in your shorts. You were dressed like comfort, like late afternoon, like a version of home he wasn’t expecting to see.

“Hey,” You returned. A small smile tugged at your lips. “Right on time.”

“I–uh, yeah.” Bob adjusted the strap on his backpack like it gave him something to do. “Didn’t wanna be early. Or, you know, too early. But also didn’t wanna be late.”

You stepped aside. “You’re good. Come on in.”

He hesitated just slightly before crossing the threshold, like he was stepping into a space that demanded a kind of reverence. And maybe, in a way, he was. His eyes swept the room instinctively, slow and deliberate–not nosey, just observant. His gaze skimmed over the bed, the desk, the glow of the warm lamp light, the closed bathroom door. Then back to you.

You watched him take it all in. The details. The neatness. The quiet hum of your diffuser still at work in the corner.

“This is…Nice,” He said finally. And he meant it. “Like, really nice. Kinda cozy.”

You smirked like you hadn’t been panic cleaning for the past hour or two, “I try.”He nodded once, still a little awestruck, like he wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up here.

“Smells good too…Like you baked something.” You raised an eyebrow at him and gave a small laugh, motioning behind him.

”It’s just my diffuser.” Bob’s gaze drifted toward the thin plume of steam rising from your dresser, his face going slightly blush.

“Oh…” He blinked. “Didn’t notice that.”

The corners of his mouth twitched upward in a sheepish little smile, soft and crooked. He ran his palm over the front of his jeans like it might smooth over the awkward pause that followed.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, brow arched.

“Well,” You started, already moving toward your desk, “You can sit anywhere you’d like. I’m just gonna pull my whiteboard out so we have somewhere to work.”

He opened his mouth–maybe to respond, maybe to stall–but you cut in before the silence could return. “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got water, Sprite, or…” you paused with a shrug, “an emergency stash of energy drinks if you’re into heart palpitations.”

Bob let out a short laugh, ducking his head as his fingers scratched the back of his neck. “Water’s good, thank you. Do you… need any help with anything?”

You shook your head with a quiet chuckle, already crouching to slide the whiteboard from behind your desk. “It’s all good, I got it.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” you replied with a grin. “Just get comfortable.”

Bob hesitated for a beat–then nodded once and toed off his shoes with quiet care, tucking them neatly beside the frame of your bed. The soft creak of your mattress followed as he eased himself up onto it, adjusting his binder across his lap. He settled back against your pillows like someone trying not to disturb a shrine. His back met the wall in a slow, deliberate lean, shoulders squaring before his legs stretched out in front of him, one knee bent just slightly.

You were still crouched in front of your desk, tugging the whiteboard forward and flipping the eraser out of the marker tray with practiced ease. When you stood and propped the board upright against the far wall–angled so you could sit beside the bed and still reach it–Bob’s gaze caught on you again.

He wasn’t proud of it. But he couldn’t help it.

The soft sheen on your legs caught the warm light from your desk lamp, the moisture from your shower still clinging in subtle streaks across your skin. Your shorts were tight–they were the kind that followed the natural dip of your thighs when you bent forward, holding you in all the right places. Every angle pulled his attention. The curve where your hip met your waist, the shadow along the back of your knee when you adjusted your weight. You were only wearing a t-shirt and shorts, nothing scandalous, nothing remotely calculated–but Bob felt like he was seeing something private.

Like you’d invited him into something sacred and forgot to mention just how much of you lived here.

He cleared his throat and glanced out the window beside your bed, the blinds slatted just enough to let in the softest touch of late afternoon sun. The light was golden. Low. Hazy in the kind of way that made everything look suspended in time.

He told himself to focus. On the equations. On the test in your hand. On the notes in his binder.

Not on the way your legs moved when you crossed the room again, not on the lotion-sweet smell of you that lingered now even stronger than it had that first day in class, and not on the sight of you–relaxed and warm and totally unguarded–in a way he hadn’t seen before.

You crossed the room with a bottle of water and handed it to him without fuss, and when your fingers brushed, he felt the jolt of it deep in his chest.

“Thanks,” He said quietly, cradling the bottle like a peace offering.

You gave him a smile. Not teasing, not knowing. Just kind. Grounded. Unbothered.

And that made it worse somehow. Made it harder not to stare. Harder not to wonder what this was becoming, and how much trouble he was in already.

Because he could memorize equations. He could build models, ace problem sets, and calculate theoretical orbital mechanics in his sleep.

But none of that had prepared him for you.

You didn’t sit right away.

Instead, you hovered just beside the whiteboard for a moment longer, the test clutched in your hand, thumb brushing over the red mark like maybe you could fade it out with friction alone. But Bob waited patiently–quiet, composed, the bottle of water still nestled in his lap like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands yet.

You held the test out toward him. “Alright, let’s see how bad it really is.”

Bob offered a faint, crooked smile as he took the folded packet, careful not to smudge the corners with condensation from the bottle. He flipped it open to the first page, eyes scanning the first problem set. His gaze moved quickly–but not dismissively. He was reading, really reading, lips parting slightly as he traced your work with his eyes.

Then his brows lifted, just a touch–not surprise, but curiosity.

“Can you…” He glanced up at you, the glint of his glasses catching the light again, “show me how you got this answer? Go through it with me…I just want to pick your brain first. See your logic a bit.”

You hesitated, just for a beat.

Not because you didn’t remember how you got the answer. You did. You remembered every painful minute of trying to pull it out of thin air, piecing together old lecture notes and half-remembered formulas from late-night readings. But the thought of speaking it out loud? Of saying it in front of him?

That part felt…Vulnerable.

You bit the inside of your lip for a second, eyes flicking from the board to his face, then back again. Then, without a word, you bent down and picked up the black marker.

Bob leaned forward just slightly, shifting the binder onto the mattress beside him as you uncapped it with your teeth and started writing on the board. The soft squeak of dry erase on the surface filled the room.

“Okay,” You said finally, your voice steadier than you expected, “So the question was asking about particle behavior in a non-inertial reference frame, right? So I assumed we were supposed to use the rotating frame model the prof showed us last week. The one with the centrifugal and Coriolis corrections?” Bob nodded slowly, eyes locked on the board, on your hand.

You started to draw–carefully, neatly, the way you always did when trying to make sense of something. A circle. A line to represent the radius. Arrows for velocity, angular acceleration. You wrote out the base equation next to it, then began working through your substitutions.

“I plugged in the knowns here,” you continued, underlining as you spoke, “and then tried to isolate the pseudo-forces…but I think I misapplied the coordinate system. I used polar, but I think the solution assumed Cartesian.”

Bob made a small hum in the back of his throat–soft, thoughtful. You glanced back at him.

He was watching you. Focused, engaged. Almost the look a professor would give when they saw potential flickering just beneath a student’s mistake, and that made your throat tighten from the nerves that began to bubble over in your stomach.

Bob shifted again, the mattress dipping softly beneath his weight as he leaned forward, one hand braced on the bed beside his binder. “No, that’s good,” He murmured. “That’s actually really good. You weren’t wrong to try it that way. I think the issue’s just here–”He reached for the red marker from your stack, uncapping it with a soft click.

“See how you treated this term?” He pointed gently toward a partial derivative in your equation, careful not to touch the board. “You factored it like it was independent, but because it’s nested in the rotating frame, it still has angular dependence. That’s what threw the rest off.”

You blinked at the board, then at him.

“Wait…So if I’d just accounted for the cross-product instead of canceling it…”

“You would’ve landed within the margin of error,” He finished, smiling softly. “Easily a B. Maybe even B+ depending on how much partial credit he gave.” You stared at your own math like it had betrayed you and then slowly dropped your hand to your side, still holding the marker.

“That…Makes so much more sense,” You said, voice a little quieter now. Not embarrassed. Just a little humbled.

Bob stood up slowly, the mattress giving a soft groan beneath him as he rose. His steps were quiet but sure as he moved to stand beside you at the whiteboard, marker still poised in his hand like a baton he didn’t quite realize he’d taken control of. You stepped slightly to the side to give him space, though your shoulders still nearly brushed.

His voice came low, steady, as he started to rewrite the middle portion of your equation. His handwriting was sharp and balanced–blocky print with just a hint of slant, the kind of penmanship that spoke of hours spent copying down formula after formula with care.

“Your approach wasn’t bad,” He started, glancing at you just briefly before continuing, “Seriously. You just went too fast on the middle step, that’s all…And honestly?” He let out a breathy, half-laugh. “That’s the part that gets everyone.” You let out a quiet, half-aware chuckle–more breath than voice.

“Well…Evidently it doesn’t get you. You’re the one that got a 97.”

Bob flushed immediately. The back of his neck went pink first, then the tips of his ears. He ducked his head as he kept writing, though his next words carried a little laugh of their own.

“I’m a physics major,” He said. “So I better be getting that mark or else I’d be needing a refund from the school.”

You let out a real laugh at that–light, short, amused–and crossed your arms loosely over your chest, watching him scribble through the rest of the correction with a kind of practiced rhythm.

“No wonder you’re so good at this…” You muttered, more to yourself than him, but loud enough for him to catch.

Bob’s head tilted slightly toward you. “What’re you majoring in?”

You scratched the back of your neck, mildly self-conscious. “Engineering.”

He paused–just long enough to let the silence feel deliberate–and then let out a short, knowing laugh. “Ahh. Now it makes sense.”

You raised a brow, narrowing your eyes in mock warning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You guys are chronic overthinkers,” He stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You scoffed, uncrossing your arms. “And you guys aren’t? Please. Look at all the work you need to do just to get a simple solution. Two extra diagrams and four substitutions just to prove a particle moves left.”

He rolled his eyes, the kind of eye roll that had barely any edge–just enough sass to keep the playfulness alive. “Least if I took an engineering course, I’d still hit an 80 on the tests.”

You blinked at him. “Wow. Bold of you to assume you’d survive statics.”

Bob turned toward you a little more, raising an eyebrow, eyes glittering behind the faint reflection on his glasses. “I’d thrive in statics.”

“Oh, really?” you said, grinning now. “You think you would have a handle on it?” He cleared his throat lightly and gave you a soft smirk, the corner of his mouth curling.

“Maybe if I had the right tutor.” You blinked once. And then…Smiled.

He turned back to the board and finished the last line of the solution with a soft swipe of the marker.

“There,” He said, voice quieter again. “That’s how I did it.”

You stared at the board, then at him. The space between your shoulders eased a little. The knot in your chest began to loosen.

”Well…That’s one question down…At least I know where I went wrong…” Bob nodded, tapping the cap of the red marker softly against his palm.

“Let’s go to the next one.”

You reached over to flip the test packet to the next problem set, fingers skimming over the thin paper before tugging the top page aside. The math was already crowding your vision–variables stacked in tight lines, subscripts nestled between integrals and force vectors–and you let out a breath as you raised the black marker again.

He stepped back slightly to give you room, standing just behind and to your left. You could feel the warmth of him, the quiet energy he held so close to his chest, just skimming your shoulder. You swiped the board clean with the eraser in a few broad, practiced strokes until nothing remained but the faint sheen of leftover marker ghosting the surface.

“I’m gonna admit,” You started, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, “I winged this one. So I’m definitely not gonna have an explanation for it.”

Bob shrugged, unbothered. “Then solve it,” He said casually. “Or attempt to. I’ll guide if you need it.”

There was a subtle shift in his tone–something a little less guarded, a little more drawled than usual. A slight southern cadence that lilted through the last few words, soft but present, like a warm hush pulled from somewhere deeper than lecture hall confidence. You felt your cheeks heat slightly at the sound.

Still, you nodded. “Alright.”

You started from scratch–no notes, no copying, just your best attempt. The marker glided smoothly under your hand as you worked through the logic piece by piece, pausing every few steps to reassess. You murmured quietly to yourself as you went, instinctively talking through the math aloud, and Bob said nothing–just watched. You could feel his eyes trace the path your gaze took, from the top of your diagram down through the first few steps of your math. Then–

“Nope. Wrong,” He interrupted, it came gently but firmly.

You blinked at the board, your hand frozen mid-step, and let out a quiet sigh. “Why?”

He stepped forward again, lifting the red marker. He didn’t correct it for you–just circled one specific term, the ink smooth and patient.

“This,” He pointed out, “You forgot to convert the mass into angular components. You treated it like a point mass.”

Your stomach sank just slightly. Not out of shame, but frustration. You dipped your head and started erasing that line.

“Sorry,” You murmured, almost under your breath.

“No need to apologize,” Bob said immediately, softer now. “Though I’m hopin’ this stuff sinks in…”

Your eyebrows knit, and you turned your head a little toward him. “Do you think it won’t?”

He shrugged, the barest lift of his shoulders. “It takes a while to apply the theory. Knowing it in your head’s one thing…Applying it to a random question is something else…But being able to fix your own mistakes is the first step to understanding things a little better to apply things properly.” You nodded once, pressing your lips together. Then you went back to work, quieter now, more deliberate. He watched you fall into the rhythm of the solution again, only stepping back when you didn’t seem to need his guidance. You could feel his eyes flicking down toward the test for a second before he moved behind you.

You heard the soft scrape of his hand over the textbook as he grabbed it from your desk, flipping it open with a practiced flick of his thumb. Pages whispered past each other as he navigated straight to the chapter you’d been tested on–like he’d memorized the structure without even meaning to. His eyes scanned the problems, fingers tapping the margin of the page as he skimmed.

By the time he turned back around, you were capping the black marker with a little sigh of effort. “I think I got it?”

Bob came closer again and tilted his head to read your work. His gaze moved from line to line, his mouth twitching just slightly before he nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, you got it.” You caught the smile as it crept over his face–unfiltered this time, soft and a little proud. He adjusted his glasses with one hand, pushing them up the bridge of his nose before holding out the textbook toward you, with his thumb slipped between the pages.

“Try number twelve,” He said, the corner of his mouth still lifted. “New problem. Same concept. Let’s see what you remember.” Your eyes scanned the paragraph of setup–classic physics problem: rotating frame, non-uniform mass distribution, some sly attempt to catch overconfident students slipping past the conversion factor. You clicked your tongue once and let your focus shift back to the whiteboard, grabbing the green marker this time.

He watched you move–quiet, efficient, no hesitation as you picked apart the language of the question, breaking it into manageable parts. You leaned your hip against the desk just slightly, skin catching the late-afternoon light in the softest gleam. Your fingers danced over your phone screen, pulling up the calculator, thumb tapping with precise rhythm as your eyes flicked between the numbers and the formulas.

Bob didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t staring anymore.

There was a faint shimmer along your shoulder from where the light met your skin, a dewy glow from the shower that hadn’t fully faded. You were chewing softly on the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowed in concentration, and he thought–briefly, helplessly–that he could watch you solve problems forever if it meant watching you like this.

You didn’t say anything. Not for the full ten minutes it took you to work it through.

You just calculated, and wrote, and thought. You whispered a few fragments to yourself as you filled in a diagram at the top right corner of the board, then traced your logic through in smooth, deliberate steps. You stepped back finally, the marker hanging loosely from your fingers, your other hand planted lightly on your hip.

You turned slightly toward him.

“Well?” You asked. “What’s the verdict?”

Bob blinked–once, hard. Then blinked again.

“Right,” He replied quickly, moving forward, the textbook now tucked under one arm. He studied your work for a moment, leaning in just enough to squint at one portion of your substitutions. His lips pressed together.

“You did most of it right,” He murmured, pointing to a midsection of your math. “This part’s good…But you forgot to apply the correction here–” He tapped gently on a bracketed term near the top. “That throws the coefficient off. Still–partial credit would be earned. It’s not like you’d lose all the points.”

You let out a breath and nodded. “Got it.”

Bob uncapped the red marker again and leaned forward, elbow bent as he carefully scribbled a correction in the margin beside your step. His handwriting was still annoyingly neat, even in red, even when rushed. He talked you through it slowly, the pace gentle but firm, breaking down the terms like a translation instead of a reprimand.

Your arms crossed as you leaned against the edge of the desk, chin tilted toward him slightly. He didn’t rush, didn’t sound superior–he just…Taught. Like he wanted you to understand it, not just memorize it.

You smirked.

“You should become a professor with the way you teach.”

Bob glanced over his shoulder at you, an amused little tilt to his head. “Why? Am I boring you?”

You let out a real laugh this time, low and warm and amused. “No. Not yet, at least.”

He turned a little more to face you, one hand still holding the red marker.

“Don’t speak too soon,” He warned, the corners of his mouth pulling into a slow, boyish grin. “I’m sure I’ve got a lot more opportunities to do that.”

And even though the whiteboard still glowed behind him, filled with formulas and diagrams and half-solved questions, all you could see was the quiet crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and the way his voice–soft, sincere–almost sounded like a promise.

————————

Bob’s elbows rested on his knees, fingers loosely laced, binder long forgotten beside him on the bed.

You were pacing.

Again.

Back and forth in front of your desk, your physics textbook open in your hands like it might suddenly say something different if you glared hard enough at the chapter title.

“I don’t understand,” You huffed, fingers tightening around the spine of the book. “We’ve been working through these questions almost every night for the past two weeks. I’m getting them very close to right when I do them here. I know what I’m doing on the whiteboard, I’m getting partial credit in class–but then I sit down during the quiz and it’s like…Like my brain just decides to take a smoke break.”

Bob watched you quietly from the bed, his gaze flicking down briefly as your shirt lifted with your movements. The hem rose just enough to show the waistband of the boxer shorts you’d thrown on after your shower, the edge of soft cotton skimming the top of your thighs as you turned in another sharp step.

He didn’t say anything. Not at first. Just watched. Like he always did when you got worked up–like his stillness might balance out your storm.

You dropped the book onto your desk with a soft thud, dragging both hands through your hair before planting them on your hips in frustration.

“I mean, it’s ridiculous,” You muttered. “I can do it here. I’ve done it. You’ve seen me do it. What the hell happens between here and the classroom?” Bob leaned back slightly, hands now braced behind him against the bedspread, one leg bent, the other stretched long.

“Do you feel anxious when you’re writing the test?” He asked, tilting his head just a little.

You turned to look at him, brow furrowed.

“It’s a normal amount of anxiety,” You said flatly. “What, are you about to tell me that’s why I’m still not doing well on quizzes? A little test stress?”

He shrugged, his lips quirking upward like he knew he was about to toe the line. “Could be,” He replied simply. “Or…Maybe you just need some kind of…Positive reinforcement.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Positive reinforcement?” You repeated slowly, curious and suspicious of how he was bringing up the topic.

He nodded, straight-faced. “Affirmations. Encouragement. Rewards. You know. Psychology stuff.” You crossed your arms, the motion slow and deliberate, as you turned fully to face him. Your hips settled just to one side, weight shifting into that slightly challenging posture–the kind that said you weren’t going to let this slide, but not in the way he should be afraid of. Your head tilted a little, eyes narrowed like you were sizing him up. Watching.

Noticing.

And God, was he blushing.

Not a violent flush, but that creeping kind–the kind that started at the tips of his ears and crawled slowly down the sides of his neck like embarrassment blooming from the inside out. He wasn’t meeting your gaze now. Just staring down at the binder on his lap, his thumbs rubbing over the edge of the plastic like it had something important to say.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Took him in.

The soft slope of his shoulders where they leaned back into the pillow. The subtle indent his jaw made when he clenched it without meaning to. The flush of red creeping into his cheeks, all while trying to keep that composed, helpful tone–like he was still just your tutor and not someone who thought about kissing you when you leaned too close during derivatives.

The silence held for a beat too long.

Then you spoke.

“So you’re trying to condition me?”

Bob’s head snapped up, and his eyes met yours–wide, startled, and already bracing for the tease he knew was coming. But then, to your surprise, he laughed. A real laugh. Short and soft and so genuine that it made the tips of his ears go even redder.

“N-No!” he said quickly, shaking his head, that lopsided smile overtaking his face. “Jesus–no, I wasn’t–conditioning you?”

You smirked, keeping your arms crossed like a challenge. “It kinda sounds like you’re conditioning me.”

He laughed again–this time accompanied by a quiet snort he couldn’t quite swallow down fast enough. It made your grin widen.

“I’m not trying to train you like a dog,” He commented, wiping a hand down his face with mock-exhaustion. “I just meant…If you associate physics with something good, maybe your brain will stop freaking out every time you’re handed a test.”

You blinked at him once. Raised an eyebrow.

“So…” You started, slowly, carefully, “You’re trying to open my third eye for physics?”

Bob looked at you. Deadpan. “That’s not what I said.”

You stepped closer, a teasing lilt curling into your voice now as you gestured with one hand. “No, no, I think that’s exactly what you said. You want me to transcend. Find academic Nirvana through external praise.” He rolled his eyes.

”Okay. Now you’re just twisting my words.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Am I?” You grinned. He gave you a look. A very Bob look. One part fond, one part I walked into this with my eyes wide open and it’s too late to leave now. But the pink still hadn’t faded from his cheeks.

You leaned your hip against the edge of the desk again, bare thighs catching the warm glow of your desk lamp, watching the way Bob’s eyes flicked toward your legs and then immediately back up again.

“Alright, Professor Floyd,” You said lightly, “I’ll bite. What kind of positive reinforcement are we talking about here? You handing out gold stars? Stickers? Should I bring a report card for you to sign?” Bob cleared his throat. It was soft but unmistakable. A nervous reflex that made him sit up a little straighter on your bed, one hand rising to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose even though they hadn’t really slipped.

“I mean…” He trailed off, eyes fixed on some distant point above your shoulder. “I was thinking more like…A kiss.” Your entire body stilled, hands still loosely clasped in front of you from your teasing posture, your weight half-shifted against the desk. A beat passed–just long enough to wonder if you’d misheard him. But then his eyes flicked back to yours, just for a second, and the heat in his gaze made it impossible to pretend he hadn’t said exactly what you thought he did.

You could feel your cheeks warm–instantly, helplessly–heat blooming beneath your skin like it had been waiting for the right moment to spill forward. But you masked it with a slow raise of your eyebrows and a smirk, playful but laced with that sharp new curiosity curling low in your gut.

“Yeah?” You said, voice softer now. You shifted your weight and tilted your head. “A kiss? That’s what you had in mind?”

Bob’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. Hard. His eyes flicked to the space beside your head before dropping to the floor–then back up to you, like he was trying not to look too long but couldn’t help it. He shifted on the mattress, fingers brushing over the edge of the binder like he needed something to hold onto. “I-I mean…It was just an idea. One of…Several.”

You stepped closer.

“Is that what you’ve had in mind this entire time?” You questioned, voice low, the smile on your lips laced with something sweeter now–teasing, but sincere. “Kissing me?”

Bob let out a nervous little laugh, breath catching as he tried to string together a reply. His knuckles were pale where they gripped the binder now, eyes flicking toward your legs again before jerking back up to your face.

“I–no, I mean, not… I never really got that idea till today,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just thought—I don’t know. It might help.”

You took another step forward.

“You sure about that?” you asked, the words curling in your throat like heat, low and just a little amused. Now you were standing directly in front of him, and the change in height made it impossible not to notice how he looked up at you–head tilted back slightly, wide blue eyes tracking your every move. His glasses slid a fraction down his nose, but he didn’t dare lift a hand to fix them.

His mouth opened and closed once before he found his voice. “I personally…Think it might work,” He murmured.

Your eyes flicked down to his lips–soft, parted slightly, flushed–and then back to his eyes. He was blinking slow now, like your presence this close was physically slowing his thoughts.

You bit your lip. Slowly. Purposefully.

“So you’re telling me,” You said, almost whispering now, “That you want to reward me with kisses…Whenever I get a question right?”

Bob exhaled through his nose. His legs had parted slightly where he sat, not intentionally–but enough to suggest his body was reacting faster than his brain. He nodded once, tentative but clear. His voice dropped lower, barely above a whisper.

“I could…Do a whole lot more than kisses,” He said.

The second the words left his mouth, his eyes widened slightly, like he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Like he hadn’t even known he was capable of it. His fingers fidgeted with the edge of the binder, his spine curving slightly forward as if he could fold himself up to hide from the boldness that had just escaped him.

Your breath caught–just barely–and something about the way he said it, almost reverent, almost pleading, sent a shiver down your spine. You watched his throat work, his chest rising and falling in subtle, shaky breaths.

He wasn’t cocky. He wasn’t teasing you back with confidence.

He wanted you.

Desperately.

You leaned in, closing that last bit of space between your knees and the edge of the bed until your thighs brushed his. The binder slid from his lap onto the comforter with a soft thud, forgotten.

“Yeah?” You murmured, voice warm, velvety, almost indulgent. “You think you could do more?” Bob nodded, slowly–eyes wide, lips parted, breath coming a little uneven now, fanning over your face.

“If you’d let me,” He said quietly, “I’d do anything.”

The words landed between you like a weight, heavy with longing, trembling with truth.

And you believed him.

Because Bob Floyd didn’t say things he didn’t mean.

He didn’t play games. He didn’t flirt to win. He offered, quietly, completely–like giving a piece of himself to someone felt holy.

Your hands moved before your mind fully caught up, instinct carrying you as you lifted them slowly–deliberately–and rested them against the sides of his neck.

He was warm.

The kind of warmth that radiated from beneath the skin, the kind that felt like it could seep into your palms and settle somewhere inside your chest if you let it. His skin was soft under your thumbs, his pulse fluttering just beneath one, and when your fingers brushed lightly over the edge of his jaw, you felt the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Bob stilled.

Completely.

The kind of stillness that only came when something sacred was happening–like he didn’t want to risk breaking the moment by breathing too loud.

And then you leaned in.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just slow–measured. Confident in the space he’d given you. Confident in the way his knees shifted to make room for you between them, in the way his lips had parted already, waiting, hoping.

Your nose brushed his cheek softly. His glasses tilted just slightly from the nudge, slipping down the bridge of his nose in a slow, unbothered drift. You felt the ghost of his breath over your mouth, shaky and warm, and then–

You kissed him.

Gently. Just once. Lips pressed to his like the start of a sentence that would take its time to finish.

Bob breathed into it–exhaled a soft, shuddering hum from the back of his throat that vibrated against your mouth. His hands came up slow, tentative, like he didn’t want to assume. But then they settled–one sliding to your lower back, warm and careful, the other ghosting over your hip before stilling there.

And then he kissed you back.

Really kissed you.

Slow at first. So slow it made your knees weak.

He lingered on your upper lip, plush and steady, then pulled back half an inch and tilted–just enough to brush your bottom lip between his with soft, seeking pressure. His lips moved with purpose, not urgency. Thoughtful. Intent. Like he wanted to memorize you in pieces, to map the shape of your mouth one breath at a time.

You made a soft, involuntary sound into him–a quiet, pleased little “mmm”–and he kissed you again like he needed to drink it in. His thumb pressed lightly against the small of your back, grounding him, grounding you. Every motion of his mouth was reverent, restrained, and dripping with a kind of intimacy that made your skin burn.

You pulled back just an inch–lips brushing his, breath warm between you.

His eyes fluttered open slowly, lashes sweeping against flushed cheeks. His pupils were blown wide behind his fogged glasses, lips pink and slightly parted, his chest rising and falling with careful, controlled breaths. He looked dazed. Unmoored.

You smiled.

A quiet, knowing smile, and let your thumbs brush the sides of his jaw.

“Better go get the next question right, huh?” You whispered, teasing but breathless. “Gotta meet my end of the bargain.”

And just as you started to pull back, maybe to reach for the marker again, maybe to hide the way your heart was slamming against your ribs like a drum–

Bob’s hand on your lower back pressed just slightly.

“Wait,” He murmured, voice low and husky now. “How about we suspend the studying for now?”

The words came quiet. Careful. But you could hear the edge beneath them–that hunger he’d tried so hard to suppress now curling softly around the syllables.

You arched an eyebrow at him, still close enough that your noses brushed.

“Hmm…” You started, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Now you’re just going to end up distracting me.”

His eyes flicked down to your mouth. Then back up.

You ran a finger gently down the side of his neck, your voice warm and teasing.

“Let’s stick to the plan…” Bob exhaled slowly. Like it took everything in him not to pull you back in.

His hands didn’t move. But he nodded.

Barely.

And when you stepped away and turned toward the whiteboard again, you could feel the heat of his gaze trailing after you–like he was trying to sear every inch of the moment into memory.

———————

By the second correct answer, you were setting a timer for yourselves.

Ten minutes. That was the new rule.

Ten minutes per problem, per kiss. No exceptions. No shortcuts.

Because the last time you’d leaned in for one–intended to be short, controlled, just enough to make good on the deal–you’d ended up in his lap. His hands had slipped under your shirt almost instinctively, like they knew where to go before he consciously gave them permission. And when his palms flattened against the small of your back, warm and strong and bare, your breath had hitched in a way that surprised you.

Not because it was too much.

But because it was exactly what you hadn’t realized you’d been needing.

His fingers pressed into your skin–not harshly, not possessively, just enough to ground you. Like he couldn’t believe he was touching you and needed to memorize the shape of your body with his hands before you slipped away again. You’d gasped into his mouth, not even meaning to, and felt him inhale like the sound had gone straight to his chest.

And then you kissed him harder.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, wrecking the neatness of it with the kind of carelessness that only came when heat outweighed hesitation. You pulled, just a little–testing, exploring–and he moaned softly against your lips like it cracked him open. His glasses were crooked by then, fogged from your shared breaths, and neither of you bothered fixing them. The world could stay blurry if it meant this stayed sharp.

Somewhere in the haze, Bob’s shirt had come off. You hadn’t meant for it to escalate. It had just…Happened. One minute your hands were sliding beneath the hem, feeling the heat of him, the tension in his abdomen, the ridges of muscle that lined his stomach, and the next, the shirt was gone. Flung off to the side without a single graceful motion. You hadn’t even looked where it landed.

He was solid beneath you. Not chiseled in a gym-rat kind of way, but strong in that natural, everyday way. Like he was built for work. His skin was sun-warmed with just a pinch of colour, a faint line of tan cutting across the middle of his arms where T-shirts always stopped. You touched him like he might disappear. He held you like he never wanted you to.

And God…He was good.

Surprisingly good.

Not in the way of someone who practiced, but someone who paid attention. Someone who kissed with focus. With reverence. Like your mouth was an answer he’d been solving toward for weeks. He kissed like he studied–slow, thorough, intentional. His tongue was gentle at first, coaxing. His teeth grazed your lip once, barely, and you swore you could feel it in your spine. When he kissed you the second time–after the next problem, when your timer dinged again–you already knew it wasn’t going to stay brief.

And it didn’t.

He pulled you in with hands that were just slightly rough from calluses and pencil grooves, fingers curling tight around your waist, your ribs, like he needed to feel you under his hands. And when he slipped those same fingers under the hem of your shirt again—this time slower, surer–you let him. You wanted him to. His touch wasn’t greedy. It was searching. Savoring. Like he was learning every inch of you the way he learned his formulas.

And you didn’t realize how touch-starved you’d been until then.

Until the heat of his hand met the curve of your spine, and you arched into him like your body had been waiting for permission. Until he kissed down the side of your jaw, slowly, reverently, and you felt the hum of it in your chest. Until your own hand traced the broad slope of his shoulder, down over the rise and fall of his ribs, and found nothing but steady strength and gentle restraint.

You didn’t say it out loud–but he could feel it.

The hunger in the way you kissed him. The gratitude in the way your hands explored him. The desperate edge that slipped into your breath every time you whispered his name between kisses like it wasn’t something you’d meant to do.

And maybe it wasn’t about physics anymore.

Maybe it never really was.

Because as Bob pulled back, breathless and flushed, his glasses still askew and hair mussed into soft waves from your fingers pulling and tightening, he looked at you like you’d changed something fundamental inside him. Like you’d opened a door he didn’t know was locked. Like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

Your timer buzzed again in the background. Neither of you moved.

“…You got that one right,” He whispered, lips brushing your cheek “Think you deserve…A break.” You let out a breathless little laugh, your chest still rising and falling with the aftermath of the last kiss. Your hair was a bit mussed from his hands, your lips slightly swollen from the soft, reverent press of his mouth–and you were dizzy, absolutely dizzy with the way he looked at you.

“Bob…” You murmured, voice playful, warm, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve got some sort of ulterior motive.” Bob, still slightly breathless, hand still planted firm and reverent on your thigh, sat back just a little. Enough to give you a look. One of those boyish, guilty-but-not-really guilty grins that curled slow at the edges and made your heart skip.

He pressed a hand flat to his bare chest, wide-eyed in mock innocence.

“Me?” He said, lips twitching. “No…Definitely no ulterior motives here. I’m just…” He leaned in again, close enough for his breath to dance against your jaw, “Trying to do something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” Your brows lifted, pulse tripping.

“Oh?” You murmured, teasing but curious. “And what’s that?” He pressed a kiss to your jaw–so gentle it nearly didn’t register as a kiss at all. Just warmth. Just intent. Then another, lower, slower, right beneath the curve of your ear. And then:

“Going down on you,” He whispered.

The words landed hot, like they’d been spoken directly into your bloodstream.

Your breath hitched audibly. You swore you could feel your pulse flutter in places you didn’t think could react to words alone. Heat pooled low in your stomach like syrup spilling into something hollow. Still, you managed a quiet, almost incredulous laugh, voice tightening as you tilted your head to look at him again.

“Now I need to know,” You said, fingers threading back into his hair, “How long you’ve been thinking about that.” Bob let out a soft laugh, one hand splaying open against your hip, the other bracing himself still, like he needed to keep steady before he admitted anything to you. He kissed down your neck again, slower this time–each inch of skin passed over with the kind of devotion that said this wasn’t some spur-of-the-moment confession.

And when he reached the collar of your shirt, where the fabric hung loose from earlier tugging, he nosed at it gently. Not greedy. Just wanting more.

You tugged lightly on his hair, not to stop him, but to coax him to pause–just enough to get him to look up.

“Hey,” You said softly, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “How long have you been thinking about doing that?”

Bob’s eyes flicked up to yours–blue and wide and already glassy with the weight of how badly he wanted you. And then his face turned a shade deeper, that telltale blush painting up his cheeks and crawling behind his ears.

“Since…” He paused, like the words were too embarrassing to say. “Since the first day of class. When you came in late…Dressed in that skirt.”

You blinked, lips parting slowly.

“The black one?”

He nodded, eyes darting to your mouth like it might give him the courage to keep talking.

“It rode up just a little when you walked past. And you sat a few seats down and didn’t look at me once. And I–” He broke off for a second, laughing nervously. “I dropped my pencil because of how you smelled and how your legs looked and because you didn’t even notice me looking.”

You stared at him.

Then grinned, slow and wicked.

“Well,” You murmured, leaning in again until your lips were just barely brushing his, “Guess it’s a good thing you’re getting your chance now.” Bob exhaled a shaky breath–one of awe, of disbelief, of absolutely overwhelmed want.

And then he kissed you again.

The kiss that followed was nothing like the first.

It was deeper. Hungrier. Your lips opened beneath his without hesitation this time, and he drank in the permission like it was oxygen–his hands curling tighter around the backs of your thighs before lifting you effortlessly into his lap. You gasped softly against his mouth as your knees bent around him, your weight settling against the solid warmth of his thighs, your hands sliding up the broad slope of his bare shoulders.

He kissed you like he’d waited for this.

Like every moment you’d spent leaning over equations, brushing fingertips, trading teasing words had led to this exact point–and now he had you here, soft and open in his lap, your legs bare and warm against denim, your breath stuttering into his mouth every time he tugged you closer.

His hands slid beneath the hem of your t-shirt again, palms hot against your back, and this time he didn’t hesitate. The fabric peeled upward in one smooth motion–up, over your ribs, brushing your chest–until you lifted your arms and let him tug it off completely. He tossed it somewhere behind you, neither of you looking to see where it landed.

His eyes dropped.

The moment he saw what you were wearing underneath, his breath hitched—and for a second, he didn’t move. A soft cotton sports bra in a worn, dusky pink–simple, comfortable, a little faded from wash after wash–but the way it hugged you? The way it molded to the curve of your breasts, straps digging gently into your warm skin?

Bob Floyd looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

He swallowed once. Then again. His glasses had slipped slightly lower on his nose, giving him that boyish, dazed expression he got whenever something completely wrecked his train of thought. You watched his eyes trail over you, caught between reverence and want, and then–

He hummed. A soft, breathy sound from deep in his chest. Something unfiltered. Something warm.

Then he looked back up at you.

And kissed you again.

His hands gripped your hips now, anchoring you down in his lap like he didn’t want you to shift an inch. He kissed you harder–open-mouthed, deep, letting out a quiet groan as your hips rocked forward ever so slightly. He didn’t say anything. Just let the noise fall between you, ragged and raw, swallowing your gasp as he shifted his grip and guided you until your back hit the mattress.

The room spun gently with the motion, soft yellow light from the lamp catching in the lenses of his glasses as he leaned over you. His body followed—broad shoulders, warm bare chest pressing down as he settled between your legs. He braced his hands on either side of your ribcage, framing you like a question he couldn’t stop asking. His eyes searched your face for just a second, but you nodded–softly, wordlessly–already reaching for him again.

He dipped his head.

Kissed your throat.

Then lower.

And lower still.

He took his time.

Every press of his lips trailed down the line of your collarbone, across the top swell of your breasts where the fabric cut gently across your skin. His glasses slipped again, nearly falling off–but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even lift a hand to adjust them. He kissed you through the blur, lips brushing the tops of your breasts like they were something sacred.

You let out a quiet sound–half gasp, half moan–and threaded your fingers into his hair again. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of your skin as he groaned softly against you.

“Are you always this sensual?” you whispered, voice thick, dazed, breathless.

Bob let out a quiet sigh, like your question made something in him ease and deepen at the same time.

“Let’s just say I love giving…” He murmured, kissing the center of your chest. “…A lot.”

The way he said it–low, quiet, honest–made your legs clench involuntarily around his waist. Your mind flooded with images far too filthy for someone as sweet as Bob Floyd to inspire.

But then again, the way he looked right now–glasses fogging, lips red and glistening, his chest moving in slow, hungry waves with every breath–maybe he wasn’t that sweet after all.

His fingers reached for the thin straps of your bra.

“Hope you don’t mind,” He whispered against your skin, lips still pressing hot kisses between every word.

You shook your head quickly. “I don’t mind at all…”

With a reverent kind of care, he slipped the straps off your shoulders. One. Then the other. His fingers brushed your arms on the way down, the backs of his knuckles ghosting over your skin like he was memorizing it. Then–slowly, carefully–he tugged the fabric down, baring you to him inch by inch.

His breath hitched.

Your breasts, soft and flushed from heat and touch, rose with every breath you took. Bob didn’t reach for you right away. He just…Looked. Let himself take it in. His hands slid up your sides again–rougher now, purposeful–and when they cupped the curve beneath your breasts, his thumbs brushed upward, stroking slowly until your nipples tightened under the attention.

His glasses fogged completely.

Still, he didn’t take them off.

He leaned in and kissed the soft mound of your left breast, then your right, each kiss dragging slower than the last. His lips were gentle, his hands firm, and when he finally brushed the tip of his tongue over your nipple, your hips bucked without warning.

“God,” You whispered, your hands fisting in the sheets beside you. Bob just smiled. Quietly. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Sensitive?” he murmured, lips hovering just over your nipple again, breath warm and teasing.

You shook your head slowly, fingers curling into the sheets. “I call it anticipation.”

His low laugh rumbled against your skin. “Didn’t know we were calling it that now… but okay.”

Then he kissed you again–this time firmer, lips wrapping around your nipple with a slow, aching pull that made your hips twitch beneath him. His tongue was wet and warm, lapping slow circles around the soft peak before closing over it again, sucking just a little deeper now–just enough to make you moan quietly, enough to send a thrum straight between your thighs.

His hands didn’t stop, either–broad palms sliding up and down the sides of your ribcage, thumbs sweeping in careful, reverent passes. He alternated between breasts with the same kind of concentration you’d seen in study sessions: deliberate, measured, like he was solving you.

And when he finally pulled away, lips red and glistening from worship, he blew a soft, chilled stream of air across your saliva-slick nipple–then the other.

Your entire body arched. He watched it happen with wide eyes, completely entranced.

Then–without a word–you sat up.

He blinked in surprise, hands still resting on your sides as you reached behind yourself and unhooked your bra the rest of the way, slipping the fabric down your arms and flinging it off the bed. The second it landed somewhere behind you, you laid back down–bare, flushed, and completely open.

Bob’s breath hitched hard. His glasses had slipped lower again, fogged beyond all reason now, and he still hadn’t touched them. He didn’t even seem aware of the state he was in–just that you were laid out beneath him, chest rising in unsteady waves, eyes soft but daring.

He exhaled shakily.

And then he moved lower.

He kissed the center of your sternum once, then again, trailing down past your navel with slow, reverent care. When he reached the waistband of your boxer shorts, he paused. His hands came to rest just above your hips, fingers curling slightly under the band.

He looked up at you, eyes glassy and dark behind the silver frames.

You nodded–slow, sure.

That was all he needed.

He pulled the fabric down just an inch. Then another. Just enough to reveal the top of your hips, the soft line of your lower stomach. His lips followed–kissing each inch as it was exposed, trailing warmth into places that had never felt this kind of attention before. The contrast between the heat of his mouth and the cool air made your thighs twitch, and he hummed softly against your skin.

“God, you’re beautiful,” He whispered. “You don’t even know, do you…”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. Your fingers were tangled in the sheets again, breath catching every time his lips brushed lower, every time he said something in that breathless, reverent voice that made you feel like he was seeing you for the first time.

When he reached the base of your hips, he gave the waistband a firmer tug, and you lifted your hips to help him–knees bending slightly, thighs parting as he pulled the shorts down your legs. He slid them off with practiced care, and you watched as he tossed them aside with the same nonchalance he’d flung his shirt–like every barrier between you was one more step toward something sacred.

He paused there.

Just knelt between your legs for a second, hands resting on your thighs, eyes locked on yours like he needed to anchor himself before continuing. Then–without saying anything–he pushed your thighs up gently, spreading you open just enough.

His mouth pressed to the inside of your knee.

You gasped.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a claim. A promise. His lips lingered there for a second, and then they moved–trailing up the inside of your thigh in slow, wet presses, each one firmer than the last.

“You’ve got no idea,” He murmured against your skin. “How long I’ve wanted to do this… How many times I’ve imagined being between your thighs just like this…”

His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just above your inner thigh, and your hips jerked slightly at the contact. He didn’t move away. Just kissed the spot he’d grazed. Then again. Higher this time.

“Wanted to take my time with you,” He whispered, voice low, breath hot. “Make sure you know what it feels like when someone actually wants to do this…” Your hands gripped the comforter.

“I want to hear the way you sound when it’s good. When it’s real. When it’s slow…”

He kissed the top of your inner thigh–right at the edge of where you needed him most.

Then, finally, he glanced up–his glasses slightly crooked, cheeks flushed, mouth slick with his saliva and swollen.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you,” He said softly. “You’ll never forget it.”

His tongue moved with devastating precision–slow, savoring, like he had all the time in the world and wasn’t about to waste a single second.

He started with a kiss-low, just at the edge of your folds, then dragged his tongue up in one long, warm stripe that made your legs twitch. You gasped, hands flying instinctively to his hair as he groaned into you, deep and low, like he’d been starving for this.

“Jesus–Bob–” You whispered, voice cracking on the edge of a moan.

He didn’t answer. Just licked you again, slower this time, tongue flattening against you with such gentleness it made your stomach tighten. Then he did it again. And again. Until the room dissolved into heat and breath and the wet, obscene sound of him eating you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted.

And maybe you were.

He used his mouth like a worshipper—like this wasn’t about getting you off, but about tasting everything he’d been dreaming of for weeks. He kissed your clit softly at first, then circled it with his tongue—just enough pressure to make you cry out, just enough to leave you chasing more. Your hips rocked against his mouth before you could stop them, and instead of pulling back, he moaned again, deeper this time, and grabbed your thighs—holding you open like a man possessed.

His fingers dug gently into your hips as he sucked on you now, lips wrapped around your clit with wet, deliberate pulls. His glasses were fogged beyond saving, the lenses glinting in the dorm light as they slipped further down his nose. He didn’t stop. Didn’t lift his head once. Just kept tasting and kissing and groaning like your body was the only thing he needed to study for the rest of his life.

You whimpered.

“F-Fuck, Bob–too good–”

That finally earned a reaction. He groaned again, louder, like your words were gasoline, and then–God–he slipped two fingers between your thighs, slick with your arousal, and pushed them in with a slow, practiced ease.

Your back arched.

The stretch was perfect. His fingers curled immediately, searching for that spot–and finding it like he’d mapped it out ahead of time. His mouth never left your clit, tongue flicking faster now, suction intensifying just slightly, just enough to send a full-body tremor through you.

“C’mon,” He murmured between strokes, voice ragged, lips brushing against you with every syllable. “That’s it… Just like that. Let me hear you.”

You did.

You let go of any remaining shred of restraint and moaned–loud, broken, lost to the rhythm of his fingers and the warmth of his mouth. Your thighs shook, your body tightening, unraveling. The dorm room felt like it might dissolve around you.

“G-Gonna–”

“I know,” he whispered, breath hot, eyes glassy as he looked up at you from between your thighs. “Go ahead. I got you.”

And then he did something devastating.

He sucked harder.

Curled his fingers deeper.

And moaned into you like your orgasm was his reward.

You shattered.

Your hands clutched his hair, your legs tensed around his head, and your breath broke into a stuttering cry as he licked you through it–never stopping, never letting up. He worshipped you all the way through your high, his mouth messy, eager, lips slick with you as he kept kissing, kept groaning, like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered.

When you finally slumped back, shaking, panting, spent–he didn’t move right away.

He kissed your inner thigh.

Then again. And again.

Then trailed up your body with soft, slow presses of his mouth, leaving a trail of your own taste on his lips as he made his way back up. His chest hovered over yours, his weight warm and solid, and when he finally kissed your mouth again–full and deep–you could taste yourself on his tongue.

And he let you.

Let you feel it.

Let you know exactly what he’d just done to you.

He pulled back from the kiss, hovering above you, mouth swollen from all the work he had done, lips slightly parted. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way–hair mussed from your fingers, flushed cheeks, chest rising with the weight of restraint.

Then, like a flicker of light through the haze, he let out a breathy laugh. Quiet. Disbelieving. Joyful.

You laughed too–soft, breathless, dazed–your palm dragging slowly down his bare chest before reaching up to push his glasses back up his nose. The lenses had slipped almost entirely off his face, smudged and misted at the edges. You caught the little fingerprints and streaks near the bottom and smiled, chest still heaving slightly as you murmured:

“Where…The hell did you learn that?”

Bob’s laugh deepened this time, short and warm, his entire face flushing deeper crimson. He covered his face with one hand for a second, then dropped it to your waist, eyes shining with both amusement and bashfulness.

“From…My past partners?” He said, half like a question, half like a confession. “I told you I’m a giver. I may look timid but…As you can tell, I know my stuff.”

You grinned, your heart skipping at how proud–but still modest–he sounded. You leaned up, catching his mouth in another kiss, slower now, languid. He hummed against your lips, eyes fluttering shut as his hands pulled you just a little closer.

“Bit surprising,” you whispered against his mouth.

He nodded, kissing you again, hands smoothing down your sides. “I know.”

And it would’ve stayed gentle, dreamy, lazy like that–until your hand drifted between your bodies.

You hadn’t been trying to tease. Not really. But when your palm brushed over the thick bulge in his jeans, the way his breath hitched immediately had you curling your fingers lightly around him, just enough to feel the weight of him. The heat. The hardness pressing insistently behind the denim.

You smiled, eyes soft but mischievous. “Your turn?”

But to your surprise, Bob flinched—barely, but it was there. His hand caught your wrist gently, not to push you away, but to pause.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

You blinked, your palm still resting against him. “What?” You tilted your head. “You don’t… even want to have sex?”

“It’s not that,” he said quickly, eyes darting to yours before lowering again. “I just…It’s really okay. You don’t have to.”

You sat up slightly, just enough to bring your faces closer again, concern slipping behind your smile.

“Are you…” Your voice gentle. “Are you nervous?”

His lashes fluttered. A breath stalled in his throat. And that was all the answer you needed.

You reached for his cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath his eye. His skin was hot, his jaw tight, but he leaned into your touch like he needed it.

“Bob,” You said softly, a smile curling into your voice. “How can you be nervous after you just gave me the best orgasm of my life?”

That made his eyes shoot open–just a little. You watched his expression shift. Like he’d heard something he hadn’t expected. Like praise landed harder than touch ever could.

“Seriously,” you continued, your voice warm and slow, “That was unreal. No one’s ever touched me like that. Not like they wanted to. Not like they were…Memorizing it.”

His mouth parted. You didn’t miss the way his breath trembled now. His hips shifted slightly against yours, and when you glanced down, you could see he was getting harder from your words alone.

You kissed the corner of his jaw. “You’re incredible, Bob.”

A sound left him–barely a sound, more of a low exhale, like it physically knocked something loose in him. His hand tightened slightly on your waist.

“You made me feel so good,” You whispered. “Safe. Wanted. Perfect.”

His eyes closed, lips parting with a shaky breath, and his hips rolled the tiniest bit into your palm. You could feel how much he wanted it now. How much he wanted you. He just hadn’t known if he was allowed.

And God, the way he responded to praise–it made something ache inside you.

Your foreheads rested together, breath shared in the quiet space between words, between heartbeats.

“Let’s do it together, hm?” You murmured, your voice warm and coaxing–softened with affection, laced with intent.

Bob let out the tiniest breath of a laugh, and his lips brushed yours as he smiled. “Okay.”

The word was nearly a whisper, but it carried weight–an unspoken trust folding itself into the syllables.

You leaned back just enough to reach between your bodies, your fingers brushing against the button of his jeans. He inhaled, shaky and quiet, watching you as you popped it open, then tugged the zipper down. The sound broke the hush of the room, loud in the stillness.

Bob shifted, lifting himself up just enough to hook his thumbs into the waistband. He wriggled out of his jeans with a little bit of awkwardness, and when the denim bunched at his ankles, he kicked them off with a grunt.

You both laughed. Low and breathless, the kind of laughter that came when something was too intimate not to be a little bit funny.

His glasses slid further down his nose.

“Sexy,” You teased, bumping your knee gently against his side.

He rolled his eyes–blushing, flustered, but grinning–and settled back between your thighs, his hands bracing himself on either side of your hips now. The closeness allowed you a better view of him, and you didn’t waste the opportunity.

Your gaze drifted downward. His boxer briefs were tented–straining. You could see the thick outline of him pressed against the fabric, the darkened patch of wetness at the tip where he was already leaking.

Your hand slid slowly down the middle of his torso–over the soft rise and fall of his stomach, the faint ridges of muscle, the trail of hair beneath his navel. Bob held perfectly still, his breath shallow, watching you.

When your fingers ghosted along the inside of his waistband, just above the swell of him, he sucked in a breath through his teeth.

“Tease,” He muttered, voice tight.

You didn’t deny it.

Instead, you slid your fingers a little deeper. Tugged the fabric down just enough to expose him.

He sprang free with a soft, needy sound escaping his throat.

Your eyes widened slightly.

He was…Big. Thick, flushed, already glistening with precum. The head was ruddy and swollen, shiny with need, and your stomach fluttered at the realization that he’d gotten like this just from pleasuring you.

He looked desperate.

You wrapped your fingers around him slowly, your palm sliding up his length with soft pressure. His breath hitched immediately, head tilting back slightly. His glasses slid another fraction down his nose, but he didn’t move to fix them–just closed his eyes for a moment, his chest lifting in a shallow, shivering inhale.

You stroked him again–long, slow, deliberate. Your grip was just firm enough to make him twitch, your thumb swiping over the slick bead at his tip.

His hips bucked. He gasped, and then let out a shaky laugh.

“Sensitive?” you murmured, lips tugging into a knowing smirk.

Bob’s head dropped forward a bit, cheeks flushed to hell. His voice cracked slightly.

“N-no…Anticipation.” He corrected jokingly, using your own words against you.

You laughed softly. So did he.

But you didn’t stop.

You kept stroking him, slow and sensual, your hand gliding up and down the length of him, savoring every tremble in his thighs, every shift in his breath, every twitch of his fingers against the mattress beside you. He was fully braced now, arms trembling slightly as he rocked into your touch.

His voice came out thin, frayed at the edges.

“I’m really…Really not gonna last if you keep doing that, and…” He swallowed hard, voice dropping to a whisper, “And I really do want to have sex with you…”

His eyes met yours. Wide. Pleading. Vulnerable.

Like he wanted to say more but couldn’t figure out how.

You leaned up slowly, hand still wrapped around him, lips brushing his ear.

“No need to beg…” You whispered, voice thick with heat. “But if you want to come inside me, Bob…Then you better hurry up and get these off.”

His whole body jolted.

A groan–low, raw, helpless–escaped him.

His boxer briefs were gone a second later. Pushed down and kicked away without a single thought, like he couldn’t bear another second of distance.

He came back over you with reverent slowness–climbing the length of your body like he was rediscovering it inch by inch.

His bare chest skimmed yours, warm and solid. His hips dipped low, the hard length of him brushing against the inside of your thigh, and your breath hitched at the contact.

“God,” he whispered, voice raw as his lips brushed against your neck. “You feel so good already.”

You arched into him just slightly, your hands finding his shoulders–broad and warm beneath your palms, still trembling faintly from restraint. His glasses were fogging again, slipping lower, but he didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t care.

He kissed the side of your neck.

Then your jaw.

Then your cheek–lingering there with a kind of gentleness that made your stomach twist.

And then he kissed your mouth again. Slow. Sweet. Deep.

You moaned softly into him.

The tops of his thighs pressed flush to the backs of yours now, his cock resting heavily between your legs–leaking precum that smeared slightly against your inner thigh as he shifted to fit himself against you perfectly.

His hand rose to your cheek, cradling it, thumb stroking lightly against your skin as he pulled back just enough to speak.

“You sure?” He asked softly, voice shaking with the weight of everything he was holding in. His eyes searched yours, pupils blown, cheeks flushed.

You nodded. Slow. Certain.

“I’m sure,” You whispered. He let out a shaky breath, then he reached down between the both of you, eyes never leaving yours.

You felt the warm glide of his knuckles against your folds first, then the soft, slick drag of his cock as he slowly ran the tip of himself through your arousal.

Your breath caught.

He swirled it over your clit once, twice–just enough to make your thighs twitch.

And God, the way he looked at you while he did it.

Eyes locked. Lips parted. Worship written into every line of his face, made you feel dizzy.

“You’re so wet,” He murmured. “You feel…Unreal.” You whimpered, your nails digging lightly into his shoulder as your other hand wrapped tighter around his bicep.

“Bob…” You whispered, voice already trembling. “Please.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your lips–soft and slow and steady.

Then–finally–he began to push in.

You both moaned.

The stretch hit immediately, slow and burning, a delicious ache that made your spine arch and your mouth fall open.

“F-fuck,” Bob gasped, his forehead dropping briefly to yours as he sank in inch by inch. “God, you’re–you’re so tight. So warm. You feel so good…Wow…” Your hips shifted, trying to take more, and his hands immediately gripped your thighs, grounding you.

“Easy,” He said, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I got you. Just breathe.”

You nodded, your head swimming.

He pushed deeper.

You could feel every inch–every throb of him, every shudder in his breath as your walls stretched around him.

“Just like that,” He murmured. “Doing so good. Taking me so well.” You whimpered, and the sound cracked open something in him.

“You like that?” He whispered, kissing your cheek again, his hips rolling just the slightest bit deeper. “You like hearing how perfect you feel around me?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God, yes, Bob–keep talking–please–”

“Fuck,” He breathed, his voice breaking again. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He rocked forward the last inch with a soft, helpless moan. Your body trembled beneath his as you adjusted, your thighs hugging his hips, your hands gripping him tightly. Bob groaned into your neck, voice ragged.

“God…You’re perfect. I swear, you’re–Jesus, I don’t even know how to describe this–” You turned your head, catching his mouth again in a deep, desperate kiss. You could feel him trembling above you, his muscles taut, breath stuttering with the effort of staying still.

“You feel so fucking good, Bob–so full–so deep–” His breath hitched.

“Say that again,” He whimpered, “Please.”

You kissed his neck, your voice thick with heat.

“You fill me up so good…God it feels amazing.” Bob let out a deep moan.

Then he began to move.

Just a tiny thrust at first–barely pulling out before pressing back in, the friction slow and hot and devastating.

Your mouth fell open.

His lips ghosted over your cheek as he whispered, “Gonna make you come on me just like this…” Your back arched at the words, your cheek bumping against his glasses. “You like the sound of that?” He added. Your fingers curled into his shoulder blades, nails dragging softly over warm skin as you nodded, breath catching on a moan.

“Yes…Yes, please.”

The quiet plea cracked something open in him.

He kissed you again–mouth hot, searching, needier this time–and his hips began to move.

Slow at first.

A deep roll forward, dragging his length out almost completely before easing back in, the friction molten, smooth, aching. You gasped into his mouth, your body lifting slightly to meet the next thrust. Bob groaned–low and husky–and pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, sweat dampening the hair at his temples, glasses fogging up again from your breath. Still, he didn’t take them off. He looked wrecked. Gorgeous. Reverent.

“God, you feel…” He whispered, voice thick and ruined as he rocked into you again, a little harder this time, “So good…So tight around me, baby–oh god.” Your breath stuttered. The nickname, unintentional or not, hit low and warm and made you clench involuntarily around him.

He felt it.

He swore softly–“Jesus”–and dropped his head to your shoulder, the next thrust coming sharper, more instinctual.

Your hands roamed—up his back, over the rise of his shoulders, down to his hips where your fingers dug in just slightly. He kissed your neck between thrusts, then bit gently just beneath your ear, and the second his teeth grazed your skin, you gasped.

Your body clenched again.

Bob moaned, full and broken.

“Fuck, that–You like that?” He murmured, voice hot and desperate against your ear. “You like when I do that?”

“Y-Yeah,” You whispered, trembling, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You feel so good, Bob…You’re hitting every part of me.”

He groaned–long, low, filthy in how soft it sounded. His hips began to move faster now, deeper, each thrust dragging a moan from your throat, and his hands slid beneath your thighs, hiking them higher around his waist so he could sink in even further.

“God, you’re perfect,” He praised. “You’re so perfect for me. Every inch of you–I swear–fuck–”

Your head fell back against the pillow. You were gasping now, barely able to respond, but you tried. You wanted him to hear it. You wanted him to know.

“You’re so good at this,” You panted, voice trembling. “So good at making me feel good–God, you’re incredible, Bob–”

His whole body stilled for half a second, as if praise struck something too deep.

Then he moved faster.

A rougher thrust–still controlled, still measured, but heavier now, thicker with want. He let out a moan against your neck, raw and hot, and your back arched at the sound.

You could feel him everywhere–his chest brushing yours, his lips at your throat, his hands gripping you tight like he needed to feel every part of you at once.

You cried out, hips lifting into his, clenching around him with every thick, slick stroke. He felt it. Groaned again. Slid one hand up your body to cradle the side of your face.

“Look at me,” he breathed, voice hoarse.

You did.

And the second your eyes locked, his pace stuttered–just for a heartbeat–like the sight of you, soft and dazed and open beneath him, was enough to make him lose rhythm.

Then he started thrusting again. Deep. Steady. Hot.

“I want you to come on me,” He whispered, voice cracking with the weight of it. “I want to feel you come again–want to hear how good it feels.”

Your lips parted. Your thighs trembled.

“Bob,” You gasped, desperate now. “You’re so good–please don’t stop–please–”

He kissed you again. Deep. Desperate. All tongue and breath and heat. His thrusts got heavier, faster, until you could feel your climax curling up your spine like a fuse.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” He murmured, hips stuttering with restraint. “I can feel it, baby… You’re so tight–so fucking wet–come for me–please–“

You shattered.

With a cry that broke in the middle, your walls clenched around him, waves of heat and release rolling through you so hard your vision blurred. Bob moaned your name–ragged, reverent–thrusting into you a few more times before he groaned loud against your shoulder and came with a shuddering, broken gasp. Bob’s entire body tensed as he came–his cock pulsing deep inside you, hips stuttering against yours in involuntary thrusts as thick, hot ropes of cum filled you.

You felt everything.

The way his muscles tensed above you, taut and trembling. The low, broken sound he made as he buried his face in your neck. The way his arms curled tighter around your waist like he needed to hold onto something to stay connected to consciousness

“F-Fuck,” He choked out, hips giving one more weak, slow push. His release was hot and endless, spreading warmth low in your belly as his body finally started to give in. His breathing was ragged, the heat of it ghosting over your skin. He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t move at all for a long moment.

Just slumped forward, his bare chest sticky against yours, the last tremors of orgasm still rolling through him. His forehead pressed into your shoulder, and you felt him exhale with all the weight of a man undone.

Even the frames of his glasses were warm.

You let your arms slide around his back, hands splayed wide across the muscles there, sticky with sweat, anchoring you both. The only sounds in the room were your shallow, echoing breaths, and the soft hum of a distant hallway light buzzing just outside your dorm door.

Bob’s weight against you felt right. Heavy in the best way. Settled. Natural.

Your fingertips traced slow, thoughtless patterns over his back as you both lay tangled together, letting the afterglow settle around your limbs like warm syrup. Your heartbeats synced slowly–yours still fluttering, his gradually calming.

And then–

He shifted.

Lifted himself slightly on one trembling arm, the other brushing your hair back from your forehead. His cheeks were flushed, his lips pink, and his glasses crooked beyond saving. His smile was dazed. Soft. Glowing.

He leaned in and kissed you again. A soft kiss. Lingering. The kind of kiss that said thank you, and also more, and also stay.

When he pulled back, still breathless, still inside you, he murmured:

“We’re gonna have to start going to the library to study.”

You blinked. Confused. Flushed and blinking at him through the haze, your breath still catching a little in your throat.

“…Why?” You asked, voice hoarse but amused, one hand reaching up to gently smooth the short, light brown strands of his hair that were now sticking out in every direction.

His smile widened–lopsided and boyish, just a little cocky.

“Because we’re never going to get any studying done if we’re near a bed…” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “The temptation will be too strong.”

You laughed–light, breathless, your chest shaking under his with the sound.

“Well,” You teased, trailing your fingertips down the curve of his back, “There goes that positive reinforcement idea, then.”

Bob leaned in and kissed your cheek. Then the tip of your nose.

“I’m sure we can figure out a replacement,” He replied, “Something that can be done in public spaces.”

You burst out laughing.

He did too.

And you stayed like that–wrapped up in each other, laughter echoing soft and breathless into the quiet room.

2K notes · View notes

mooningningg · 14 days ago

Text

Extra Credit - Megumi F. (4)

about. you're flunking all your subjects. He’s a virgin. So you strike a deal—he tutors you academically to win a girl he has a crush on, and you tutor him in sex, simple.

parts. chapter 03, chapter 05

pairings. nerd!megumi x popular girl!reader

words. 17.38k

content. virgin!megumi + experienced!reader, Explicit sexual content – blow job, making out, handjob, unprotectd sex, creampie, semi-public tension, teasing, dirty talk, reader guiding Megumi through his first sexual experience. Power dynamics. Smug, experienced reader. Slight humiliation kink if you squint. Megumi is flushed and wrecked and learning. This is a part of an ongoing tutoring-for-sexual-experience fic. Reader is not kind. She is hot and she knows it. ALL CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP I DON'T WANT NO SMOKE OR SOMEONE BEING A HATER IN MY COMMENTS.

notes. I've been soooooo excited to post this, and before anyone asks questions I spent the whole night writing this, I just got so carried away... I hope ya'll enjoy it!

Megumi didn’t know how liking something was supposed to feel, not really.

He knew how to tolerate. How to endure. He’d been taught early that silence was safer than feeling, and that logic—clean, rational, detached—was the only way to survive in a world that wanted too much.

But you— you were anything but rational. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the word—people threw it around all the time. Liking a person. Liking a subject. Liking a song, a movie, a pair of shoes.

But liking you? It didn’t feel simple. Or light. It felt… tense. Electric. Like holding a live wire between his teeth and pretending he wasn’t getting burned.

You were sitting across from him again, legs curled up on the chair like you owned every inch of this space. Like his house was just another set piece in the drama that was your life.

And yeah—you were trying now. Actually reading the material, taking notes with your pen twirling dramatically between your fingers, reciting things back with that same smug bite in your voice. But it wasn’t fake this time. You were showing up. You were trying.

Still, you couldn’t get through a paragraph without insulting someone. Or him.

“Okay, but who names their kid ‘Tokugawa’? It sounds like a bad cough drop.”

Megumi didn’t look up from his textbook. “It’s a family name.”

“Well, their whole family needs lozenges.”

He sighed. “You’re lucky I’m being paid in patience.”

You rolled your eyes. “No one’s paying you, loser.”

He muttered, “Exactly.” But he didn’t snap at you the way he used to. Not anymore.

Because somewhere between the failed midterm and your unexpected essay redemption, something shifted. You started turning pages with less sighing. Started showing up with scribbled notes and highlighted sentences. Still late. Still dramatic. Still wearing lip gloss like it was armor. But different.

You were still a brat. Still loud. Still mean, sometimes.

But you were honest. Everything that came out of your mouth, whether it was dumb, crass, or painfully sharp—it was real.

And he found himself wanting to hear more of it. All of it.

You were so fucking pretty it made his head hurt. But it wasn’t the kind of pretty people wrote poems about. It was the kind that interrupted his thoughts mid-sentence. That dragged his eyes across the curve of your smile or the annoyed flick of your wrist. That made him forget what year the Meiji Restoration happened. (1868. He remembered, eventually.)

It wasn't just the gloss on your lips or the ridiculous skirts you wore to tutoring like this was some social call. It was the way your voice pitched higher when you were actually confused, when you really wanted to understand something and didn’t know how to ask without sounding vulnerable.

Like now.

You squinted at the textbook. “Okay, this is phrased so dumb. What does ‘centralization of feudal power’ even mean? Why not just say ‘a bunch of dudes fighting to be king’? They’re so obsessed with sounding smart.”

Megumi rested his chin in his hand, watching you frown at the page like it personally offended you.

“It means uniting all the regional lords under a single authority,” he explained, calm. “It was a turning point. Less infighting, more nation-building.”

You blinked. “Could’ve just said that.”

He shrugged. “Some people enjoy full sentences.”

You stuck your tongue out, then scribbled something into your notes. “You’re lucky I’m actually writing this down.”

He didn’t respond. Just watched you.

Watched the furrow between your brows when you were focused. The gloss smudged slightly on your bottom lip. The faint ink stains on your fingers from dragging your hand over your writing. You weren’t trying to impress anyone here. Not anymore.

You weren’t posturing. You weren’t performing.

You were just… you.

And Megumi— Megumi was starting to realize he wanted to see more of that version. The one you didn’t show anyone else.

Even if you called him names. Even if you rolled your eyes every time he corrected you. Even if you would never admit how hard you were trying now. He reached for his water bottle, trying to cool the heat in his chest.

You glanced up at him suddenly. “What?”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

He looked away. “You’re imagining things.”

You snorted. “Ugh. You’re so annoying when you lie.”

“And you’re unbearable when you’re right.” You grinned at what he said. He didn’t.

But he did allow himself to look at you one more time—quietly, briefly—before flipping the page in the book and beginning the next topic. If this was what liking someone felt like—this quiet ache, this constant hum of attention, this need to understand every version of you—then maybe he could live with it. Even if he never said it out loud.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Megumi kept telling himself that—again and again like some mantra meant to ground him. Like it would rewind time, make things easier. Simpler.

You weren’t supposed to matter this much.

You were chaos. Noise. All sharp edges and unapologetic confidence, pulling attention like gravity. You cursed too much, you interrupted his explanations just to roll your eyes, and you refused—refused—to let anyone think you cared.

But you did.

He could see it now, sitting across from you as you hunched over a half-written sentence, mumbling to yourself about power structures like it wasn’t already a miracle you’d even remembered the term.

You cared so fucking much you didn’t know what to do with it.

And Megumi… didn’t either.

Because for the longest time, he thought someone like Miwa was what he wanted. She was kind. Polite. Smart. She smiled without hiding anything behind it. She was gentle in all the ways life never let him be. And she didn’t make him feel like he was unraveling every time she laughed.

Miwa was soft. Safe.

Everything that should’ve been good for him.

But she never looked at him like you did. Never challenged him. Never cut him open with a single glance and then left him there bleeding, only to stitch him up again with some bratty little smirk and a flick of your hair. You were a storm. And for some reason, his whole body leaned toward it. He glanced up again, stealing a look at you without meaning to.

You were chewing your pen now, eyes narrowed at your notes, one leg bouncing restlessly. You looked frustrated and stubborn and real. Your nails were painted, your lashes curled, and yet there was ink smeared on the edge of your palm from where you’d been writing too fast.

You weren’t perfect, but fuck, you were trying. And somehow that made you more dangerous than Miwa ever could’ve been. Because this version of you—this girl scribbling down answers like she had something to prove—this was the version that had cracked something in him open. This was the version he wanted to see again. And again. And again. He didn’t know what to do with that.

He’d spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, never letting anyone get close enough to see more than the surface. But you… you bulldozed past all of it without asking. You made him feel seen, even when he didn’t want to be. Even when it scared the hell out of him. You weren’t good for him, but somehow, you felt right. His chest tightened.

He didn’t know how to let someone in. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with this version of you—the one who was trying, who looked up at him after answering a question like she needed him to say she’d done okay. Who still called him names but now lingered a little longer after sessions ended. He didn’t want to be this close to someone, but he already was.

And when you glanced up at him again, cocking your head and muttering, “Okay, don’t give me that face, Fushiguro. I’m not dumb, I’m just tired,”—he didn’t even bother pretending not to stare.

Because you were right. You weren’t dumb. You were just tired. Tired of being underestimated. Tired of pretending you didn’t care. Tired of being afraid of how real this could get.

And maybe… he was tired too, tired of lying to himself, because whatever this was—whatever you two were becoming—it wasn’t supposed to happen. But it did, and now Megumi didn’t know how to go back.

The halls were quieter than usual—just the low echo of shoes scuffing tile, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and Nobara’s voice weaving effortlessly through the silence.

“Okay, but I swear to god, if they put streamers on the ceiling again, I’m not going,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she leaned casually against the lockers beside you. “Like, we’re not in middle school. What is this, Pinterest-core depression?”

You snorted—barely. A weak smile flickered across your face, just for a second. “You’re still going?”

“Hell yeah, I am,” she grinned. “If I’m gonna suffer through a school dance, I’m at least gonna do it in heels and with free punch. And I heard they booked that DJ—the hot one.”

You blinked, distracted. “There’s a hot DJ?”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “You are so out of it.”

You shrugged. Adjusted your bracelet. Looked down the hall even though you knew who wasn’t there. “I’m not planning on going.”

She paused. “Why not?”

“I just…” You trailed off. “Doesn’t feel like my thing.”

Nobara looked at you for a second. You didn’t meet her eyes.

There was a stretch of silence, the kind only a close friend knows how to sit through without forcing you to fill. You kicked lightly at the base of your locker.

“I used to love that shit, didn’t I?” you said suddenly, voice dry. “Dances. Crowds. People staring. Picking the best dress just to make some insecure girl cry.”

“You did,” Nobara agreed with a small smile. “You were terrifying.”

You smirked, then it faded. “It doesn’t feel the same anymore.”

And she didn’t have to ask why.

Because Megumi was in your head again.

No, he was under it—rooted deep in the places you didn’t want anyone to touch. The places you’d spent years fortifying with fake smiles and sharp words and a reputation built so high no one dared climb it.

And he was climbing it anyway.

You could feel it—the weight of it all. The way he looked at you now, like he saw every version of you and didn’t flinch. The way you remembered his voice when he explained concepts to you like you were worth explaining things to. The way his hand felt when it grazed your back. The way he kissed you like he needed to remember it later.

God, you were falling. Fast. Hard. But was that good for him?

Megumi was steady. Quiet. Good in the kind of way that didn’t need to be loud to matter. He gave a shit. He noticed things. He didn’t just listen—he understood.

And you? You were sharp and petty and glittering at the edges. Built on lies and control and showstopping exits. Your whole world was curated to be untouchable, and still you let him close. Still, he got in. And now you didn’t know how to protect him from it.

From you.

You leaned back against the lockers, head tilting until it thudded against the metal.

“I don’t like Megumi,” you said suddenly.

Nobara didn’t reply. Not immediately. She just raised an eyebrow.

You added, louder, sharper, “I will never like Megumi.”

The silence afterward burned. And she didn’t argue. Didn’t call you out. Didn’t throw your words back in your face. She just tilted her head and stared at you for a long second, then said, soft and slow:

“You’re self-destructing again.”

You didn’t answer. Because what could you say? She was right. You crossed your arms tighter, like you could fold yourself in enough to stop the ache. Because you weren’t supposed to like someone like him. You weren’t supposed to want good things. You deserved Noritoshi. Men who used pretty girls as arm candy and talked circles around your feelings until you thought you were the problem. Men who didn’t care too much.

Because caring too much meant someone could leave. And Megumi? He’d never leave in pieces. He’d just leave quiet. Fully. For good. So you lied, and Nobara saw right through it, but she didn’t say a word. She just slid down to sit beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours, and let the silence speak for both of you.

The silence stretched for a moment longer. You stayed slumped beside Nobara against the lockers, feeling your ribcage squeeze with every inhale like your body was rejecting the truth you just spewed. But your eyes were dry now. Done sulking. Done wallowing in the hollow space between denial and regret.

You shifted, exhaled, then suddenly slapped your palm against her thigh.

“I need your help, bitch.”

Nobara blinked. “The fuck?”

You turned to her with that too-sweet, too-fake smile—the one that meant trouble. “No, I’m serious. I need your help. I’m on a mission.”

“Okay?” she said slowly, suspicious. “What mission? Did you finally realize you’re in love with Megumi and you wanna go confess on the school roof?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. “Ew, no. Gross. Barf. Never.”

“Uh-huh.”

You ignored her smug little grin and sat up straighter, crossing your legs like you were about to give a fucking TED Talk.

“I want to help him.”

Nobara stared. “…Help who?”

“Megumi, dumbass.”

She blinked. “Didn’t you already help him? You know, with the whole unvirginizing him thing?”

You snorted. “Oh my god, shut up. That wasn’t—I mean, okay, yes, I helped him with the sex thing. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“Whatever, you should. I performed a civic duty.”

Nobara was biting her knuckle to hold back a laugh. “So what now? You’re launching a full-blown Megumi makeover arc?”

You clapped your hands once, sharp. “Exactly.”

“You’re serious.”

You grabbed her arm. “Look at me. Dead serious. We—I—need to fix the situation.”

“And what exactly is the situation, princess?”

You stood, pacing a little now like this was a war room briefing. “Megumi dresses like a damn divorced math professor who lost custody of his kids. I’m talking black-on-black, sad hoodie, never met a comb, wouldn’t know swagger if it slapped him.”

“He’s always been like that.”

“Exactly. And it’s criminal. Have you seen that body?!” you shouted, arms flailing. “Like, holy fuck, he’s hiding all of that under a zip-up and shame.”

Nobara wheezed.

“I’m telling you,” you said, pointing at her. “We need to fix his wardrobe. Change his hair. Show him what looking good actually feels like. Because Megumi Fushiguro being that hot in secret? That’s a sin.”

“Maybe he doesn’t care about that stuff,” Nobara offered, still smiling. “Not everyone wants to be a runway reject.”

“Well, he should,” you snapped. “Because people don’t see him right now. They don’t get it. He blends in like he wants to disappear.”

Nobara raised an eyebrow. “And you want him to stand out.”

You paused. Then slowly shrugged, crossing your arms again, eyes a little softer.

“…Yeah. I do.” Because people should look at him the way you did now. Like he mattered. Like he was there. Like he wasn’t just some sad genius background character who kept his head down until graduation. He deserved better than that.

And if he didn’t know how to show it, you’d do it for him. You grinned again. Bright. Dangerous. “So are you in or what, bitch?”

Nobara gave a mock sigh and stood up next to you, brushing dust off her skirt. “God, this is gonna be chaotic.”

You linked your arm through hers. “That’s the goal.”

And in the back of your mind, you weren’t just thinking about new jackets or hair wax. You were thinking about him, and this time, you were going to do it right.

“No.” Megumi said it flatly. Instantly. Without even turning his head.

He stood stiffly in the middle of the men’s section at a massive, modern shopping mall, surrounded by racks of jackets and hangers with carefully folded shirts. A goddamn fluorescent spotlight beamed down on his disheveled black hoodie like it was about to be burned in some sacrificial ceremony.

“No,” he said again, like it was final. You grinned like it wasn’t.

“Oh, come on, Fushiguro,” you groaned, dramatically flopping a blazer over your arm like it was a dying animal. “Live a little. It’s not like I dragged you here under false pretenses.”

“You said it was an emergency,” he said without blinking, staring dead ahead at a mannequin in cargo pants.

You beamed. “It was. Your wardrobe.” Beside you, Nobara cackled, holding up a dark olive button-down like she was choosing weapons in an armory. “Honestly, she’s right. You dress like an apocalypse survivor. And not in a hot, Mad Max way—just... sad.”

“I didn’t ask,” Megumi muttered, adjusting the strap of the messenger bag slung across his chest like it was his only armor left in this cursed environment.

“You never ask for anything,” you snapped, shoving a rack aside to step closer. “That’s the whole problem. You’re allergic to being perceived.”

“I don’t care what people think.”

“Yeah, we know,” Nobara muttered. “The problem is we do.”

You jabbed a finger at him. “You’d rather walk around looking like a tax fraud suspect than admit you’re hot. It’s actually insane.”

“I’m not—” He cut himself off and glared. “This is pointless.”

“Oh my god. Fushiguro. You literally do martial arts. You could break someone’s jaw with your pinkie and yet you’re scared of trying on a fuckin’ jacket?”

Megumi turned toward you now, his brows furrowed, that signature exasperated glare leveled straight at your face. “I’m not scared. I just don’t care about stupid shit like this.”

“Well maybe you should!” you snapped, stepping closer. “Maybe people would take you seriously for once if you looked like you had your life together instead of like you live in a supply closet!”

“I don’t care what people think,” he growled, arms crossing.

“Not even Miwa?” you said, biting your lip with a smug grin.

That made him pause. Even Nobara blinked. “Wait what the fuck—”

“Oops,” you said sweetly, tilting your head. “Was that too honest?”

Megumi’s jaw tensed, and for a second he looked like he wanted to walk directly into oncoming traffic.

“She doesn’t—” he started, then stopped himself. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“You like her,” you sing-songed. “And she’s all proper and polite and whatever. You really think she’s gonna look twice at you when you show up to events looking like a prison escapee?”

“That’s low,” he muttered.

“You know what else is low? Your pants. You don’t even wear a belt, it’s a miracle they’re not around your ankles right now.”

Nobara wheezed.

“You’re both insane,” Megumi muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

“No, we’re fashion-forward,” you corrected, shoving a clean white T-shirt into his hands. “And this is an intervention.”

“I’m not putting this on.”

“Why?” you narrowed your eyes. “Scared I’ll see your abs again and have a full mental breakdown in the dressing room?”

Nobara choked. “Not again?!”

“You’re not helping,” Megumi growled, shooting her a glare.

“I am helping,” she chirped, tossing him a tan jacket. “Helping your hopeless ass look fuckable.”

“Please die,” Megumi said under his breath.

You shoved the clothes into his arms. “Three outfits. Try on three. Then you can go back to your corner of despair.”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. And for a second, it was like he saw something soft behind the snark.

You rolled your eyes before he could say anything. “Don’t get sentimental, bitch. Try on the fuckin’ shirt.”

And Megumi—muttering obscenities under his breath—finally walked toward the fitting rooms.

You high-fived Nobara like you’d just summoned a demon.

It wasn’t just about clothes. Not really. It was about showing him the version of himself the world deserved to see. And goddamn, he was going to shine. Even if it killed you.

He stepped out of the fitting room with the same flat expression he always wore when he was forced into anything mildly humiliating—shoulders stiff, jaw clenched, hair slightly more disheveled than usual like he’d run his hands through it five too many times in frustration.

But none of that registered. Because the second Megumi walked out, wearing a black shirt that hugged his torso like a second skin and dark jeans that—oh fuck—sat criminally well on his hips, every cell in your body short-circuited.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out. Your brain? Vacant. Your heart? Punching itself in the face.

He looked… hot. Not “cute” hot. Not the quiet-guy-who-reads-in-corners hot. No. He looked like someone who should be banned from public spaces. Like someone who’d lean against a bar with his hands in his pockets and get phone numbers without speaking.

And he had the audacity to look annoyed about it. He stood in front of you, arms stiff at his sides, clearly uncomfortable but trying not to show it. “Well?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were still staring. His biceps shifted beneath the sleeves—those same arms that used to cross in irritation when you were being a brat during tutoring. Now they just looked… solid. Defined. Powerful. The shirt clung to the dip of his waist, the muscle of his chest, and you were going feral.

“Earth to bitch,” Nobara said, elbowing you sharply. “You’re drooling.”

You blinked. “Am not.”

Megumi raised an eyebrow. “You’re quiet.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“Yeah, so?” you snapped. But it came out breathier than you wanted. You turned away like it might give your sanity a fighting chance. “Shirt’s tight. You look like a douchebag.”

Nobara snorted. Megumi crossed his arms. “Is that supposed to be bad?”

Your eyes flicked back to him without meaning to. “No. I mean. Yes. I mean—shut the fuck up.”

His lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there. You were going to combust.

You forced a scoff, grabbing the next outfit from the chair. “This isn’t even the best one. Get back in there, Fushiguro.”

But even as he rolled his eyes and turned away, the image burned into your skull. You hadn’t seen this version of him before. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him.

And the worst part? He didn’t even know what he was doing to you.

He didn’t know he’d just shifted something in you—something real, something terrifying. Because for the first time in a long time… you were speechless.

Megumi stepped out again.

Different outfit, same unbothered expression—except this time, it was worse.

This time, he was wearing a fitted white button-up, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top two buttons undone, hanging slightly open like he gave zero fucks about propriety. Paired with a pair of dark, loose slacks that cinched perfectly at his waist, he looked like he belonged on the cover of some Calvin Klein campaign where the tagline was “Silence is seductive.”

And maybe that was what made it worse.

Because this wasn’t your Megumi.

Not the one who clicked his tongue at your mistakes. Not the one who made you repeat Civics dates until you cried out of rage and not frustration. Not the one who looked soft in the corners of his eyes when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

No—this Megumi was different.

Sharp. Composed. Dangerous.

He didn’t even glance at you at first. Just adjusted his sleeves slowly, hands veined and calm, like he had no idea he was doing things to your soul. But maybe he did. Because when his eyes finally flicked up, they went straight to yours. Quiet. Direct. Unrelenting.

And you forgot how to breathe. Nobara beat you to it.

“Holy fuck,” she breathed, literally grabbing the rack next to her for support. “You’re lying to me. You’re not real.”

Megumi frowned. “It’s just a shirt.”

“It’s the shirt of Gods,” she corrected. “You look like you kill people with a fountain pen and then drink black coffee over their grave.”

He raised a brow. “That’s specific.”

“I have taste.”

You didn’t say anything. Because what could you say?

You were the one who dragged him here. The one who started this whole thing. The one who picked out that shirt because it might look good and—

Now you couldn’t even speak.

It looked too good.

Your heart was racing like a traitor. Your fingers itched to fidget with something—your bag strap, your hair, his fucking shirt, maybe.

“Looks fine,” you muttered, arms crossed tight, refusing to meet his eyes again.

“Fine?” Megumi echoed, voice laced with just enough sarcasm to light your entire body on fire.

“Yeah, fine. Don’t get cocky.”

Nobara gave you a look.

“Is that why you’ve been standing there in complete silence for a full thirty seconds? Because it’s fine?”

“I was just thinking,” you snapped.

“Thinking about how hard you’d let him rail you on a school desk—?”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP,” you and Megumi yelled at the same time, both whirling on her.

Nobara just raised her brows and held her hands up. “Okay, okay. Lovers’ quarrel. Got it.”

You turned away, ears burning. “We’re not—”

“Don’t even start,” Megumi muttered under his breath, clearly flustered too, tugging at the sleeves of his shirt like they were suffocating him now.

But you both went silent again.

Your pulse wouldn’t slow. You watched him out of the corner of your eye. The way the collar of that shirt dipped into the line of his collarbone. The way his jaw tensed like he was holding something in.

And all you could think was: You did this. You made him look like this. And now? You didn’t know how to handle it.

Megumi looked like he was about to say something—anything to break the electric tension crawling between you. His hand lifted slightly, hovering awkwardly at his side as if caught between reaching for a hanger or snapping it in half.

Then he sighed. “Can someone help me with this—?”

Nobara perked up from the bench. “Well, I’ll go find something else. You two—” she wiggled her fingers, “figure that out.”

Before you could even open your mouth to tell her not to leave you alone with him—again—she was gone.

And then it was just the two of you.

Megumi still standing in front of the changing room door, looking disarmingly good in that white button-up and slacks, hair slightly damp from sweat, the scent of soap and something distinctly him still clinging to his skin.

Your heartbeat spiked.

“I can help,” you muttered, stepping forward before your brain could catch up with your mouth.

He didn’t say anything—just looked at you.

And that was all it took.

Because the moment you reached for the edge of the changing room curtain, Megumi grabbed your wrist, pulled—and you stumbled right into him.

The door clicked shut behind you.

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

His mouth was on yours before you could even breathe. No warning, no question, just heat—his hands gripping your waist like he couldn’t stand the space between your bodies a second longer.

Your gasp broke the kiss, but he chased it, tongue sweeping against yours, messy and desperate, like he’d been waiting to do this since the second you walked into the store.

“Megumi—” you mumbled against his mouth, but it came out half-strangled because he was already backing you against the mirror, crowding your body, and hitching one of your thighs up around his waist.

His grip was rough. Possessive. Your skirt bunched around your hips as he lifted you with ease, hands firm beneath your thighs, grinding against your clothed core like he didn’t give a shit who might be outside that curtain.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your throat, kissing the skin there like he was punishing it. “You drive me insane.”

Your head thudded against the mirror, fingers threading into his hair, yanking hard enough to make him groan against your neck. “You’re one to talk.”

But he didn’t answer—not with words.

He rolled his hips again, and the pressure made you arch into him, your breath hitching. Everything was so close—the heat of him, the taste of him, the sheer pressure of his body against yours. You felt like you were going to combust.

Clothes still on. Dignity long gone.

And he was still kissing you like he needed it to breathe.

Your hands fumbled with the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer—tighter—as your lips crashed together again. There was nothing soft about this. No hesitation. Just heat, and sweat, and the dizzying, aching need you both pretended didn’t exist for weeks.

And now it was here. Now he was here. And you didn’t want it to stop.

Not when his hands were sliding under your top. Not when your legs were trembling around his waist. Not when his tongue was in your mouth like he wanted to swallow every bratty word you ever spat at him.

But then— Voices outside. Faint. Distant. Still enough to pull you back.

You both froze. Megumi didn’t let you go.

But his breathing was uneven now, lips brushing yours in a breathless drag, like he didn’t want to stop—like he didn’t know how.

Your voice was barely a whisper. “Gumi…”

He stared at you.

And you stared back. Chest heaving. Skirt still hitched. Mouth swollen. Something unspoken burning between you. And that’s where you stayed—hovering between whatever this was… and whatever came next.

His breath hit your lips, warm and ragged. His forehead rested against yours for a moment—then pulled back just far enough to see your face.

You were quiet.

Too quiet.

And Megumi noticed.

His brows furrowed. His eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in concern. His hand, still hot from where it had been gripping your thigh, slid up slowly, brushing over your waist until it curled gently under your jaw.

“I don’t like it when you’re quiet,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse, like it scraped the edges of something unspoken.

You blinked up at him, stunned silent by the sudden shift in him—the switch from that sharp, cold, untouchable Megumi to this. This boy whose hand now held your chin with careful fingers. Whose voice trembled with the weight of something softer.

“I’m fine,” you said, trying to muster up the usual bitchy confidence, the bratty armor you always wore like second skin.

But it cracked.

Just a little.

Megumi didn’t let it slide. He tilted your chin up gently, enough to make your gaze meet his again.

“Don’t do that,” he said quietly. “Don’t lie to me.”

His thumb brushed along your cheekbone, his stare unwavering. Still cold. Still composed. But that softness was there now—simmering beneath it all like a secret only you got to see.

“Tell me what’s wrong, pretty.”

Your lips parted, but the words caught. You swallowed thickly, breath catching at the name. The way he said it—pretty—wasn’t sarcastic or mocking. It wasn’t a jab or a joke or some arrogant dig.

It was… warm, and that scared you more than anything.

“It’s nothing,” you whispered, voice thinner than you wanted it to be. “It’s not a big deal.”

Megumi didn’t move. He didn’t push or pressure or pull away. He just kept his hand where it was, thumb dragging over your jaw as his eyes searched your face for the truth.

“Then why won’t you look at me the same?” he asked, quieter now. “You’ve been avoiding it. You’ve been avoiding me.”

You breathed in sharply, back pressing against the mirror again, like it might absorb you whole. You hated this. Hated how naked it made you feel.

He was supposed to be the awkward one.

You were supposed to be untouchable.

So why the fuck did it feel like he was the only one who ever looked at you like he saw you?

“I’m not avoiding you,” you muttered, half-hearted.

You said nothing.

Not right away. Not when he was still holding you like that, arms strong and steady beneath your thighs, chest pressed to yours like he hadn’t just kissed the air out of your lungs.

So he dropped you.

Not harshly—but suddenly. Like he was testing you.

Your back hit the changing room wall with a gentle thud, your heels barely catching the floor before your knees almost buckled. You looked up at him, breathless, heart a mess, mascara smudged just enough to betray what had just happened.

And still—you smiled.

Smug. Crooked. Unbothered.

The kind of smile that always got you out of trouble. The kind of smile that meant game on.

“Don’t worry,” you said, smoothing your hair with both hands, the lace of your skirt riding scandalously high on your thighs. “I’m good.”

Megumi didn’t respond right away. He just stood there, bare chest rising and falling, hair damp, lips still slightly parted.

“You sure?” he asked, voice lower now. Quieter. A little cautious.

You nodded. “A hundred percent.”

And before he could say anything else—before you had the chance to crack even further—you turned around and opened the changing room door.

Nobara was standing right outside, arms crossed, one brow arched like she’d been waiting hours instead of minutes.

She gave you one long, slow look from head to toe.

Your skirt was wrinkled. Your lipstick was smudged. Your hair was a war crime.

“Well damn,” she said, deadpan. “Did he fuck the physics into you or what?”

You rolled your eyes and shoved past her with a scoff. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” Nobara chirped, following you down the hall. “Your hair looks like it got into a fight with gravity. And lost.”

You reached up instinctively to fix it, still feeling Megumi’s hands on your waist, his mouth on your neck.

You didn’t say anything. But the smile on your face didn’t fade. Not even a little.

“Okay, seriously,” you said, deadpan, staring at Megumi like he just kicked a puppy. “What the fuck is on your head.”

Megumi blinked, genuinely confused. “My hair?”

“No, your tragic decision-making, obviously it’s your hair,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Why does it look like a hedgehog lost a fight with a blender?”

Nobara burst out laughing behind you, flopping onto your bed with a snort. “Oh my god—thank you. I didn’t wanna say anything at the mall, but it’s atrocious. He looks like he cut it himself during an earthquake.”

Megumi frowned, defensive now, dragging a hand through the spiky mess. “It’s just… messy.”

“Messy?” you echoed. “No. Messy is a tousled ‘I-just-got-fucked-against-a-wall’ kind of hot. This?” You circled him like a shark, squinting at the disaster on his scalp. “This is ‘I got electrocuted in the shower and didn’t notice.’”

He turned slightly to Nobara, as if for help. She just smirked and held her hands up. “Don’t look at me, Fushiguro. I’ve been trying to say this since the first day we met. You’ve got good bone structure and awful hair.”

Megumi muttered something that sounded dangerously close to “I hate both of you.”

But you weren’t having it.

“Oh no, you’re not getting out of this now,” you said, grabbing his sleeve and dragging him toward your vanity like a man being marched to execution. “You let me bring you to the mall, you let me pick your clothes, and now? You’re letting me fix the national tragedy that is your hairstyle.”

“I never agreed to this,” he said, digging in his heels halfway across your carpet. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

You whipped around, inches from his face. “You’re hot now, Fushiguro. It’s your moral responsibility to have a hairdo that doesn’t look like it was styled by a weed whacker.”

“I liked it,” he muttered under his breath.

“I liked it,” you mocked in a high-pitched voice. “Oh my god, he’s got feelings. Someone call the news.”

Nobara snorted. “Y/N, be nice.”

You rolled your eyes and shoved him into the chair in front of your vanity. “No. He deserves violence. Emotional or physical, I haven’t decided yet.”

Megumi looked at himself in the mirror, then back at you, clearly regretting every life choice that led him to this point. “If you burn my scalp—”

“I will set you on fire on purpose if you keep complaining.”

“You’re terrifying,” he muttered, glaring as you sprayed water on his head.

You grinned. “I know.”

Nobara watched from your bed, sipping a boba drink she clearly found from your mini-fridge. “So what’s the plan, boss? We chopping it? Styling it? Shaving it off so he can start over?”

“Not shaving,” you said immediately, combing through his damp hair with a level of focus that would’ve shocked your teachers. “This bitch has potential. It just needs to be tamed.”

Megumi scoffed. “You make it sound like a wild animal.”

“That’s because it is, babe,” Nobara said helpfully.

You held up a strand and narrowed your eyes. “It’s giving ‘slept with my head in a microwave.’ Like, what is the texture? What is the shape? Where is the respect?”

Megumi rolled his eyes. “It’s not that bad.”

You and Nobara turned to him in unison.

“Yes,” Nobara said solemnly. “It is.”

“It’s a violation of basic human decency,” you added.

Megumi leaned back in the chair like a condemned man. “Do whatever you want. I’m already dead inside.”

You grinned. “That’s the spirit.”

You and Nobara circled Megumi like vultures, armed with a spray bottle, two combs, a round brush, and enough styling product to open a pop-up salon. He sat rigidly in your vanity chair like he was preparing for surgery, eyes narrowed at his reflection as you pulled his hair back and forth with clinical precision.

“I swear to god, if this makes it worse—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, misting his head aggressively. “You gave up the right to complain the second you walked in here with this disaster on your scalp.”

“It’s not a disaster,” he muttered, grimacing as Nobara tugged a chunk of hair upright with a teasing comb.

“You’re right,” Nobara chimed in sweetly. “It’s a catastrophe.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “It looks like it’s been styled with a spoon and a prayer.”

Megumi groaned audibly. “Why are you both so dramatic?”

“Because we have eyes,” Nobara said.

“And standards,” you added.

It took longer than it should have—spraying, combing, trimming flyaways, arguing over center part versus side part, threatening to shave it all off entirely—but eventually, after a blur of movement and bickering and way too many close calls with Nobara’s flat iron, you took a step back.

You stared at him. Silently.

The spikes were still there—sharp, unruly, unapologetically him—but now they were tamed, softened in shape, styled with a cleaner edge that actually made sense with his face. Not too polished, not too wild. Balanced.

Dangerously so.

Because it brought out everything.

His cheekbones. The cut of his jaw. The deep-set steel blue of his eyes. It was like finally seeing a painting under the right lighting.

And you hated how hard your chest clenched.

“Oh,” Nobara said, her voice soft with shock. “Oh, you’re handsome-handsome.”

You flinched out of your trance. “Calm your fucking tits.”

Nobara ignored you, walking around to get a better view. “Y/N, we really did that. We should be charging for this.”

Megumi, still blinking at his reflection like he wasn’t sure what universe he was in, murmured, “It’s... better?”

“You look hot,” Nobara said bluntly.

“I said calm—”

“No, I’m serious. I didn’t know your face looked like that under all the porcupine static.” She turned to you. “Now—glasses.”

“Wait, what’s wrong with his glasses?” you and Megumi said at the same time, both frowning.

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Nothing’s wrong with them. But let’s just see. For science.”

“I need them to see,” Megumi deadpanned.

“Then close your eyes for two seconds and survive.”

Before either of you could protest again, she plucked the frames off his face.

Megumi blinked, disoriented. “I can’t see shit.”

And you— you couldn’t breathe.

Your fingers froze mid-adjustment. Something twisted low in your stomach.

Because this wasn’t your Megumi anymore.

This wasn’t the boy who wore soft, wrinkled hoodies and slouched with a pen in his mouth while mumbling about feudal Japan. This wasn’t the slightly awkward, perpetually annoyed tutor who scolded you for confusing Confucius with Confetti or whatever the hell his name was.

This was— Sharp. Composed. Disarmingly beautiful. And still undeniably him. But somehow… less yours. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

You swallowed around the dryness in your throat and reached over gently to slide his glasses back on.

“Okay,” you said, voice carefully neutral. “You look fine.”

Nobara arched a brow. “Fine? That’s all you’re giving him?”

“Jesus, calm down,” you muttered, waving her off. “You sound like you’re about to mount him.”

Megumi snorted softly, but he was looking at you now. Really looking. And you didn’t know what you looked like back.

Just that something inside you was shifting, and no matter how hard you tried to bury it beneath your snark and sarcasm—

You couldn’t help but think: He doesn’t look like my Megumi anymore, and that scared you more than anything. Because you weren’t ready to admit what you already knew: You didn’t want to lose the version of him that only you ever got to see.

The buzz started before first period even began.

It was in the halls, in the cafeteria, in the fucking girl’s bathroom stalls. You could hear it behind closed lockers, whispered in corners, shouted between friend groups.

"Did you see Fushiguro?" "Is that really him?" "Who knew he had a jawline like that?"

You slammed your locker shut hard enough to rattle the one next to it.

Nobara, walking beside you and munching on pocky like she owned the damn world, raised a brow. “You okay?”

“No,” you hissed, adjusting the strap of your bag sharply. “I’m not fucking okay. These bitches are acting like he hatched from an egg this morning.”

Nobara snorted. “Well, to be fair, he was looking like a soggy anime protagonist before we fixed his hair.”

You shot her a look.

She shrugged. “Hey, we did this. You should be proud. Your man’s finally getting the recognition.”

You turned to her, voice low and vicious. “That’s not my fucking man.”

She smirked. “Sure.”

And still, as you walked into the main hallway, the whispers amplified like a hive of flies. You could hear a group of girls ahead giggling too loudly, standing near the bulletin board where someone had literally taped a blurry candid of Megumi — from that morning — shirt tucked in, hair clean, glasses no where to be seen.

You stared. Blinked. And felt your blood boil.

You did this. You fixed that hair. You picked those fucking jeans.

And now they were all foaming at the mouth over it.

Not because they noticed him in math class, or watched him quietly help the juniors when no one else did, or saw the way his knuckles were always bruised because he boxed like he had something to prove.

No. They noticed because you made him hot. You did that.

And they were two seconds from sexualizing him like a piece of meat in your lunch tray.

“He could get it now,” one girl said, fanning herself with a worksheet.

“I’d climb him like a tree,” another giggled. “Those arms? He could ruin my GPA, and I’d thank him.”

You clenched your jaw.

“Oh my god,” a third voice added — Aiko, of all fucking people, her tone dripping with fake wonder. “Who knew Fushiguro had potential? He used to be such a loser, and now I’m like… kind of obsessed. He just needed a little help, right?”

You stopped walking. Nobara sensed it before you spoke. “Oh no.”

Your heels clicked against the tile like a warning shot. You stepped forward, stopping right in front of their little group like a queen entering the battlefield.

Aiko turned, already smiling, like she wanted you to join in on the joke.

You didn’t smile back.

“You wanna say that again?” you asked, voice deceptively sweet.

Aiko blinked. “What?”

“The part where you called him a loser,” you said, tilting your head. “Go on. I’m sure he’d love to hear that from someone who couldn’t spell ‘potential’ if her life depended on it.”

The girls went quiet.

You took another step closer, smiling now—but it was venomous. “See, you bitches love to pop your pussy for something shiny and new. But where were you when he sat alone every fucking lunch? Or when you called him creepy for knowing the answers before the teacher asked?”

Aiko’s face started to pale.

“That boy has more class in his knuckles than you have in your whole bloodline,” you sneered. “So maybe think twice before you talk about him like he’s your little glow-up project. You wouldn’t know what to do with him even if he let you try.”

Nobara let out a low whistle behind you. “Jesus.”

You didn’t care. Your heart was thudding in your chest, rage coiling behind your ribs. Because he deserved better than that. Better than them. Better than you, too, maybe—but they sure as fuck weren’t allowed to talk about him like that.

Not when they didn’t know a thing about him.

Not like you did.

The girls scattered like flies after that, mumbling apologies or pretending not to care.

You stood tall, smoothed your skirt, and turned on your heel.

“Feel better?” Nobara asked, falling into step beside you, eyebrow raised.

You huffed. “No. But I fucking meant every word.”

She bumped your shoulder. “Damn right you did.”

But the truth burned in your throat even as you walked away from the mess. Because the one person you weren’t brave enough to say that to… was the one person you’d started to care about way too much.

It was raining by the time you got there. Not heavy yet, but the clouds overhead promised hell was coming.

You barely knocked.

The door opened after one knock, and there he was—Megumi. Barefoot, in sweatpants and a black t-shirt that clung to his chest. His hair was a little damp, curling at the ends from either a shower or the humidity outside. The soft flicker of the TV behind him lit his silhouette.

His eyes skimmed over you. “You’re late.”

“I was being dramatic,” you said with a sniff, stepping inside like you owned the place.

You didn’t. And you felt it, too.

The quiet of the house pressed in on you. The only sound was the low murmur of the television—“storm warning issued for Tokyo Metro Area…”

Your shoes left faint water prints on the hardwood. You toed them off and dropped your bag beside the couch, pretending the silence wasn’t suffocating.

“So…” you said, voice softer now, almost teasing. “You’re a big shot now, huh?”

Megumi frowned. “What?”

You gestured vaguely toward him. “The school. People are practically frothing at the mouth over you. I think I overheard someone say you could step on them and they’d say thank you.”

He blinked. “That’s… disturbing.”

You dropped onto the couch. “That’s teenage girls. Get used to it.”

He didn’t sit. Just stood there for a second, like he didn’t know what to do with you. Like he couldn’t decide whether he should start quizzing you on politics or kick you out.

You stared at him. “You really didn’t notice?”

“No,” he muttered. “I don’t care.”

There was a pause. A little too long.

Then—

“…Do you?” he asked, quieter now.

You tilted your head. “Do I what?”

He was still standing there, arms crossed, jaw tight. But something about the way he said it—

“Do you like it?” he asked. “The way I look now.”

It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t a trap. It sounded like an honest fucking question.

You felt something pinch in your chest.

You wanted to laugh. Or roll your eyes. Or tell him he looked fine and move on with your night. But you couldn’t. Because the way he was looking at you—calm, quiet, guarded—was killing you.

“Do you want me to like it?” you asked back.

He didn’t blink. “I asked first.”

You stared at him. Tried to read his expression. But he was unreadable, as always—except his shoulders were a little tense, and his eyes kept flicking between you and the storm outside the window. So you told the truth.

“I liked how you looked before,” you said, crossing your arms again. “I like how you look now. You’re hot. Congrats.”

That made him frown, just a little.

You rolled your eyes. “Is that not what you wanted to hear?”

“No,” he said. “I just… didn’t think you noticed me.”

The words were soft. Like they cost something.

You blinked. “What?”

He finally sat down beside you, slow and heavy, elbows on his knees. “You were with guys like Kamo. Loud, rich. The whole school knew when you were dating someone.”

“So?”

“So I thought you just… tolerated me,” he said.

You stared at him. “I showed up to your house in the rain. For tutoring. I literally begged you to tutor me again.”

His eyes flicked toward yours. “That’s not the same.”

Silence again. You bit your lip, then sighed. “I just didn’t want to be the only one who saw you.”

Megumi’s brows pulled slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You swallowed, folding your arms tighter. “People didn’t really look at you. Not really. They saw the grades, the silence, the hair. But they didn’t look. I did.”

You paused.

“And I didn’t want to keep it to myself.”

Megumi was quiet for a while. The kind of quiet that made your skin prickle. You looked down at your nails, chewing your lip. “That’s all. I just thought… people should know.”

“Why?”

You blinked again. “Why what?”

“Why did it matter that people saw me?”

The question was too honest. It made your stomach twist.

“I don’t know,” you said finally. “Because maybe if they did… I wouldn’t feel so fucking insane for noticing you in the first place.”

Megumi’s throat bobbed. The rain outside was louder now. You could hear the drops hitting the glass like static. You were sitting so close on the couch now, knees almost brushing. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t touch you.

But his voice dropped a little. “I noticed you first.”

You turned your head.

Megumi wasn’t looking at you. But you could see the pink climbing up his neck.

“I didn’t say anything because I thought you’d destroy me,” he muttered, almost like he was annoyed with himself. “You still might.”

You smirked, but it was softer than usual. “You’re not so easy to destroy, Fushiguro.”

He finally turned toward you again. And for a second—just a second—you weren’t the girl who wrecked reputations for fun. You weren’t the mean girl, the manipulator, the bitch with a crown on her head. You were just a girl. Wanting a boy who never thought someone like you would.

“…We’re here to study,” you said quickly, breaking the eye contact and grabbing your bag. “Don’t get weird about it.”

But your hands were trembling just a little when you opened your notebook. And neither of you pointed it out. Megumi didn’t move. You felt it before you saw it—that shift in the air. His gaze heavy on you, weighing every breath you tried to take like it meant something.

And maybe it did. Because then came the first real blow. “You’re quiet.”

Your pen stilled. “I’m literally speaking right now,” you muttered, not looking up.

“That’s not what I mean.”

You clenched your jaw, flipping open your notes like they weren’t trembling in your hand. “Well, maybe I just didn’t feel like biting your head off today. Shouldn’t that be a win for you?”

He ignored the sarcasm. “You’ve been off ever since the mall.”

“And you’ve been dressing like you’re starring in a Calvin Klein ad,” you shot back. “Maybe I’m just adjusting.”

His brow twitched. “So you are upset.”

“No.” You looked up at him, heat crawling up your neck. “I just think it’s funny.”

Megumi’s stare didn’t budge. “What’s funny?”

“That now everyone sees you,” you said, biting the words out, “suddenly you’re worth talking to. And I have to watch girls lose their shit over a guy I—”

You caught yourself. Hard. Megumi stepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

“And what?” he said, voice low.

Your throat was dry. “And nothing.”

He tilted his head, sea-glass eyes narrowing. “That’s not nothing.”

You shot to your feet. “Can you not? Can you just, for once, not try to read my mind like I’m some fucking essay prompt?”

“I wouldn’t have to guess,” he said, voice tighter now, “if you’d just tell me what’s going on.”

“I’m fine, Megumi,” you snapped.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh my god, shut up—why do you even care?”

That stopped him. Just a second. But you saw the way it landed. Saw the shift in his shoulders, the pinch in his brows—like you’d yanked a thread that unraveled something you weren’t supposed to touch. You hated how your chest twisted.

“I didn’t mean that,” you said quickly, voice smaller. “I just—this was easier when you were just…”

“What?” Megumi asked quietly.

Just Megumi. Your Megumi. But you didn’t say it. You didn’t get the chance.

Because the thunder cracked so violently it made the windows rattle—followed by a sudden, sharp click as the power cut out completely. Lights. TV. Everything.

Gone. Darkness swallowed the room, save for the occasional flash of lightning. You could barely see him. But you felt him. Both of you stood there in the thick silence, the storm pressing against the glass like a weight.

And then— “I’m still me,” Megumi said quietly. “Even if I look different.” You exhaled. Slow. Unsteady.

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like I’m not?”

You hesitated. Then, barely above a whisper— “Because you look less like someone I can keep.”

The words hung there between you. Electric. Unforgivable. You weren’t even sure he heard them—until he stepped closer. Close enough that the scent of him, the heat of his skin, wrapped around you like gravity.

“You think I’m going somewhere?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Everyone else wants you now.”

“I don’t care about everyone else.”

The silence between you was louder than the storm now. You opened your mouth—then shut it again. Because you could still taste the fear in your throat. Not of losing him. But of how much you already had. You swallowed around the ache in your throat, trying not to blink too hard. The silence stretched. Too raw. Too exposed. So, like always, you threw up a wall.

“Well,” you said, stepping back and folding your arms, “isn’t this romantic. Power’s out, storm’s raging, and I’m stuck with Tokyo’s favorite new thirst trap.”

Megumi blinked, the sharpness in his expression dimming just enough to look mildly offended. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re sweaty and shirtless and we’re in the dark.” You gestured around. “I’m just saying, if this was a movie, I’d already be dead or pregnant.”

That earned a very faint snort, like he didn’t want to laugh but couldn’t help it. He exhaled, raking a hand through his damp hair. “My dad keeps candles somewhere.”

“Wow. Sexy and prepared,” you muttered, watching him disappear into the hallway. “No wonder the girls are eating it up.”

“Shut up,” he called back. A cabinet door creaked open, followed by the sound of matches scraping. “If you’re cold, there’s a blanket on the couch.”

You ignored that. Pulled out your phone instead—only to see one bar and a signal so weak it might as well be decorative. You sighed and dialed anyway. It rang once, twice. Then a familiar voice crackled through the speaker. “Sweetheart?”

“Daddy,” you breathed, the relief hitting hard. “The power’s out. It’s storming like crazy. Are you home?”

“I’m out of town, baby. Business trip. Flight got delayed.” His voice softened. “Where are you?”

You glanced at the flickering light starting to glow down the hall. “Megumi’s.”

A pause. “You safe?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Just… stuck.”

“Alright. Call me if anything changes. I’ll check the weather. Love you.”

“Love you more,” you said softly and hung up.

Megumi returned, two candles flickering in hand. One for the living room, one for the table. He lit them both in quick, practiced motions. He didn’t look at you.

“I’ll walk you home when the wind dies down,” he said, flatly.

You narrowed your eyes. “I didn’t say I was leaving.”

“You were about to,” he muttered. “You always are.”

The jab caught you off guard.

“…Jesus, dramatic much?” you mumbled, shifting on the couch as the room glowed orange and gold. “You act like I’m trying to abandon you.”

He gave you a look. “You were literally about to walk out during a thunderstorm.”

“Yeah, well, I like living on the edge.”

“I swear to god, you’re going to get electrocuted one day and somehow blame me for it.”

“Obviously.” His lips twitched. Almost a smile.

The tension was still there—but softened now, under the candlelight. Like it had been dulled by the rain and everything neither of you could say outright. You pulled your knees up to your chest, watching the lightning flash against the windows.

“…You didn’t have to light all those, you know,” you said quietly, eyes flicking toward the candles.

“I know.”

You hesitated. “…But thank you.” Another small silence.

Then he sat down next to you again. A little closer this time. The storm howled outside, but in here—there was only the flicker of light between you and the quiet push-and-pull that had always felt like home.

“You really think I’m Tokyo’s favorite thirst trap?” he said suddenly, deadpan.

You groaned. “You remembered that?”

“You literally just said it.”

“Well, I’m not wrong.”

“Whatever.” You glanced at him.

His arms were folded again. His face still unreadable. But something in his expression had eased. Not softer, necessarily—but less guarded. And you… you could breathe again.

You didn’t mean to say it.

It just slipped out.

“Miwa’s taking an interest in you.”

Megumi glanced up from where he was lighting a candle on the table, his face cast in flickering shadows. “What?”

You picked at the frayed hem of your skirt like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Nobara heard her talking in the bathroom. She was saying you’re different now. That you look… good.”

A beat of silence.

Then, like an idiot, he asked, “She is?”

You wanted to throw the fucking candle at his head.

Instead, you smiled. That sweet, mean smile you wore like armor. “What, hoping she asks you out? You want someone to touch your freshly styled hair and whisper about your jawline now?”

He didn’t bite. Just walked to the kitchen with that maddening calm of his. Megumi’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. He picked it up, barely glancing at the screen before answering.

“Yeah?”

You didn’t look at him. You were too busy pretending to scroll through your phone, too busy ignoring the sting from earlier—She is?—like it hadn’t lodged itself right in your chest. But then his tone changed.

“…You’re stuck?” You peeked up, subtly.

Megumi’s voice dropped, quiet and curt. “Flooding?”

Pause. A sigh. “No, it’s fine. Yeah—I’m not alone.”

Another pause. “Yeah, it’s her.” You tensed, grip tightening around your phone.

“Don’t worry,” he muttered. “I’ll take care of it. Just… stay safe.”

He hung up. Silence. You didn’t say anything, waiting.

He turned around, arms folded, voice neutral. “That was my dad.”

“Obviously.”

“There’s flooding near the station. He’s stuck for the night.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

“And you can’t leave.”

You stared at him. “What do you mean I can’t?”

“There’s a blackout. The storm’s not letting up. Roads are a mess.” He gestured to the window where the rain slapped against the glass in heavy sheets. “Power lines are down. Toji said even the convenience store by the corner shut down. He’s not coming home.”

You blinked. “And what, you’re just holding me hostage now?”

Megumi’s expression didn’t change. “You came here.”

“I didn’t come here to spend the night!”

He crossed his arms tighter. “Well, congratulations. Looks like you’re going to.”

You huffed. Loudly. Dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

“I know.” And then he moved past you, candle in hand, heading toward the hallway like this was all perfectly reasonable. You glared at the flame, at the storm, at your phone with zero service, and then finally threw yourself back against the couch with a groan.

“…Fine,” you muttered under your breath. “But I’m not taking the fucking bed.”

From down the hall, Megumi’s voice drifted back—completely unbothered.

“You’re not.”

It was quiet for a while. Too quiet. The storm outside had dulled into a low, steady rhythm—rain kissing the windows in soft percussion, wind rattling somewhere beyond the walls like a ghost trying to get in. The power was still out, the flicker of candlelight the only thing cutting through the shadows curling around the room.

You sat curled on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, pretending your phone wasn't dead and you weren’t mildly terrified of the dark. Then you heard footsteps. Not heavy. Not rushed. Just Megumi. He emerged from the hallway carrying a stack of pillows and a neatly folded blanket. He didn’t say anything as he knelt beside the couch, laying everything out with a quiet focus you refused to react to. But your throat tightened anyway. Because it was too much.

He’d brought the softest blanket. The only one that didn’t smell like detergent. He even slid a second pillow behind your back, like you couldn’t possibly sleep without it.

You didn’t comment. Just watched with a neutral expression, biting your cheek to stop from saying something snarky. You could've made a joke. Could’ve called him a housewife. Could’ve pushed, flirted, snapped.

But you didn’t. Because even you couldn’t deny what this was. He cared. And that scared the shit out of you.

When he finally sat down beside you—on the floor, back resting against the couch—you raised a brow.

“What, not going to bed?” you said, voice low.

He shrugged, eyes on the candlelight. “Didn’t feel like it.”

You blinked, letting your head rest against the cushion. “What are you, my emotional support boxer?”

That made him huff—barely a laugh, but still something. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You smirked. “Please. You’re the one bringing luxury sleepware like I’m a fucking princess.”

“No,” he deadpanned. “You’re a brat. Princesses don’t throw paper at their tutors.”

You rolled your eyes. “That was one time.”

“It was two.”

You both went quiet after that, but it wasn’t awkward. Just… still. You watched the flicker of flames bounce shadows off the ceiling, your heart slower now, your body less tense.

“…So why boxing?” you asked, surprising even yourself.

He looked over his shoulder. “What?”

You tilted your head. “You don’t really seem like the type. You hate attention. And yet here you are, shirtless and sweaty, punching people in a ring.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, after a beat— “It helps,” he said quietly. “Gets the noise out of my head.”

You frowned. “You get noise?”

He didn’t look at you. “Everyone does.”

The answer made your chest ache a little.

You didn’t press. Just let the silence fill in the blanks. Then— “...You’re good at it,” you said.

His brow ticked. “You saw five minutes.”

“Still.” Another beat.

“You looked hot,” you added, nonchalant, watching the side of his face carefully.

This time, he did look at you. “You’re deflecting.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t have to.”

You blinked. He didn’t elaborate. Just turned back to the candlelight, fingers fidgeting slightly against his knee.

The kind of fidgeting you did when you wanted to say something but didn’t know how. You swallowed.

“I never had something like that,” you said, quieter now. “Something that made the noise go away.”

Megumi didn’t speak, but you could feel him listening.

Really listening.

You rested your chin on your knees. “I tried to find it in people. Parties. Power. All that shit. But it never works.”

A pause.

Then Megumi asked, “And now?”

You looked at him. At the boy who used to flinch when you walked by. At the boy who looked at you like you were everything and nothing at the same time.

“…Now?” you repeated. He met your eyes. And for once—you didn’t look away.

“I don’t know yet,” you said. “But I think I’m closer than I used to be.”

You didn’t say it. But you were pretty sure he knew.

The silence had stretched into something calmer now—less tense, less biting. You were both still on the couch, the storm a dull whisper outside, the candlelight making the room feel smaller, warmer, like some strange little world that didn’t exist anywhere but here.

You shifted a little, resting your chin on your arms, curled up in the blanket he brought you like a sullen cat. Megumi sat beside you, back against the couch again, his legs stretched out, elbows on his knees.

Neither of you had spoken in a while.

You didn’t know why the words came out.

Maybe it was the dark.

Or the quiet.

Or the way Megumi was just... there. Not asking for anything. Not prying. Just existing beside you with that stillness that made people underestimate him.

“My dad’s out of town,” you murmured.

Megumi didn’t look at you, but his head tilted slightly—listening.

“Business trip,” you added, trying not to sound defensive. “He does that a lot. I used to hate it when I was younger.”

A pause.

Then: “But you’re close.”

You gave a small smile. “Yeah. I’m a daddy’s girl. You can’t tell?”

Megumi snorted softly. “Oh, I can tell.”

You chuckled under your breath, but the laughter faded quickly, something deeper tugging at your chest.

“I don’t talk about him much at school,” you said. “People already have their little opinions about me, I didn’t want to... whatever. Make it worse.”

Megumi stayed quiet.

You pulled the blanket tighter around your legs.

“When I was eight, my mom and dad split,” you said suddenly. “It got messy. She didn’t want custody. Not really. But her new husband did. I think he just wanted to win something.”

Megumi turned his head a little, watching you now.

You stared ahead at the dim outline of his coffee table, your voice soft. “But my dad fought for me. Hard. Like—like it was war. Lawyers, courts, all that shit. I remember him carrying me out of the hearing room when the judge gave him custody. I was crying. He didn’t. Not once.”

Megumi didn’t interrupt.

“I used to think he was made of steel or something,” you whispered. “Like, nothing could break him. And he never—he never made me feel like I wasn’t enough. Not even once.”

You blinked. Fast.

“He worked so hard. All those long hours. Just to give me this life. The clothes. The car. The schools. People see me and think I’m just spoiled. Rich bitch. But they don’t know how hard he worked for all of it. How hard he worked for me.”

Megumi’s voice was low when he finally spoke. “Sounds like he really loves you.”

You nodded slowly. “He does. And I love him, too. More than anyone.”

There was a pause. The quiet kind that settled in your bones.

You bit your lip. “My mom—she lives in Fukuoka now. Married to that same guy. I see her sometimes. She’s always smiling in her new house, with her new kids, like she didn’t leave me behind. But he never did.”

Megumi shifted then, just slightly.

You felt it before you saw it—the way his hand brushed gently against your ankle under the blanket, not a grab, not a hold, just... there.

Steady. Present.

“I’m glad you have him,” Megumi said. And he meant it. You could hear it.

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

And for a while, that was all. No teasing. No bickering. Just a storm outside, and a boy beside you, and the quiet reminder that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as alone as you thought.

The silence wrapped around the both of you again, more comfortable now. The storm outside had settled into a steady rhythm, wind pressing against the windows like a tired breath. The candle on the coffee table flickered lazily, casting long shadows up the wall.

You’d fallen quiet again, the weight of your last words still hanging in the air.

Megumi hadn’t said anything in a while. You glanced at him from under your lashes. His brows were drawn, expression unreadable—but his hands were tense in his lap, fingers rubbing at his knuckles absently. Like he was thinking too hard about something.

You nudged him gently with your knee under the blanket.

His eyes flicked to yours. “What?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “The broody, ‘I’m-staring-into-the-void-like-a-tragic-protagonist’ thing.”

A breath of a laugh escaped him. Barely.

Then his gaze dropped, his voice quieter. “I’ve been thinking about Tsumiki.”

Your teasing died instantly.

“Oh.”

He nodded slowly. “She’s… not doing great.”

The weight of those four words hit you like a punch to the chest. You sat up a little straighter, eyes scanning his face. There was something different in it now—tired, but deeper than that. Like something he’d been holding for too long.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find the words. “Her condition’s… it’s getting worse. The doctors said there’s not much more they can do here.”

You stayed quiet, letting him speak.

“I might have to fly out next week. Fukuoka or even Sapporo—depends where they transfer her. She’s not waking up. And if something—if anything happens and I’m not there, I’ll never—” He cut himself off, jaw locking.

You didn’t say anything. You just reached out, resting your hand over his knuckles.

He didn’t pull away.

“She raised me more than anyone,” he said, voice gravelly. “After everything with my mom and dad… she was the one who kept me steady. Who made me believe I could be anything other than angry.”

You swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Megumi looked at you then. And for once, his eyes weren’t guarded. They were raw. Open. So full of guilt and helplessness that it made your chest ache.

“She’s so kind,” he murmured. “Always has been. She never hurt anybody. I don’t know why people like her—why she ends up paying for things.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I don’t want to lose her.”

His voice cracked at the end. Just slightly. Enough to make you want to pull him close and never let go.

You didn’t say you understood. Because you didn’t. Not really.

But you let your hand stay in his. And when his thumb brushed over your knuckles, soft and trembling, you didn’t call him out for it.

You just sat there.

Two kids. Bruised hearts. A flickering candle. And the quiet grief that filled the room like smoke.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, barely touching.

“I’ll be here,” you said softly.

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away either. And maybe, for now, that was enough.

The thunder had quieted into a low grumble, distant now, like the sky was done screaming and only murmured in exhaustion.

You weren’t sure when the silence shifted—when the conversation turned from real, heavy things to just… breath. Just the warmth of being there beside him. You had your knees pulled up, a blanket across your lap, your arm pressed against his on the couch. The faint scent of citrusy soap clung to his skin. The candlelight flickered over his profile.

And when he looked at you… really looked at you—

Everything else faded.

No more school. No more rumors. No more fights, or essays, or storms. Just the steady sound of his breath, and the way he was staring like you were a question he never thought he’d get to ask, let alone answer.

“…What?” you whispered, pulse skipping.

Megumi just shook his head a little. “Nothing.”

But his eyes didn’t leave you. Didn’t drop, didn’t flinch. They were so blue in the dark, like sea glass catching fire.

You blinked, suddenly shy. “Why are you—”

He leaned in.

You felt it before you saw it—his hand ghosting over your cheek, gentle, almost hesitant. Like he was giving you one last chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

When his mouth met yours, it was soft. Barely there. A breath shared between two people who’d never thought this would happen. His lips moved over yours like he was learning how—like he’d only ever imagined it before, and now, he was finding out what it meant to want, really want, and be allowed to.

You tilted your face up, deepened it slowly.

He followed you, a little clumsy, a little shy—but eager. Your fingers slipped into his hair, still tousled from the storm, from your work earlier, and a quiet groan hummed in his throat.

When he pulled back, his breath was shaky.

“Are you…” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Are you sure?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Then his hand touched your jaw again, thumb dragging over your cheek like he was memorizing the shape of you.

“I want to,” he said. His voice was steady, but his pulse was racing—you could feel it where your hand had pressed against his chest. “I’ve never wanted anything like this before.”

You swallowed, heart in your throat. “You’ve never…?”

He shook his head once.

Oh. You were quiet. “We don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said again. And then softer, with something almost aching: “You’re the only one I’d ever want it with.”

Your chest ached.

And for once, you didn’t tease him. Didn’t put up your usual wall.Instead, you kissed him again.

You ended up in his lap before you even realized it.

One second you were kissing him—soft, slow, like the world might shatter if you rushed it—and the next, your knees were straddling his thighs, blanket slipping off your lap, hands curled in the collar of his shirt as you breathed into each other.

The living room was drenched in warm shadows, candlelight flickering golden over the curve of his jaw, the sharp edge of his cheekbone. You could still hear the rain faintly outside, a low murmur against the windows—but in here, everything was still. Sacred.

Megumi’s hands rested uncertainly on your hips, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. Like he didn’t trust himself.

“You can touch me,” you murmured, lips brushing against his. “You’re allowed.”

His fingers tightened slightly, eyes darting up to yours. That bashful, quiet intensity—it made your chest ache.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispered. “I don’t… I’ve never…”

“I know,” you said gently, and leaned in again, pressing your mouth to the corner of his. “That’s why I’m here.”

You kissed him deeper that time. Tongue teasing his lower lip, your body pressing closer. His hands slid up your sides hesitantly, under your shirt, skin to skin—and you felt the exact moment his breath hitched.

“You’re shaking,” you whispered.

“I know.” His voice was rougher now, quiet. “I just… I can’t believe this is real.”

You smiled against his lips. “It’s real.”

You tugged your shirt over your head, slow and deliberate, letting the fabric fall to the floor behind you. His gaze followed every movement, and when your chest was bare in front of him, he froze.

Not out of fear. Not discomfort. Just awe.

“…Fuck,” he breathed, eyes wide, voice barely audible. “You’re—”

“Don’t say perfect,” you said quickly, your voice light, teasing, trying to play it off. But your heart was fluttering in your chest like it was trying to fly away. “That’s such a cop-out.”

Megumi blinked like he hadn’t even thought of that word. “I wasn’t going to.”

You arched a brow. “No?”

He shook his head slowly, eyes still glued to your bare chest, your soft skin, the curve of you in his lap. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like you were something out of a dream.

“I was gonna say… unfair,” he said, swallowing hard. “Because I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive this. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You froze.

Not hot. Not sexy. Not fuckable, or a ten, or any of the things guys had always tossed at you like they meant something.

Beautiful.

It hit different. Like a bruise blooming in your chest—but soft. Warm. Gentle. You didn’t even realize you’d gone quiet until his hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Hey,” Megumi murmured. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whispered, blinking quickly.

But the words were still echoing in your mind, messing with something deep inside you. Beautiful. Like art. Like something fragile and worth holding carefully.

No one had ever said that to you before. Not like this. Not with their hands trembling just from touching you. Not with eyes that looked like they were seeing straight through the act, the image, the attitude.

You looked down at him again—messy hair, bitten lip, flushed skin—and swallowed thickly.

“You mean that?” you asked, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “That I’m… beautiful?”

His brows furrowed, confused by the question, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course I do. How could I not?”

And just like that, the ache in your chest cracked open into something warm, something terrifyingly tender.

So you kissed him—slowly, deeply, like it was the only way to say thank you without falling apart.

He kissed you lower, lips skimming the slope of your breast, and when you arched gently into him, he let out a quiet groan.

“Can I…?” he whispered.

You took his hand and guided it up, letting him cup you fully. His fingers twitched at first, then softened, kneading tenderly as his thumb brushed over your nipple. You exhaled, body melting into his, your hands cradling his jaw as you kissed him again—deeper now. Lazier. The kind of kiss that made time dissolve.

You tugged his shirt off next, fingers brushing over the hard lines of his chest and the pale bandages still wrapped around his knuckles. He tried to hide the way his breath hitched, but you felt it—felt all of him.

His chest was rising fast. He was hard beneath you already, straining against his sweats, and your hips shifted instinctively.

“Shit,” he whispered, fingers digging into your thighs as you rocked against him. “You feel…”

“I know, baby,” you breathed into his neck. “You feel good too.”

You rolled your hips again, slower this time, and his head tipped back against the couch. He looked wrecked already—eyes blown wide, lips parted, jaw slack.

“Can I…?” you asked quietly, your hand drifting down between your bodies. “Can I see you?”

He nodded, a little frantic.

You slid his sweats down carefully, watched as his cock sprang free—long, thick, flushed a dark pink at the tip, resting heavy against his stomach.

You paused. Blinked.

“…You’ve been hiding this?” you said, scandalized.

His cheeks flushed red, eyes darting away. “I didn’t think it’d—look good. Or be… enough.”

Your mouth fell open. “Enough? Baby, it’s a fucking blessing.”

He let out a broken laugh, but it turned into a groan when your fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly. He was already leaking, the head glistening, and when you kissed his jaw again, his hips bucked helplessly under you.

You guided him to your entrance, your body already aching for him, but still—still—you paused.

“Are you sure?” you asked, voice steady. “This matters, Gumi."

His hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

You sank down on him slowly.

The stretch burned a little, but he was so careful—hands trembling, voice breaking every time he whispered, “Wait, let me—are you okay? Is this too much?” And you kept kissing him through it, calming him, guiding him, grounding him.

When he was fully inside you, you paused, gasping against his mouth. He filled you so deep it was dizzying. You could feel every pulse, every twitch of his cock inside you, and he just stared—completely overwhelmed.

You rocked your hips steadily at first, letting him adjust, letting you adjust—but God, the way he filled you. Thick and hot and deep, every inch stretching you open, your breath hitching every time your hips met his. His hands had gone from trembling to clinging, fingers digging into your waist like he didn’t trust his own self-control.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, breath ragged against your collarbone. “You’re so warm. So tight. I can’t—”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, grinding your hips down into him. “You feel so fucking good, Gumi.”

The nickname made his hips jerk up. Hard.

Your moan cracked in your throat.

He groaned—deep, guttural, wrecked—and buried his face in your chest. “Say it again.”

“Gumi,” you whispered, rolling your hips slow, teasing. “My Gumi.”

Something snapped.

Suddenly, his hands slid up your back, grabbing fistfuls of your hair as he sat up straighter beneath you. His mouth captured yours in a messier, wetter kiss—more tongue than technique—and the next thrust he gave you was sharper. Rougher. Deep enough to make your thighs tremble where they straddled him.

You gasped into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders. “F-fuck—what happened to being gentle?”

“I’m trying,” he growled, thrusting up again. “But you’re—shit—you’re making it hard.”

You felt his cock twitch inside you. You clenched around him just to hear the sound he made—half groan, half curse.

“Pretty girl,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His eyes were glassy. Unfocused. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty—”

Your whole body shivered at the name.

“Say it again,” you whispered, breathless.

He kissed you. Nipped at your bottom lip. Then, rougher: “You’re so fucking pretty, baby. You’re unreal.”

That did it—you pushed at his chest, forcing him back into the couch cushions, and began to ride him again. Faster. Deeper. His hands gripped your ass, your thighs, your waist—wherever he could hold you steady—and he let you take control for a moment, let you ruin him.

“Gumi,” you moaned, voice pitchy now. “You’re so deep—I can feel you everywhere—”

He couldn’t take it anymore.

He grabbed your hips and flipped you before you could blink, laying you out flat across the couch cushions. Your legs parted instinctively and he slid back in with a broken groan, arms caging you in, head bowed over your shoulder as he thrust deep—really thrust now. Controlled at first, but strong. Heavy. The slap of skin meeting skin filling the dark room as you took all of him, over and over again.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, head tilting back, body arching. “Gumi—fuck—you’re—”

“I know,” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple as he buried himself to the hilt. “I know, baby.”

His mouth trailed across your jaw, your neck, sucking marks into the skin before pulling back to look down at you—your makeup a little smudged, lips parted, chest heaving.

“You’re unreal,” he said again, voice deeper now, like gravel laced with awe. “My pretty fucking girl.”

His thrusts picked up again—harder, faster, the kind of rhythm that had your legs shaking and your back arching into him. Your moans grew louder, ragged, and when his fingers dropped down between your legs again, circling your clit with messy, desperate pressure, you gasped so loud it echoed off the walls.

“F-fuck, Gumi—don’t stop—”

“I want you to cum first,” he murmured, his voice tight, almost pained. “Please. I need to feel you cum.”

“I’m—fuck—I’m close—”

“You can do it,” he said, his hand never slowing. “Come on, pretty girl. Cum for me.”

You clenched around him, legs locking around his waist as the pleasure crested—hot and deep and overwhelming. You came with a sharp cry, shaking beneath him, your nails dragging down his back as your orgasm shattered through you like a wave.

“Megumi—!”

He followed right after, gasping as he slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the base. You could feel him pulsing inside you, warmth spreading deep as his whole body tensed, then collapsed over yours in a breathless heap.

“Fuck…” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. “Fuck.”

You wrapped your arms around his back, still trembling, your body soaked with sweat, your pulse a wild thrum in your chest.

For a long, long moment, you just lay there, tangled in each other, still connected, still catching your breath.

Eventually, he kissed your temple.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded slowly. “Better than okay.”

You turned your head and looked up at him, all flushed and wrecked, his lips pink, eyes heavy-lidded and soft.

“…You know you’re stuck with me now, right?” you said, voice low, a little smug.

He blinked down at you, dazed and smiling. “Good,” he murmured, brushing your hair back from your face. “Because I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smirked up at him, eyes gleaming. “Guess what, Gumi?”

He raised a brow, still breathless. “What?”

You grinned. “You’re not a virgin anymore.”

He blinked. Then rolled his eyes with the most offended expression. “Wow. So romantic.”

You laughed, nudging his chest. “I’m just saying—it’s official now.”

“Yeah, and you’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

He tried to scowl, but the soft curve tugging at his lips betrayed him. “…Shut up.”

You leaned up, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Never.”

He groaned dramatically, burying his face in your neck. “God help me.”

But he was smiling. So were you. Megumi walked slow, hoodie unzipped, the morning breeze cutting through the damp weight of his thoughts. He hadn’t slept much.

Not because you kept him up—though, god, the memory of your body under his hands, the way you said his name, how your lips had tasted like fire and sugar and something he knew would ruin him forever—that didn’t exactly help.

No. It was more than that. It was you. It was the softness.

The way you looked at him when you thought he didn’t notice. The way your voice lost its bite when you touched his face. The way you called him baby, like he meant something.

Like he was yours. He’d never had something like that before. Not with Miwa. Not with anyone. So now, walking across campus with the sky still gray from last night’s storm, he was thinking. Planning. Something stupid. Something soft.

A picnic. Flowers. Maybe a question about the dance—nothing cheesy, just… something real. Honest. You deserved honesty. And maybe, maybe you’d say yes.

He spotted Nobara by the vending machine, squatting like she was about to fight it.

“Yo,” he called, hands in his hoodie pocket.

She turned, eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what.”

“Like you just got laid and then went to therapy.”

Megumi coughed, looking away. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god.” Nobara straightened, grinning. “You did.”

He didn’t answer.

She laughed. “Finally. Thought I was gonna have to break the tension with a crowbar.”

He ignored her, kicking at a stone. “Hey.”

“What.”

“…Do you know if she’s going to the dance?”

Nobara blinked. “Who?”

He gave her a look. She raised a brow. “Oh. Right. Her.”

Megumi waited. Quiet. Hope tucked under his sleeve like a heartbeat.

Nobara sighed. Looked away. “She’s not planning on it.”

His chest sank. “Oh.”

Silence. Then her voice came, a little softer. “You like her?”

He nodded once. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

Nobara saw it—how he looked like someone waiting for a building to fall. How he was still standing there, trying to hold up hope with both hands even though it was slipping.

“She told me she didn’t like you like that,” she said, careful. Not cruel. Not cutting.

Just honest.

Megumi blinked. “…When?”

“A while ago.” Nobara’s voice was low. “Before you started tutoring her again. Before all of this.”

He looked at the ground. His hands tightened into fists inside his pockets.

You said that. You said you didn’t like him. And now?

Now he was standing here, remembering the way you kissed him, the way you called him beautiful, the way you came around him like you wanted no one else—and it all started to feel like a dream.

Like he’d misread everything. Like he’d built something out of nothing.

“Maybe she changed her mind,” Nobara offered, but her voice wasn’t convincing. “You know how she is.”

Yeah. He did.

You were a hurricane. Reckless. Sharp. Terrified of feeling too much, and even more terrified of being seen.

And maybe… maybe he let himself believe you saw him too.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe you didn’t want to. Megumi exhaled, his chest tight.

“Thanks,” he said, voice flat.

Nobara opened her mouth, but he was already walking away. And the wind picked up again—colder this time. Like the storm wasn’t really over.

"Going to see my sister. Things got worse. I’ll be gone for a while."

Three days.

That’s how long it had been since you’d seen Megumi.

Not that you were counting. Obviously.

It’s not like you checked your phone like an insane person the second you woke up. Or reread his last text five times before class started.

It had landed like a rock in your chest. Not the message itself—just the simple way he said it. Like it didn’t kill him to write it. Like it wasn’t tearing him apart.

And he didn’t even say when he’d be back.

So you’d done what you were best at: pretending none of it mattered.

You went to school. You wore the shortest skirt in your closet. You handed in a pop quiz without crying over it. You even laughed at something Nobara said in chemistry without faking it.

Maybe that was the worst part. You were doing fine. Too fine.

You were perched on one of the picnic tables outside the school building, your platform heels kicked up on the bench, iced coffee in hand. The sun was warm, the sky blue, and your hair was freshly styled in waves that would make a shampoo ad weep.

You looked every inch the untouchable bitch.

But your chest ached in that quiet, hollow way.

“I swear to god,” Nobara groaned beside you, flopping down on the table with a dramatic sigh. “If one more boy breathes near me with Axe body spray on, I’m pressing charges.”

You snorted, sipping your drink. “Just bring a lighter. One flick and the entire boy's hallway will go up like a Christmas tree.”

Nobara pointed at you. “That’s why I love you.”

You smirked, then turned your head slightly, scanning the crowd near the school entrance. Your heart did that dumb thing again. Hopeful. Stupid.

But he wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t.

Still. You asked, too casual. “Did you hear anything about Megumi?”

Nobara glanced at you, eyes narrowing just a little. “Nope. He texted Gojo, said he’s still out of town. Visiting his sister.”

“Oh.” You blinked down at your cup. “Right.”

Nobara let the silence hang for a beat, then elbowed you. “Anyway. Who cares about that—guess who I saw making out behind the gym?”

You leaned in, grateful for the distraction. “Tell me it was that weird art kid with the septum ring.”

“Worse. Fucking Haruna and that guy from the volleyball team.”

Your jaw dropped. “The one who eats chalk?”

“Yes, bitch!”

“Ew—what in the powder kinks is going on?!”

You both burst into laughter, the kind that made you feel weightless, for a second. The kind that made you forget there was an empty desk in third period with Megumi’s name on it.

And then Nobara leaned back on her palms, hair shining under the sun. “Are you okay, though? Like, actually?”

You raised a brow, defensive. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She gave you a look. “Because your little emo virgin isn’t here, and you’ve been acting like that’s normal.”

You scoffed. “He’s not mine, Nobara.”

“Yeah,” she said, too quickly. “Tell your heart that.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “You’re annoying.”

She smiled. “You’re lonely.”

You hated how that landed.

You hated how the air felt heavier again. Like the second you stopped pretending, the silence filled back in.

Because the truth was—yes, you’d been doing fine. You’d been acing quizzes. You hadn’t picked a fight with anyone all week. You hadn’t cried, or screamed, or done something unhinged to distract yourself.

But you missed him.

The silence wasn’t the same without his sarcasm. The walks through campus felt longer without him beside you. You’d even caught yourself reaching for your phone during study hall, ready to text something snarky before remembering—

He wasn’t here.

And you didn’t know when he’d be back.

You sighed, collapsing back on the table beside Nobara and covering your face with your hands.

“I hate this.”

“What, feelings?”

“Yes. Emotions. Vulnerability. All of it.”

She cackled. “You’re such a brat.”

You peeked between your fingers. “Do you think he’s okay?”

Nobara grew quiet, more serious this time. “I think he’s strong. And I think he’ll come back.”

You nodded.

“I just…” you trailed off. “I hope he doesn’t come back different.”

Nobara tilted her head. “You mean like you did?” You didn’t answer. Because she was right. You had changed. And the worst part? It was because of him. And he wasn’t even here to see it.

You were walking down the hall like you owned it. Because you did. Your skirt was short, your blouse perfectly pressed, and your gloss was fresh—mirror-checked and lethal. The heels clacked with just enough bite to announce your presence before anyone had the nerve to look up. Students scattered instinctively as you passed, like you were the final boss of the east wing. You liked it that way. But your phone had no new texts. No new messages. Still no him.

You’d waited all morning. Pretended not to glance at the school gates. Pretended you didn’t notice the empty space where he usually stood during break. Pretended you didn’t hesitate outside the chem lab he always passed on his way to third period.

You hated that he wasn’t there. You hated that you cared. But today, at least, you looked perfect while doing it.

You smirked to yourself as you walked, swaying your hips on purpose. If he was back and trying to avoid you, fine. Let him suffer. Let him see what he’s missing.

Your locker door slammed shut behind you with a sharp clack, and you turned down the hall like nothing was wrong, like you weren’t still aching a little behind the eyes.

You were halfway to class, halfway through adjusting your sleeve— And then it happened.

You didn’t scream when the hand grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside.

You didn’t need to.

You knew it was him.

The closet door slammed shut behind you, a jolt of darkness swallowing the soft light from the hallway. You barely had time to gasp before your back hit the wall, and then—

“Megumi—?” He didn’t answer.

His mouth was already on your neck, warm and hungry, breath rough as he kissed down the side of your throat like he couldn’t get enough. Like he’d been starved.

Your bag slipped from your shoulder and hit the ground. Your hand flew up to clutch at his shirt. “You’re—fuck—”

He pressed into you harder, body flush with yours, teeth scraping gently at your pulse point. His hands gripped your hips, fingers tight, dragging you forward like he wanted to crawl inside your skin.

You gasped as his thigh slotted between yours.

“You’re back,” you whispered, breath hitching. “You didn’t even say—”

“I know.” His voice was low, hoarse. “Didn’t want to talk.”

You opened your mouth, but then he kissed you—kissed you—like he couldn’t breathe unless your lips were on his. Tongue sliding hot and deep into your mouth, lips messy, desperate. Your knees went weak.

You’d missed him.

More than you realized.

You grabbed the collar of his uniform and yanked him closer, kissing him back with just as much fire. You could feel it in his body—the way he trembled against you, how hard he already was beneath his pants. You ground into him shamelessly.

“I missed you,” you said between kisses, your voice breathless. “Fuck—I was so mad—where were you—?”

“Thinking about you,” he muttered, dragging your shirt up, his mouth trailing lower again. “Every fucking day.”

You gasped as his hand slid down the front of your skirt, fingers quick and practiced despite the trembling. You grabbed at his hair, fisting it hard enough to make him groan.

“You couldn’t text?” you snapped, even as your legs parted for him. “You just show up and pull me into a closet like—”

“I’ve been losing my mind,” he growled, dragging your panties to the side. “You have no idea what it did to me—leaving you.”

Your head hit the wall. His fingers slipped between your folds, slow and teasing, and your breath left you in a moan.

“Gumi—”

“I kept thinking about you,” he muttered against your collarbone. “That mouth. That attitude. That fucking pussy.”

“Shut up,” you gasped, bucking into his hand.

“You want me to?” He curled two fingers inside you. “Or do you want me to bend you over right here and fuck you until you forget how to speak?”

You let out a broken whimper, hips rocking against him. “You can’t say that—”

“I will say that,” he said, voice sharp now, cocky in a way that made your stomach drop. “You think I haven’t been thinking about bending you over every surface in this school since the last time?” You moaned as his thumb rubbed circles against your clit. Your hands clawed at his back. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, finally tugging your panties down your thighs. “Still soaked for me.” Your skirt was bunched around your waist. He turned you before you could blink, one hand pressing hard between your shoulder blades to bend you over the low shelving behind you.

“Gumi—wait—” you started, but your voice broke as you felt his cock slide along your slit, thick and hot and already slick from your arousal.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said, grinding against you, not pushing in yet. “Wanted to take you from behind like this—just rip your attitude out of your throat. Hear what you sound like when you’re begging.”

“God, you’re such a little shit when you’re horny,” you gasped.

“And you love it,” he bit back. “Don’t lie.”

Then he pushed in—slow at first, then hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. You choked out a cry, gripping the shelf so hard your knuckles went white.

“Fuck—Megumi—”

He groaned low in his throat. “This pussy,” he hissed. “God, I missed this.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. His thrusts started fast, deliberate—hips snapping against yours as the slap of skin echoed in the tiny closet. His hand gripped your waist, the other in your hair, pulling your head back so he could whisper filth into your ear.

“You feel even better than I remembered,” he growled. “So wet for me. So fucking tight. You let anyone else fuck you while I was gone?”

Your brain short-circuited. “What?”

“Answer me,” he said, thrusting harder. “Anyone else touch you?”

“No,” you gasped. “Of course not.”

“Good,” he grunted. “Because this pussy’s mine.”

You whimpered. “Say it again.”

He slammed into you deeper, and you could feel him hit that perfect spot—over and over. “You’re mine,” he said, panting. “My girl. My pretty little brat. Say it.” You were already falling apart.

“Yours,” you moaned. “Fuck—Gumi—I’m yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours,” you cried, voice shaking. “All fucking yours—!”

His hand slid down, rubbing your clit again with messy, brutal circles, and you were already so close—hips stuttering, moans turning into high, broken whines. “I want you to cum for me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Make a mess all over my cock. I’ve been dreaming about this—about fucking you stupid.”

You nodded frantically, your whole body twitching as you chased it, falling over the edge like it had been waiting for you all week. You came hard, clenching around him, crying out his name as your knees gave out. He caught you with one arm and kept fucking you through it, chasing his own release.

“Fuck—you’re so perfect—so mine—”

You felt his cock twitch, and then he buried himself deep, groaning loud as he spilled inside you, his whole body shaking behind you, his breath hot on your neck. For a few long moments, the only sound was your panting, the heavy beat of your hearts in sync. He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed there, hands on your hips, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his chest rising against your back.

Finally, you muttered, voice still wrecked: “You’re the worst welcome committee ever.”

Megumi laughed—soft, breathless, a little smug. “You missed me.”

You rolled your eyes, still panting. “Shut up.”

But your smile said otherwise. And his hand didn’t stop holding you. Not even when you turned around, leaned into him, and kissed him slow, like nothing else mattered. Because for once—it didn’t. The world had gone still.

You leaned weakly against the shelf, your skirt wrinkled, your knees barely steady, your heart still thudding somewhere near your throat. The air in the storage closet was thick with heat and the fading scent of sex.

And Megumi… Megumi was kneeling in front of you. Quiet. Focused.

His fingers were careful as he smoothed your underwear back into place, tugging the fabric up your thighs without meeting your eyes at first. You flinched instinctively—out of habit more than discomfort—but he didn’t stop. He didn’t tease. He just… looked up and adjusted the hem of your skirt with both hands, like it was normal. Like you were delicate.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

“Are you always like this after?” you asked, trying to sound smug but your voice cracked a little—too soft, too curious.

He stood, brushing hair from your face. “Like what?”

“Nice.”

He blinked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

You shrugged. “Just… not used to it.”

Megumi looked at you for a second, eyes calm, unreadable. Then he reached up again, fingers ghosting through your hair, gently combing it back into place. You stared at him, thrown off by how domestic it felt. How natural.

“I missed a strand,” he muttered absently, flicking a tangle aside.

“You’re such a dork,” you whispered, but your voice was soft. Like you didn’t want him to stop. He finally stepped back, hands falling to his sides, and for a moment the silence stretched between you—thick with something unsaid.

“When did you get back?” you asked, quieter now. Like if you spoke too loud, the moment might break.

“This morning,” he said simply. “Didn’t want to go home. So I came to school.”

You nodded. Tried to think of something clever, something flippant, but nothing came. Instead, you just leaned back against the wall again and exhaled.

And then, after a long, aching beat— “…I missed you.”

His gaze softened instantly. “I missed you too.”

You looked at each other, not smiling, not joking. Just seeing one another. But then—

“I asked Miwa to the dance.”

parts, chapter 05

notes, I need to know what ya'll think so make sure to comment, ik i don't reply but i am reading ALL of them and im filled with love for each and one of you.

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