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aeniiverse · 3 months ago

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FLIRTING SHOULDN’T BE THIS LOUD

Synopsis — You never meant to fall for Giselle. In fact, you were pretty sure she was just a walking fire hazard with a soft spot for chaos, gas station snacks, and frog memes. But somewhere between her fake serenades, vintage bike crashes, and wildly public declarations of love, you find yourself kind of…maybe…very much down bad.

Contains — fluff, Excessive use of pet names, Cringe levels may spike during public serenades, Unhinged romance energy, Slight injury risk due to rental bike chaos, Characters are dangerously down bad, No emotional preparedness for frog hoodie proposals

WORD COUNT — 2.2k

A/N — Hi! Okay so like disappeared for a while, and might for a longer while idk TT

The universe had a funny way of choosing its favorites.

You noticed this most when you were sitting two rows behind Giselle in class, watching her laugh at something stupid her friend said while the entire room tilted slightly in her direction like even gravity was kind of into her.

She was the kind of girl who got away with saying things like “I didn’t study but I still got an A” without anyone punching her. The kind of girl who showed up to school late, with coffee in one hand and an apology you somehow forgave before she even said it. Teachers liked her. People liked her. Even the vending machine liked her. it once spat out two KitKats when she only paid for one.

You didn’t dislike her, of course. You just didn’t get her.

And that was exactly what drove Giselle insane.

Because Giselle, reigning champion of chaotic charm and queen of unintentional thirst traps on her Instagram story, had been flirting with you for the past three weeks.

Or! she thought she was flirting. You, apparently, were just “really nice” and “maybe a little dense” according to Ningning, who had been keeping track of Giselle’s tragic attempts in a Notes app titled “Giselle vs the Brick Wall (Y/N).”

Today was no different.

You were at your locker, calmly placing your textbooks in by size and subject like the mild perfectionist you were, when Giselle swooped in like a dramatic tornado of vanilla perfume and chaos.

“Y/N!” she greeted you like she hadn’t seen you literally forty-five minutes ago in bio. “Crazy question. Be honest, if I were a frog, would you still think I’m hot?”

You blinked. “I mean. I guess you’d be a pretty frog?”

She clutched her chest like you’d proposed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You gave her a polite smile. “You’re welcome?”

Giselle, in her brain, was batting a thousand. Compliment? Secured. Heart rate? Elevated. Eye contact? Brief but memorable.

You, in your brain, were wondering whether you remembered to submit that chem assignment.

“Anyway,” she leaned against the locker next to yours, clearly not planning to leave, “I was thinking. Saturday. We should hang out. Just the two of us. Like a date but, you know, casual. Unless you want it to be a date. No pressure. Total pressure. Whatever you want.”

You shut your locker, thoughtful. “Oh. Are you trying to do the introvert adoption thing?”

“The what?”

“You know. That thing popular people do when they adopt a quiet friend so they can feel mysterious by association.”

Giselle stared at you, dumbfounded. “You think I’m trying to adopt you?”

You shrugged. “I mean, if you want to interview a few other quiet candidates, I totally get it. There’s this girl in calculus who doesn’t even talk to the teacher—”

“No, no, no. Y/N.” Giselle laughed, then immediately tried to recover. “I’m not trying to make you my emotional support introvert. I’m literally asking you out.”

“Oh.”

A beat of silence. You stared at her. She stared back. Giselle was mentally shaking you by the shoulders.

You tilted your head. “Like, out out?”

Giselle almost slammed her head into your locker. “YES. Like… date. Romance. I bring you flowers and pretend I don’t stalk your Instagram every night kind of ‘out.’”

“Oh.” You paused again. “Do you want to see my cat?”

Giselle opened her mouth. Closed it. Took a breath. “...Is that a yes?”

“I think so,” you said.

Giselle walked away grinning so wide she nearly tripped over her own feet. Meanwhile, you stood there still trying to process whether the interaction meant you now had plans Saturday or if she just really, really liked frogs.

You met again at the cafe downtown, the one with the weird chairs and overpriced drinks that Giselle insisted was “aesthetic.” She got there first, naturally, in a cropped hoodie and cargo pants that should’ve looked lazy but instead looked like a Pinterest board. You arrived in your “nicest” hoodie, which you’d pulled out of the laundry bin and sniffed twice before deciding it didn’t smell that bad.

She greeted you with a grin and a wave like you hadn’t just seen each other yesterday. “Hey! You came!”

“You told me to,” you said, confused.

“I know,” she said, leaning her cheek against her palm. “Just didn’t expect it to work.”

You stared at the menu, pretending not to notice how she was definitely looking at you and not the options. “So… what are we doing here?”

“Getting coffee?” she offered.

“Right, right.” You nodded seriously. “Is this, like, a coffee coffee hangout or a flirty coffee hangout?”

Giselle choked on air. “I—what—Y/N, this is the date.”

“Ohhhh.”

“You forgot?”

“No!” You looked guilty. “I just thought maybe you changed your mind. Or maybe it was a social experiment. You seem like someone who’d do that.”

Giselle dropped her face onto the table. “Oh my God. I’m going to lose my mind.”

You reached for your wallet, unaware that you were unintentionally stepping on her heart every five seconds. “Well, I’m still here. So. That’s good, right?”

Giselle straightened, grinning with the slightly unhinged energy of someone whose crush just called her a frog and then invited her to meet their cat. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You blinked. “You think I’m cute?”

“I’m literally on a date with you.”

“Oh,” you said, then paused. “Do you want to see a video of my cat chasing a laser pointer?”

Giselle nodded wordlessly, completely whipped, as you showed her a six-second clip of your chonky tabby skidding across hardwood. She cooed. “I love him. I would die for him. I’d go to war.”

“Please don’t,” you said seriously. “He wouldn’t survive without me.”

Giselle wanted to scream. Mostly because you said that with the kind of sincere expression that made her chest do weird gymnastics.

Later, as you two walked back toward campus, she slowed her steps, shoving her hands in her pockets and bumping your shoulder lightly.

“So,” she said casually, “was this a successful introvert adoption?”

You squinted at her. “Giselle.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I like you back now.”

She stopped walking.

“I mean,” you continued, “I’m not great at this stuff, but I think I do. Like, when you asked me if I’d still think you were hot as a frog, I got flustered and went home and made a pros and cons list about dating you.”

Giselle stared. “What was on it?”

“Pro: Very pretty. Con: Slightly unhinged.”

She laughed, loud and bright, and threw an arm around your shoulders. “That’s fair. I’ll take it.”

And you, oblivious no more, smiled like the sun had finally risen just for you.

You weren’t sure how it happened, but by the following week, you were officially Giselle’s girlfriend.

The news spread fast.

You didn’t post about it, of course. You didn’t even tell anyone. But it didn’t matter. Somehow the entire school knew. Ningning gave you a thumbs up in the hallway. Karina winked at you and whispered, “Nice catch.” Even the calculus girl, the one who didn’t speak, gave you a very solemn nod when you passed her in the library.

Apparently, dating Giselle meant inheriting her social reach like some kind of chaotic royalty.

And Giselle? Giselle was thriving.

She held your hand in the cafeteria. She texted you in all caps even when you were sitting right across from her. She started using dumb pet names like “muffin” and “my emotional support genius.” She posted blurry selfies of you with captions like “look at my baby being smart” even when the photo was just you blinking at a worksheet.

Still, it was… nice. Unexpectedly, annoyingly, stomach-flippingly nice.

Especially the way she’d look at you like she couldn’t believe her luck. Like she’d won some grand prize just by making you laugh. Like she was trying not to smile too hard whenever you called her “Giselle” instead of “oh hey, you.”

Your second date was on a Friday.

You expected coffee again. Maybe a movie. Something normal.

What you got was a very dramatic text message at 2 p.m. that said: “Clear your schedule. I’m taking you on a romantic adventure. Pack snacks.”

You replied, “Are we robbing a bank?”

She said, “Maybe.”

So naturally, you showed up at the park with a water bottle, some chips, and a vague sense of concern.

What you found was Giselle, standing next to two very beat-up rental bikes with a bouquet of gas station flowers and a pair of sunglasses that looked like they were stolen from a cartoon villain.

You stared at her. “We’re biking?”

“Yes,” she said proudly. “It’s romantic.”

“These bikes look like they were forged in the 80s.”

She patted one. “Vintage. Aesthetic. Shut up.”

You didn’t shut up. Not even when she nearly fell off hers trying to impress you by riding one-handed. Not even when she tried to race you and hit a trash can. Not even when she made you pull over because “there was a ladybug and it felt symbolic.”

By the time you reached the top of the hill overlooking the lake, she was panting dramatically, clutching her chest like she’d just climbed Everest.

You handed her a chip. She took it solemnly.

“This was worth it,” she said between breaths. “If I die right here, bury me in this hoodie.”

“Do you even know how to ride a bike properly?” you asked.

She gestured vaguely. “Mostly. In theory. Look, not all of us had stable childhoods with weekend park outings and safety helmets.”

You snorted. “I used to ride mine in circles in the driveway and pretend I was escaping the law.”

She blinked at you. “Okay, that’s hotter than it should be.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed a chip at her. She caught it in her mouth and grinned like a dog who just learned a new trick.

After the sun started to dip, you sat side by side on the grass, sipping from your water bottle while she plucked petals off one of the flowers and dramatically asked, “Do you love me? Do you love me not?”

“You skipped five petals in a row.”

“I’m manifesting,” she said. “Let me have this.”

You looked at her, really looked at her messy hair from the wind, scuffed shoes from biking too fast, flower petals on her lap, and a sparkle in her eyes like she’d never been more sure of anything than the fact that she wanted to be here with you.

“You know,” you said slowly, “I think I like you more now that I know how uncoordinated you are.”

She gasped. “You like me for my flaws?”

“I like you despite your sunglasses.”

“I’ll take it.”

The next Monday, she took things to a new level.

You were minding your business in the hallway, waiting for class, when you heard the distinct opening notes of an Ed Sheeran song.

Your soul left your body.

Because there was Giselle standing at the end of the hallway with a portable speaker, an unbuttoned uniform jacket, and a microphone made out of a water bottle. Her friends stood behind her like backup dancers. Ningning was holding cue cards. One of them said, “SHE’S IN LOVE WITH YOU, DUMMY.”

You stood frozen.

Giselle launched into a dramatically off-key rendition of “Perfect.” She sang to you. She pointed at you. She dramatically fell to her knees and whispered into the mic, “This is for you, baby.”

You wanted to crawl inside a locker and disappear forever.

“Why are you like this?” you asked once she jogged up to you, breathless and smiling like she’d just won a talent show.

“Because you’re mine now,” she said simply. “And I wanted everyone to know.”

“I think the janitor knows.”

“Good. I want him to come to our wedding.”

You groaned, dragging her away by the sleeve, while everyone around you clapped and cheered like they’d just witnessed a public proposal.

Later that day, you were sitting together under the tree near the track field, your legs pressed against hers and your head tipped onto her shoulder. The world around you was loud, but she was quiet for once. just idly playing with the hem of your sleeve, occasionally bumping your knee with hers like she couldn’t stand to not touch you.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m, like. Really down bad.”

You turned to look at her. “That’s not news.”

She looked fake offended. “Okay, rude. I was trying to have a moment.”

You smiled, letting your fingers drift to hers. “Have your moment.”

She squeezed your hand. “You make me soft. I hate it.”

“No you don’t.”

“Okay, I don’t. But don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

You leaned in, kissing her on the cheek so quickly she barely had time to register it. She froze.

“…Did you just kiss me?”

“I did,” you said casually.

“I’m gonna scream.”

“You’re already screaming.”

She covered her face. “Ugh. I knew dating you would be dangerous. You’re turning me into a blushing loser.”

You rested your head back on her shoulder. “It’s mutual.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then she whispered, “So, hypothetically, if I asked you to wear matching frog hoodies, would that be pushing it?”

You didn’t even flinch. “What color?”

Giselle beamed.

Maybe the universe really did have a favorite.

But this time, it was you.

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