#Matrix Structures | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vibelladonna · 26 days ago

Text

✑ 𝒶𝓉𝓉𝒶𝒸𝒽𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men, Hot Things They Do + Their Attachment Styles! Oh yeah—we’re so back, babes.

A character breakdown of the four dangerously compelling men—Crowe, Geo, Hyugo, and Sol—sorry, no Deryl this time, there’s a reason why. through the lens of attachment theory and the chaotic behaviors that make us scream into the void, spiral, and convince ourselves we could "help."

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

Yes, I know, I disappeared. Yes, longer than planned. Yes, you missed me—don’t lie, and yes—I missed you more. Plot twist: I wasn’t just napping after exams. I’ve officially committed to Ivy League—pause for applause, or choking, your choice—where I’ll be doing medical psych research this summer. Fancy, I know.

So yeah, I’ve been deep in research—now I’m back to apply it to fictional men who absolutely ruin lives.

Let’s get feral… intelligently.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You’ve known Crowe for years.

He was never loud about it—didn’t sweep in with fireworks or fall from the sky or pull any rom-com-level stunts. Nah. He just… showed up. And stayed. Quietly inserting himself into your orbit like some well-dressed glitch in the matrix who smelled faintly of jasmine and self-restraint.

People call him Prince Charming.

In your head? You call him Princess Crowe, Supreme of Serenity and Sass. Because yes, sure, he’s got that calm, regal aura—but look at him. He’s too pretty to be real. More beauteous than handsome. Delicate bone structure, elegant fingers, eyelashes that probably violate human rights laws. Honestly, he looks like if moonlight and sarcasm had a baby.

And don’t get me started on the braid.

He wears his dark hair tied back into this loose braid that hangs over his right shoulder, with stray strands escaping just enough to suggest he definitely read about brooding male leads in novels and took notes. It’s the kind of look that says “I could emotionally devastate you and then tuck you in.”

And that’s the thing about Crowe—he looks like a polite heir to a forgotten kingdom, but you just know he could get messy. Like, “trip you with a smirk and gaslight you into thinking it was romantic foreplay” messy.

But he’s also your best friend.

Well, technically. In theory. Because let’s be real: Best friends don’t have crushes on you. Actually… It depends…

Hot Thing #1: The Thumb Tracing

Let’s get one thing straight before we proceed:

Holding hands is not supposed to be an arrestable offense.

It’s supposed to be harmless. Sweet, even. A little contact to say “Hey, I like being near you.” You’re supposed to feel a flutter—maybe blush a little, maybe squeeze back. Normal stuff. Manageable.

But with Crowe?

Crowe turns hand-holding into a transcendent event. A full-body experience. The kind of moment that rewires your nervous system. He doesn’t touch you like it’s casual. He touches you like your skin once whispered a secret into his palm and now he’s obsessed with decoding it again and again.

It starts innocently enough. You’re across from him, probably mid-rant—something petty that feels righteous and holy in your bones. Maybe it’s about that girl in class with her overpriced pens and her attitude that drips superiority like perfume.

You’re waving your hands, voice sharp with conviction—“And then she had the audacity to roll her eyes at me, Crowe. Like I was just supposed to accept that level of delusion and keep going? I mean—”

And then he does it.

He takes your hand. Just—gently folds it into his, like it’s nothing. And while you’re mid-sentence, he starts tracing.

It’s soft. Thoughtless, almost. His thumb moves in slow, hypnotic circles against your skin, as if your hand was always meant to be read like braille. He’s not even looking at it.

He’s looking at you, steady and focused, with those impossible, thoes blue eyes that see straight through the noise and into the marrow. But that thumb? It keeps moving. Drawing soft spirals, lazy loops, idle figure-eights like he’s memorizing every line and vein and secret under the surface.

You lose track of your rant. Your brain glitches. You blink, like you’ve just slipped through reality. “Crowe,” you whisper, trying to anchor yourself, “what are you doing?”

He blinks, serene. “Listening.”

“With your thumb?”

His lips curl into that maddening little half-smirk. The one that ruins lives. “It’s a multitasking thumb.”

And you—you are so done.

Because it’s not just the tracing. It’s the intention. It’s the quiet. It’s the fact that his touch isn’t demanding—it’s remembering. The kind that leaves echoes long after it ends.

The Tracing Catalogue™ isn’t just a list of idle gestures—it’s a tactile love language, a slow-burning monologue spoken in skin and silence. He doesn’t rush. Ever. His thumb glides in these almost sacred patterns: a long sweep up your knuckles, a subtle line drawn from the base of your wrist to the dip beneath your thumb. Sometimes he taps lightly in rhythm, syncing with the subtle beat of your pulse like he’s grounding himself to your heartbeat.

And then, there was that time.

The moment that took your breath hostage. You were talking, something lighthearted—something forgettable—and without warning, he traced a tiny heart on the back of your hand. Just once. Barely there.

You felt it like a confession, so tender and raw that it short-circuited your ability to function. You didn’t react. Couldn’t. Just stared at the ceiling like the truth might be hiding in the cracks of the drywall. How do you respond when someone says everything without saying a word?

And then there’s the other touch.

When his arm slips around your waist.

That’s when it’s over.

Maybe it happens when you’re curled beside him on the couch, the room hushed around you, warm with lamplight and the low hum of music in the background.

Or maybe it’s in public, in a tucked-away café corner where no one’s watching but the air still feels charged. His hand slides around you—casual, like it belongs there—and then his fingers find the sliver of skin where your shirt lifts just slightly.

And it begins again.

Not teasing. Not rushed. Slow, reverent circles. His fingertips graze like they’re trying to calm something unnamed—like he’s writing protective spells in invisible ink. His thumb draws down, curves back up, sketches soft, looping sigils that feel like promises.

He’s not even paying attention to what he’s doing. He’s listening to you talk about something else—art, ethics, the gray morality of your favorite villain—but his fingers stay, moving as if they’re tethered to the rhythm of your voice.

And you try to keep speaking. You try.

But inside?

Nothing but white noise. Static. A gentle, chaotic implosion.

Because it’s not just physical contact. It’s presence. It’s intimacy without demand. It’s the comfort of being seen and held in the same moment. It’s him saying, I’m here. You matter. I won’t rush you. But I’ll stay.

Crowe doesn’t touch to take—he touches to witness. To remember. In a world that constantly demands volume and noise, he listens in quiet motion. His hands say what he’d never admit aloud. You don’t have to ask for softness here. You don’t have to earn it. I’ve already chosen to give it.

And the worst part?

He has no idea what he’s doing to you. He does.

Your heart is scorched earth. Your sense of self? Crumbling. Emotional independence? Weeping silently in the back of your mind. He thinks he’s just being thoughtful. Just being there.

But you know better.

That mf does know, he ain’t slick.

Hot Thing #2: Mind Reader Tendencies

It’s like being escorted through life by a god disguised as a gentleman.

And honestly, at this point, you should be filing some kind of formal complaint with the cosmos, because how is it even remotely fair for one person to be both emotionally literate and devastatingly attractive?

Crowe isn’t just observant—he’s clairvoyant in that maddening, quietly devastating way. He reads you like you’re a well-loved novel: cover softened, margins scribbled with thoughts only he seems to understand. He’s memorized all the dog-eared pages—the ones you thought you kept hidden, folded deep between layers of defensiveness and polite silence.

You never have to ask for anything. Hell, you barely have to think.

You’ll walk back to the table after a miserable ten-minute brush with reality—maybe you just had to talk to someone fake-smiling through fangs, or maybe you stepped in a puddle and questioned every life choice that led you to this point—and there he is. Crowe. Already pulling out your chair like it’s instinct, his hand a steady warmth between your shoulder blades. He doesn’t look up when he murmurs, “Sweet or salty?”

You blink. Confused. You hadn’t said a word.

But he’s already halfway through ordering the pastry. That pastry. The one you always break down for when your mood drops below murderous. The one that tastes like forgiveness and poor coping mechanisms. You sit, stunned, and he just continues his conversation like nothing happened—like he didn’t just read your entire emotional forecast with a single glance.

And that’s not even the most criminal part.

There was this other time, in a crowd—people pressing too close, voices rising in static, the air too hot and full of demand. You hadn’t even reached the edge yet, hadn’t even panicked, but then—

Something cold. Slid into your palm.

You glance down. A bottle of water. Cold, unopened.

You look up. Crowe doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask if you’re okay, doesn’t crowd you further. He just raises an eyebrow in that maddening, knowing way—like he already knows how close the walls were getting. Just holds your gaze, steady and calm, a silent: You good? And you are now. Against all odds, against the crushing weight of existence—you’re good. Because he is.

But the real breaking point? The moment that tilted the axis of your whole internal world?

You’d once—once—mentioned this keychain. Half-asleep during a late-night call, your voice drifting between dreaming and real. Something small. Dumb. A fleeting detail you’d forgotten the second it left your lips.

He didn’t.

The next day, it’s there. Nestled into your bag like a secret. Two of them. Matching. Of course they match. Like some quiet offering you weren’t supposed to find. You pull it out, staring, heart lurching in that awful, beautiful way that says this is love and you are not ready.

You clutch it to your chest, stunned. “Crowe,” you hiss, heart glitching. “Did you…?”

He shrugs. Barely looks up. Doesn’t even try to act guilty. “You liked it.”

“You remembered that?”

That damn smirk. That slight tilt of his head. “I remember everything you like.”

You stare at him, torn between awe and emotional cardiac arrest. How dare he. How dare he weaponize that voice, that calm, unbothered presence, and make remembering you feel like the most natural thing in the world.

And the worst part? It’s not one-sided.

Because somewhere along the way, you started doing it, too.

Noticing the way his shoulders ease when there’s jasmine in the air. Remembering how he always drinks tea when he’s tired but won’t say it aloud. Memorizing the exact pitch of silence that comforts him—and the precise song to hum when his gaze turns distant.

You know which hoodie he’ll actually wear when he’s cold, which movie pulls him out of bad days without needing a word.

It’s not grand gestures. It’s not declarations. It’s presence.

Mutual fluency in one another's unspoken needs. You start anticipating him the same way he’s always read you: sliding your dessert slightly toward him without a word, answering questions he hasn’t asked out loud. Exchanging glances in a crowded room and knowing. Speaking entire sentences with a look, a shift of posture, a barely-there smile.

And it’s terrifyingly intimate.

More than any kiss. More than any vow.

Because this isn’t about touch or words. It’s about the fact that Crowe lives beside you like he belongs there. Moves through your life like he’s always known the layout.

Like he found your soul half-abandoned on a shelf somewhere, dusted it off, and said I know how to carry this without breaking it.

And what’s even more impossible? You belong beside him, too.

Whether either of you says it or not—you know it. And knowing someone like this? Being known like this? It’s dangerous. Addictive.

And utterly irreversible.

Hot Thing #3: Unreachable Vulnerability

aka “He Protects Everyone but Who Protects Him?”

You give. Crowe protects.

That’s the rhythm of it. The unspoken contract. The magnetic balance between the two of you. But the cruel twist—the part that breaks you open again and again—is that he never lets you protect him.

And gods, you’ve tried. With gentle words and even gentler silences. You’ve laid out your heart like a map, offered him little bridges of safety to cross at his own pace—whispers disguised as jokes, late-night check-ins wrapped in casual tones, a hundred soft invitations hidden in the way you say his name when no one else is around.

“Are you okay?” you ask one evening, your voice almost lost beneath the hum of the streetlight spilling through the window. The room is still. Dim. Crowe’s leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere far away. He doesn’t look at you.

Just exhales. Quiet. Controlled.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” he murmurs, like it’s a favor he’s offering you. Like your concern is an unnecessary weight he’d rather carry himself.

But you do worry.

Because you see him—not the practiced version the world gets. Not just the dry wit, the strategic calm, the way he stands just slightly in front of you when a room turns sharp.

No, you see the tightness in his jaw when something bruises beneath the surface. You see the tension in his shoulders after a day spent holding up more than anyone should. You see how he goes still sometimes—how his gaze drifts far, inward, haunted by thoughts he won’t share.

You see it, and it kills you.

Because you’d take it. Every burden. Every wound. You’d carry his ghosts if he’d only let you. You’d hold his pain like relics, polish the sharp edges until they stopped cutting him open from the inside. You’d make a home for the parts of him he hides away.

But he never lets you in far enough to touch them.

Once—just once—he let the exhaustion catch up to him. The armor slipped. You sat close, your bodies almost brushing, and when the silence stretched too long, he let his head rest against yours for a moment that lasted longer than it should have. It felt like a confession.

“I mean it,” you whispered. “You don’t always have to be strong for me.”

And he smiled. That awful, beautiful smile. Half-ache, half-apology. The kind of smile that means thank you and please stop all at once.

“I want to be,” he said. “For you.”

And that ruined you. Because it was honest. Honest in a way that was almost cruel. It told you everything—how he sees you, how much he values your faith in him, how terrified he is of shattering the version of himself that makes you feel safe.

Because loving Crowe is like holding fire in your bare hands. He warms you. Protects you. Lights the way through every storm. But he never lets you get close enough to touch the part that burns. The core. The vulnerable flame. He shields it not to punish you, but to protect you—from the heaviness of him, from the fear that if you really knew, you’d run.

As if your love is some fragile thing. As if it wouldn’t survive the truth of him.

So when he places that grounding hand on your back, when he steadies you with that quiet certainty, when he shields you like you’re made of something fragile and divine—you say nothing. Not anymore. Not today.

You swallow the ache. Smile through it. Match his silence with your own. Because this is how he lets you love him: not in grand rescues, but in the quiet presence beside him. In noticing.

In remembering. In never leaving. You guard him in the only way he allows—without confrontation, without demands, without pushing past the line he draws so carefully around himself.

You wait.

Because one day—when the dam finally breaks, when the weight becomes too much, when his walls crack just enough to let the flood through—you’ll be there. Steady. Ready. Not to fix him, not to pull him back to the version he thinks he has to be, but to rebuild with him.

Softer. Truer. Armor made not of silence, but of trust.

Until then, you love him the way he lets you. Quietly. Constantly.

You always notice. You always will.

Attachment Style: 𝓈𝑒𝒸𝓊𝓇𝑒

Confidence. Self-worth. Accepts Supports.

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship.Crowe isn’t just a man—he’s a case study in secure attachment dressed like sin and serenity had a child.

Everything about him moves with intent, like he was carved out of composure and gifted to a world too loud for his quiet strength.

The paradox is real: he’s distant without being cold, intimate without being invasive. He looks like he doesn’t need anyone, but loves like someone who deeply values connection. And the truth? Crowe is secure.

Not just emotionally available—emotionally anchored.

He is the kind of love that doesn’t flinch.

Out of all the men in TKATB, Crowe is the most stable. Other than Deryl, heance she the reason why I don’t write him because he’s like a mix between Crowe and Hyugo—look, I just don’t wanna write that much, man T-T.

Not in the sense of boring or predictable—no, Crowe is terrifying in the way gentleness becomes power when wielded with unwavering intent. His love doesn’t crash or spiral. It doesn’t demand to be witnessed through chaos. It simply is—a steady, grounding hum beneath the noise of the world, the kind of presence that calms your trembling hands before you even notice they’re shaking.

He doesn’t love to be impressive. He loves because it’s who he is.

Not possessive. Not performative. Just… quietly devoted.

A man who nurtures love like it’s a fire he’s been entrusted to tend: brick by brick, breath by breath, never smothered, never forgotten.

From a psychological lens, again, Crowe is the embodiment of secure attachment—a rarity sculpted not from trauma responses or codependent patterns, but from inner clarity. This is someone who knows himself. Who doesn’t run from discomfort, but also doesn’t manufacture it for sport? Who expresses his needs without guilt. Sets boundaries without cruelty. Listens without waiting to speak.

He doesn’t play games. Emotional safety isn’t a performance for him—it’s his baseline. He can sit in your silence without assuming it’s about him. He can watch you spiral without trying to fix you. He’ll just be there—a shoulder, a breath, a hand on the small of your back that wordlessly says, I’ve got you.

Where the anxious chase and the avoidants vanish, Crowe stays.

And that? That is rare.

He is safe. But not in the bland, beige, Hallmark-movie way.

He’s safe in the holy shit, I can finally exhale around you kind of way. You could fall apart—shattered, incoherent, undone—and he would catch every piece with reverent hands. Not to glue you back together in his image. Not to fix what he thinks is broken. But just to witness you. To hold the fragments. To let you come home to yourself while wrapped in the kind of presence that never once wavers.

Because Crowe knows that love isn’t about control. Or urgency. Or possession. Love, for him, is about unfolding. Slowly. Deliberately. Willingly.

And he unfolds you in the most devastatingly mundane ways. Tea waiting by your bed before you realize you need it. His jacket slipped over your shoulders before you can pretend you’re not cold. The smell of laundry detergent clinging to your favorite hoodie—the one he washed and folded while humming under his breath. Nothing loud. Nothing dramatic. Just devotion stitched into the fabric of the ordinary.

But don’t mistake this softness for perfection.

Crowe still has his own shadows.

He gets tired. He burns out. Sometimes he overfunctions, taking on too much, because rest still feels suspiciously like failure. He’s the pillar in every room, the one everyone leans on, and sometimes he forgets he’s allowed to lean back. He doesn’t show it often, but he craves reassurance in quiet ways—needs to hear that he’s appreciated, even if he’ll never ask.

Even the most securely attached hearts carry wounds.

Crowe’s just learned how to hold his with grace.

That’s what makes him magnetic—his strength isn’t rigid. It’s fluid. Adaptive. His masculinity is never threatened by tenderness. His confidence is not armor—it’s foundation. And that’s what ruins people for anyone else. Because once you’ve been loved by someone like Crowe?

You stop mistaking chaos for passion.

You stop chasing the highs and lows and learn to worship the steady middle. You crave peace because he teaches you that it’s anything but passive.

You’ve thought about what kind of person Crowe could truly open to. The one he’d actually choose to give that rare, inner part of himself to. It wouldn’t be someone who demands a performance. Not someone who needs him to be impressive, loud, or invincible. It would be someone emotionally mature.

Grounded.

A person who can walk beside him, not behind. Who sees consistency as a love language, not a limitation. Someone who understands that passion, when paired with safety, doesn’t burn out—it burns deeper. Crowe needs someone who understands that intimacy is built in small, sacred rituals. That calm is not boring—it’s divine. Someone who knows the difference between being claimed and being chosen.

And you? You see it.

You don’t need him to shout his love. You feel it in the way he breathes around you. In the way he touches your shoulder like he’s checking you’re still anchored. In the way he cooks for you, like he’s crafting something sacred. In the way he smiles at you across a crowded room, like he’s proud that you are his still point in the storm.

So yes. You’re already doomed.

But it’s the kind of doom you walk into willingly. Reverently. Because there’s no falling here. No cliff. No crash. There’s just the quiet, terrifying comfort of being seen. Of being safe. Of being held in a love that doesn't ask you to shrink or rise—just be. Because Crowe doesn’t love like a storm.

He loves it like home. And once you've felt that?

You won’t settle for anything less ever again.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

Ugh. Alright, but just so we’re clear—I’m writing this with the same energy one uses to approach a beautiful, haunted cathedral that might also house a ghost with a knife collection.

Because Sol?

Sol is… a fucking mess.

Of course, you wouldn’t know after ONE thing after hanging out with him, or you peek at it at the start of the game. Not the loud, unhinged, obvious kind of mess. No. He’s the kind of mess that hides in the corner of a nearly empty room, eyes locked on something no one else can see, sketchbook clutched in ink-stained fingers, and a look that says, “If you talk to me, I might vanish into smoke.”

You noticed him before you met him. How could you not? Why would you?

He didn’t fit. Not because he tried to stand out, but because he tried so hard not to be noticed that it was impossible not to notice him.

Black hair streaked with poisonous green, tied back in a loose half-up-half-down way that screamed “I didn’t try” but looked suspiciously intentional. Bangs in thirds, one long streak falling dead center down his face, the others framing his cheeks like curtains to something sacred. Crimson-red eyes with burning orange centers like the last flare of a dying sun—central heterochromia, you’d later learn, but at first? You just called them unholy.

Sol didn’t talk to anyone. Didn’t even seem to see anyone. Sat in the back. Always sketching. Always watching. And dressed like he rolled out of a shadow realm thrift store and won.

Ngl he has that shit on—like the best fit out of everone in that damn game because eveyone shit lowkey kinda basic asf.

He wasn’t trying to intimidate. He just wasn’t trying at all.

And still, somehow? He was the prettiest thing you’d ever seen.

Pretty, and pathetic, in the way haunted things are when they’ve been alone too long. You didn’t approach him like you would anyone else. Not with easy words or a smile. You approached him like someone inching toward a sleeping wolf. Careful. Curious. Fascinated.

Like maybe… maybe... You could stay.

Hot Thing #1: His Hands

Let’s just start with the obvious. His hands. His hands.

They should come with a warning label. Or maybe an art exhibit placard: “Do not touch—unless invited. Hazardous to rational thought.”

Sol’s hands are absurd. Long-fingered, precise, a strange contradiction of delicate and dangerous. He moves like someone who creates for a living and destroys for fun. The faint ink stains along his knuckles and fingertips don’t fade—they’re permanent, like tattoos of sleepless nights and compulsive inspiration.

Calluses rest along his inner fingers from pencils and brushes and god knows what else, but there’s still something careful about the way he moves, something intentional. His hands tremble when he’s lost in thought—not from weakness, but from the sheer intensity of whatever storm’s going on in his mind.

And the veins. God. The veins.

Prominent and winding, twitching subtly whenever he flexes or grips something a little too tight—like he's constantly at war with himself. You could map out your descent into insanity with them. Watch his hands tighten around a paintbrush, or twitch when he's gripping a mug too tightly, or the way his fingers hesitate before brushing against your skin—and every time, you swear you feel it in your lungs.

But it’s not just the aesthetics. It’s the intention.

The first time he cupped your face—with those artist’s hands, rough with talent and gentle with fear—you actually forgot how to breathe. He held you like you were something sacred. Breakable. Like he’d spent years drawing you in his mind before he ever touched you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real, and he was terrified that touching you might undo the illusion.

And you?

You're long gone.

Because when Sol touches you like that—with those graceful, twitchy artist hands, a breath away from trembling—you forget your name. You forget his name. You forget why this is such a bad idea. All that remains is sensation: the calloused pad of his thumb against your cheekbone, the unspoken question tucked inside the drag of his knuckle, the ink-smudged tenderness of someone who holds fragile things like they matter.

You’re not immune. Not even close.

So—maybe out of curiosity, maybe out of pure chaos—you take one of his hands. Just… gently. As if you’re studying it. Turning it over in your palm. Tracing a fingertip along the long lines of his veins. You hear his breath hitch. Not loud. But enough.

And for someone who blends into the background so effortlessly, Sol is terrible at hiding how flustered he is.

His ears were pink first. A soft, creeping flush like a sunrise over frost. Then the edge of his jaw tightens—not from anger, but restraint. His fingers twitch under yours like he’s trying so hard not to pull away… or maybe not to pull you closer. His gaze darts anywhere but your face: the floor, the table, the sky.

Anywhere safer than your expression right now.

“...You're doing it again,” he mutters. His voice is lower this time. Rougher.

“What?” you ask, feigning innocence as your thumb brushes the back of his knuckles. His pulse leaps beneath your touch.

“That thing. Where you look at me like I’m—” he pauses. Swallows. “Like I’m not a disaster.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe I like disasters.”

His eyes flicker to yours—just for a moment. Something vulnerable flashes behind the crimson and gold, something fragile and aching. It vanishes just as quickly. Replaced by that familiar, distant calm he wears like armor.

“…Okay,” he murmurs. Only quiet disbelief. His hand curls slightly around yours, just enough to hold on. Just enough to let you know he doesn’t want you to stop.

And you don’t. You can’t.

Because touching him like this—softly, reverently, like you’re handling some ancient spell-bound relic that might just whisper your name back if you get close enough—it completely undoes him.

Every time your fingers drift along his palm or ghost over the curve between his knuckles, Sol’s composure does this little glitch. Like a frame skip in reality. He tries to act unbothered—muttering under his breath, faking a yawn, suddenly very interested in the corner of the room where absolutely nothing is happening—but his hands? They give him away. Always. They stay exactly where they are. Still. Open. Waiting.

And okay. Fine. Maybe your interest isn’t entirely innocent. I mean, have you seen those hands? Long fingers, all twitchy with tension and stained in ink like a promise. Veins like lightning strikes. That subtle strength in the way he handles a paintbrush, or tightens the strap of his sketchbook bag, or, god forbid, cups your jaw like you’re something he’s afraid to break but dying to know.

Let’s just say—if you ever asked him to do something a little less wholesome with those hands?

You’re pretty sure he’d be excellent at it. Like, overly excellent. Like "I’ve read too many dark romance novels and now I know too much,” excellent. Not that you’re saying that out loud. Yet. Because Sol? Sol would die of embarrassment. Blush to his ears, probably knock over three books and his mug of tea in the process, and then immediately act like you were the one being inappropriate.

But his hands would stay. Still. Open.

Just in case you wanted to hold them again. Or trace the lines. Or test a theory or two about how good he really is with them. Sol won’t say it. He doesn’t need to. But every little movement-every—every twitch, every stillness, every time he lets you touch—It’s him saying: I’m yours, if you ask.

And maybe, someday soon, you will.

Hot Thing #2: His Jaw Tenses

See, Sol is the kind of person you don’t notice until you do—and by then, it’s already too late.

He doesn’t command attention, he slips past it, folds himself into the edges of the room like a shadow that’s always been there. Not because he lacks presence, no, not even close. It’s deliberate. Controlled. Sol’s the ghost behind the curtain, the silent observer whose gaze lingers a beat too long and whose silence says more than most people’s entire vocabulary.

He watches. And remembers.

But then. Oh, then—there’s the jaw thing.

It happens when he’s angry. Or jealous. Or both. And because he’s so quiet, so eerily unreadable most of the time, the first time you catch it, it hits like a freight train.

You're talking to someone else. Just a little too long. Laughing, maybe. Leaning a little too close. You glance over—and there’s Sol, sitting there like a portrait halfway finished in chiaroscuro, face calm but jaw tight. So tight you can see the muscle working beneath the skin, flexing like he’s biting back something vicious.

His pen is still in his hand, but it hasn’t moved in minutes. His heterochromatic gaze finds yours—and holds. Searing. Like the air just got thicker between you.

You shift in your chair, and just like that—scrrrrk—he reaches out, grabs the leg of your chair, and drags it closer to his. Effortlessly.

Your breath stutters. His arm lifts—casual, practiced—and drapes across the back of your chair like he’s staking a claim. You can feel the tension still thrumming in him, that fire he’s trying so hard to tamp down behind his quiet facade.

"Keep talking," he murmurs, barely glancing at you. His lips twitch—half smirk, half warning. "I was listening."

Your face? Absolutely volcanic. Your brain? Static. You try to refocus, try to pretend you're not being slowly incinerated alive by one (1) jealous gremlin masquerading as a sad poet.

But he doesn’t move.

And even with the jaw still clenched, that tension coiled in his shoulders, his hand brushes your back. Soft. Steady. Anchoring.

You don’t know if he’s trying to calm you down or himself.

Either way, it works. Because even when he’s mad—even when that jaw is practically grinding his teeth to dust—Sol doesn’t push you away.

He pulls you closer.

Hot Thing #3: Well.. his Voice

Of course his voice is unfair. Of course it is.

We don’t even get voice acting in the game—but somehow, somehow, I can still hear him. It's one of those cruel little mysteries of the universe, like how your favorite characters linger in your mind long after the screen fades to black.

I remember the creator, Fantasia, once posted what each character’s voice would sound like—just a passing comment, buried in an old post—but it stuck. And among all the characters, Sol’s voice is the only one that doesn’t overwhelm you.

Everyone else? Yeah, they have presence. Energy. Volume. Some sounds normal. Some are… well—Geo. And listen, I say this with love and concern, but that man’s voice sounds like it was designed to haunt your dreams and threaten your ancestors. Geo speaks, and you flinch like someone just unsheathed a cursed weapon. He sounds like vengeance???

But Sol? No. Sol’s voice is different.

It's quiet, careful—like he’s tasting each syllable before deciding it’s safe to say out loud. It’s not sharp or commanding. It doesn’t need to be. His voice is a hush at the edge of the storm. A late-night radio broadcast meant only for you. It’s not there to startle you into attention—it coaxes you in. Warm. Thoughtful. A little hesitant, like he doesn’t speak often, but when he does, you listen.

And that makes it worse. Because he’s not trying to get under your skin.

He just is.

Like, Sol’s voice starts soft, low, breathy, like he’s never quite sure if he’s allowed to speak out loud. Sol talks like he’s unspooling thought directly from the inside of his mind, like every word he gives you is something private, meant to be kept.

His tone curls around your spine like smoke from an incense stick: barely there at first, but then suddenly all you can smell, feel, breathe.

But when he’s immersed? When he’s talking about things he actually loves—books with frayed spines and marginalia scribbled in the corners, the myths he collects like bones, the difference between gouache and oil paints, or how watercolor red bleeds like veins under wet paper?

That voice? Changes.

It deepens. Warms. Sharpens into this low, smooth, hypnotic hum that’s too much and not enough all at once. He leans over his sketchbook one afternoon, humming absently as he touches a brush to the page—burnt sienna fanning out in delicate, crimson rivers.

"The reds always bleed like veins when I paint with them,” he murmurs, his mouth entirely too close to your ear, “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You forget to breathe. You forget your own name.

“I—what?” you stammer, blinking like you just came out of a trance.

He doesn’t even look up. Just smirks, barely, and dips the brush again. “You weren’t listening,” he accuses gently. “You just like my voice.”

“I don’t—!” You clamp your mouth shut, cheeks burning.

His eyes flick toward you, crimson ringed with gold, dark lashes brushing his cheek. “You do.” A pause. Then softer: “It’s okay. I like how you say my name, too.”

You malfunction. Completely.

But it’s not just the tone. Not the warmth, or the drop in pitch when he’s tired and his words come wrapped in sleep. It’s the way he speaks—how he always sounds like he’s choosing each syllable with intent. Like he’s afraid of wasting a single one. Like language is sacred. Like you are.

Even when he’s quiet—especially when he’s quiet—there’s so much in it. You can hear care in the way he says your name. You can feel longing in the way he pauses before speaking, like he’s gauging whether he deserves to say something that touches you.

And underneath all the odd, unnerving stillness… there’s sweetness. A tenderness that never needs to announce itself.

He lingers longer than necessary when he brushes your hand. He touches your wrist like it’s something fragile he might break if he’s not careful. He tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear when you’re not paying attention, then pretends he didn’t. He scribbles quotes and folds them into tiny shapes—leaves them tucked in your books, your pockets, under your pillow.

“You’re not strange. You’re just the only language I haven’t learned how to read yet.”

You don’t tell him, but you keep everyone.

And when you dream, sometimes it’s not his face you see—it’s just the sound of his voice. Low, reverent, a whisper carved into your ribs.

Saying your name like it’s a poem. Like it’s a spell. Like it’s his.

Attachment Style: 𝒶𝓃𝓍𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈

Clingy. Highly Emotional. Seeking Reassurance.

Alright, let’s get something straight right off the bat: You guys know I don’t get the hype with Sol. Like, I see all of everyone on TikTok and Tumblr losing their minds over him like he’s some rare cosmic phenomenon, and I’m just here blinking, trying to figure out what’s so special about him.

He’s a yandere base character with a lot of character, he’s well written, I’ll give you that, because out of all the yandere

Because honestly? Again, visually, Sol looks like half the guys I see on campus every damn day. Long, disheveled bangs shadowing those stormy eyes, a kind of vacant, distant artist stare that’s been milled into the indie aesthetic.

The kind of dude who smells like burnt cinnamon and acrylic paint, like he’s perpetually stuck in a thrift shop or art studio. If you threw a rock into a random thrift, I’d bet it’d hit five Sol lookalikes before it hit you.

Let’s get something straight.

Sorry, you can clearly tell one fucked me up so bad.

Sol is not romantic. He’s not the fantasy.

He’s the delusion dressed in aesthetics so sharp and lyrical that people forget to flinch before they bleed. And I’m sorry if that breaks hearts.

Actually, no—I’m not.

Because someone has to say it. Someone has to be the older sister standing between fantasy and reality with a tired look in her eyes and a warning in her voice: Don’t crave men like Sol.

Don’t mistake his obsession for intimacy.

Don’t confuse his emotional starvation for depth.

Yes, Sol is beautiful—haunting, even. He doesn’t ask to be adored. He doesn’t perform desire. He simply exists in a way that makes your chest ache, like looking at a painting you don’t understand but can’t stop staring at. He’s the kind of character who crawls into your veins and sets up shop in your most vulnerable thoughts.

But that doesn’t make him safe.

In fact, he’s the most dangerous man in TKATB.

Not in the "knife-to-throat" way, but in the "I will latch onto you so completely that you forget where you end and I begin" kind of way. He’s a yandere.

Let’s not romanticize what he really is:

A walking case study in anxious attachment, trauma-coded intimacy, and emotional dysregulation. Sol doesn’t love with boundaries. He loves with abandonment issues and fever dreams. He doesn’t have a type. Not in the curated, preference-based sense. He doesn’t fall for “someone special.” He falls for whoever offers him a drop of attention in a lifetime of drought.

You texted him back twice? He’s writing odes.

You laugh at one of his jokes? He’s dreaming about your wedding.

You touch his arm casually? He’s ruined.

That’s not love. That’s fixation.

That’s attachment disorder dressed up in pretty metaphors and mournful gazes. Sol would bleed himself dry to prove he matters to you. He would carve your name into every corner of his mind, begging the memory of you to stay because he doesn’t know how to hold himself without an anchor, and you are the anchor. You, who smiled at him that one time. You, who didn’t run away fast enough. You, who made the mistake of seeing him.

And gods help you if you ever return that affection.

Because once you do?

He’s yours—entirely. Obsessively. Apocalyptically.

Not in a cute, flowers-and-sappy-notes kind of way.

But in the “I’d rather be miserable with you than happy alone” kind of way. The “I will shrink myself to fit in the cracks of your life” kind of way. The kind of devotion that doesn’t feel flattering. It feels suffocating. And yeah, he writes you poems. He makes you art. He memorizes your favorite songs.

But all of it is built on the trembling foundation of please don’t leave me. He gives you his soul—but not because he trusts you. Because he’s afraid you’re the only one who’ll take it.

Sol is scarcity in a human body.

He’s love-starved. He’s lonely. And that loneliness warps him into something too much and not enough all at once. He doesn’t want you to love him for his talents. Or his personality. He just wants to be chosen. Not out of logic. Not out of reason. Just out of that irrational, terrifying instinct that says, You. You’re mine.

And for anyone who’s ever felt unwanted, unchosen, or overlooked… That kind of love is magnetic. It feels holy. It feels like finally being seen. But it’s not holiness. It’s hunger. And hunger makes people desperate.

Now, listen closely. Because this matters:

Sol will make you feel special.

But that’s not because you’re the only one. It’s because he doesn’t know how to feel okay without someone—anyone—to fixate on. He’ll watch you sleep like you’re the sun and the end of the world. He’ll spiral at the thought of losing your attention. He’ll say he’s fine and then quietly implode when you don’t text back in time.

And the truth is: He’s not ready for love.

He doesn’t have the tools. He has poetry instead of communication. Passion instead of boundaries. And yes, he will ruin you with how beautiful he is when he’s desperate.

But he’ll ruin himself even faster. So please. Don’t aspire to love a man like Sol. Understand him? Yes. Empathize? Absolutely.

But don’t confuse him with a goal. Don’t glamorize his pain. Don’t make a home in someone who’s still setting fire to every place they enter just to see if anyone will stay in the flames.

Sol is not a villain. he kinda is...

He’s just... unfinished. Raw. Beautiful in that tragic, self-destructive way that makes you want to hold him and scream at him at the same time. But love should not be built on survival instincts and panic responses.

And if you’re a younger reader, especially, because I was once your age and I know SOME minors read my work, you're just playing it smart not to show your real age on the internet, so please listen:

This is not what love looks like.

This is not the kind of man you want to save. This is the kind of man who needs to save himself first. And you are not the cure. You are not a salve. You are not responsible for holding someone together just because they’re afraid to fall apart alone.

So no. I will not write him as some perfect tragic prince.

Because he isn’t.

And you deserve better than the fantasy of someone who would rather burn with you than heal beside you. Sol is poetry. But not every poem should be read like a promise. Some are just warnings dressed in beautiful words.

And this? This is yours.

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Ah, finally. Geo.

God, I’ve missed writing this man like a bad habit I refuse to quit.

Let me tell you something real—there’s something infuriatingly addictive about Geo. He’s not just tall; he’s annoyingly tall. The kind of tall that makes your posture worse just standing next to him.

He’s the exact height where, if you asked him to grab something from the top shelf, he’d just look at you, expression flat, silently judging your weakness while reaching for it anyway. Like some quiet, reluctant guardian deity who hates your incompetence but takes care of you anyway.

He’s broody. Of course he is. Broody, serious, emotionally constipated in the way only someone raised under an oppressive cocktail of expectations, trauma, and tactical training could be.

He doesn’t “glare”—he assesses, and the moment his eyes lock onto you, you feel like you're being psychologically dissected and filed into a threat matrix. He doesn’t just walk into a room. He occupies it. Quietly. Commandingly. Like a ghost who’s also your landlord.

And yet?

No one knows a damn thing about him.

He’s the human equivalent of redacted classified files. He’s got the kind of presence that screams: If you think you know me, you don’t. Geo’s not mysterious for attention—he’s just actually private. Like "burned his own childhood photos" levels of private.

If you ask where he’s from, you’ll get a clipped “overseas” and a look so cold you’ll suddenly forget what the question even was. He’s not hiding anything in the way someone guilty might—he’s hiding everything because he can. And because of him, your curiosity is noise.

Geo’s rich, obviously, but not the new-money, “look at my luxury watch and hypercar” kind of rich. No, he’s old moneyrich—the kind where generational power moves in silence. His taste is curated, not expensive for the sake of expense, but because he understands precision. Geo’s wealth feels like legacy and bloodlines and something cold passed down through hands that never knew softness.

Now here’s the thing: he is not approachable.

Geo radiates this “do not engage” energy like a psychic wall. Trying to be friends with him cold? Suicidal. You don’t meet Geo—you get vetted by him. If you somehow worm your way into his orbit, it’s not because you charmed him—it’s because he saw something in you that wasn’t a liability. And even then, he watches. Always. Like he’s trying to solve you before you solve him.

Honestly, you’d need Crowe to run interference, several bribes, a six-month campaign of micro-interactions, and a willingness to have him ignore 90% of your existence before you even get a nod of recognition. And when you do get that nod? Oh, congratulations. You now mean slightly more than nothing to him. That’s progress.

And yet—yet—that’s what makes him devastating.

Hot Thing #1: His Useful Height

Geo’s height is not just a trait. It’s a threat.

A walking hazard to your sanity. A full-body reminder that evolution had favorites. Because it’s not just that he’s tall—it’s that he uses it, casually, instinctively, infuriatingly well.

Even when you can reach something on your own, he doesn’t let you. Doesn’t even hesitate. You’ll be mid-reach, fingers brushing the top shelf like a responsible, self-sufficient adult—and suddenly, he’s behind you. Close. Solid. His hand effortlessly sliding past yours to grab the exact item like he was summoned by the gods of smug utility.

“You were struggling,” he says mildly, placing it in your hands like some kind of benevolent height deity.

“I was not,” you grumble, trying not to combust from how his chest just barely grazed your back.

He doesn’t argue. Just scoffs. That very specific Geo scoff. The kind that’s 60% dry amusement, 30% mischief, and 10% 'I know I’m hot, but I’m going to pretend I don’t.'

And sure, maybe he likes being helpful. Maybe he enjoys the way your flustered silence lingers in the air afterward. But mostly? Mostly, it’s the excuse it gives him to lean in.

Because every time he reaches up to grab something, he does it deliberately close—his body brushing yours, his arm stretching just overhead, his torso turning ever so slightly so you can catch the shift of his muscles beneath that stupidly well-fitting hoodie.

You try not to look. You fail. Every single time.

Then, just as casually as he appeared, he steps back and returns to whatever he was doing like nothing just happened. Like you’re not standing there, gripping a box of cereal like it’s a loaded weapon, heart trying to escape your ribcage.

And always—always—he leaves with a scoff.

“You’re good?” he says once, catching the color on your cheeks/facial expression.

“I’m hot,” you lie flatly, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Geo raises a brow. “Mm. Sure. That explains the staring, too, I guess.”

You want to throw something at him. You also want to kiss him. Which is a real problem.

And let’s talk about doorframes. There should be an international crisis summit about the way Geo leans on them. His arm stretched casually overhead, braced against the frame like it was built to accommodate his wingspan.

That lazy, lopsided posture—the kind that says I’m comfortable in every molecule of my body. Shoulders relaxed, shirt rising just enough to hint at skin, and his head tilted with that quiet, unreadable expression like he’s cataloging your every reaction.

It’s a war crime. It’s inhumane.

Especially because it’s not on purpose. It’s never on purpose. It’s just him—tall, composed, stupidly attractive Geo existing in your general vicinity while your brain decides to restart its operating system like a cheap laptop trying to load a full RPG on dial-up.

And when you finally point it out?

He has the nerve to look confused.

“…The lean?” he repeats, brows furrowed.

“Yes,” you snap, practically frothing. “The lean, Geo. You do it every time you want to ruin my life.”

“I was just standing,” he says, like that’s a normal thing to do when your arm is flexed, your bicep is straining against cotton, and your stare could melt glaciers.

You want to scream. Instead, you mutter, “There should be laws.”

And Geo? He scoffs. God help you.

But the absolute worst—the final nail in the coffin—is when he drives.

Because, of course, Geo reverse parks like a man who has conquered past lives. Of course, he shifts into gear with one hand on the wheel, the other slung casually over your seat, twisting with effortless control as his eyes flick to the mirrors. The car glides perfectly into place like it was drawn there by divine magnetism.

“Why,” you whisper hoarsely, “are you parking like we’re in a heist film?”

He glances at you. Calm. Confident. Zero shame. “Didn’t want to mess up the angle.”

You’re short-circuiting. You’re heat-flushed. You’re considering marrying this man solely out of survival instinct.

“I am the angle, Geo. You are messing me up.”

And it only gets worse when he responds with a small, smug chuckle—and goes back to adjusting the rearview mirror like he didn’t just hand-deliver your soul to the afterlife.

And the truth? You’d let him do it again.

Hot Thing #2: The Outfit Combo

aka “Domestic Geo Is a Public Threat to Your Sanity”

There’s a sacred kind of violence in the way Geo dresses when it’s just the two of you—no witnesses, no performance, just private comfort tailored for your psychological destruction. It's not a calculated seduction.

It's worse. It’s instinctual. Organic. The kind of unintentional torment that comes from a man who has no idea what he looks like in grey sweatpants and a tight black shirt… or worse, knows exactly what he looks like and chooses violence anyway.

Let’s start with the setting: your apartment, a lazy Sunday, maybe a storm tapping against the windows while something warm simmers on the stove.

You’re the one bundled in his oversized sweatshirt—because, of course, he insists you wear it, mumbles something about you needing to “stay warm” while he eyes you like you’re the coziest thing he’s ever seen. You know the truth: he just likes how it looks on you. The drape of the sleeves. The way it smells like him. The fact that it’s his.

But him?

Geo’s at the counter, yawning, stretching, completely unaware (or pretending to be) of the absolute crime scene that is his outfit.

Nothing but sweatpants. And not just any sweatpants.

Those cursed grey ones. Worn soft. Hung dangerously low on his hips like they’ve got something to prove. They cling in all the wrong-right places, and somehow manage to reveal more than they conceal—each motion sending a silent, godless prayer into the air. And paired with that black t-shirt? Tight. Sinned against. Fitted like it’s trying to stay decent but failing gloriously.

Every muscle on display. Every line etched by fire and cruel genetics. You swear the shirt wasn’t that tight before he washed it, but now? It hugs his chest like a second skin, riding just slightly higher in the back, lifting just enough to tease a sliver of toned waist with every step.

And his hair. Messy from sleep. Tousled in a way he hates, muttering under his breath while running a hand through it like he’s offended by his hotness. You watch him move across the room like gravity is just a concept that chooses to worship him. His voice, still raw from sleep, is a low rumble when he finally breaks the silence:

“Did you eat yet?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain has fully exited the chat. You’re busy wondering how one man can look like he bench-pressed your emotional stability and then dropped it on purpose.

Geo glances at you, takes in your dazed silence, and arches a brow. “...What?”

You blink. Realize you’ve been staring at the waistband of his sweatpants like it’s a holy relic. “I—uh. Sorry. Lost my train of thought.”

He leans on the counter, arms folded, veins flexing with a casual, effortless threat. “Ha, simp.”

“I WAS NOT.”

“Sure.” And then the smile. That evil, knowing little quirk at the corner of his mouth like he knows. Of course he knows. He just won’t admit it. That’s the true hell of it all.

But if the home fits are emotional warfare, then gym Geo is a full-scale psychic assassination. You’ve tried working out with him. Honestly, you gave it a noble shot.

But it’s hard to focus on form when he’s three feet away doing pull-ups like gravity personally offended him. Back muscles rippling. Shoulder blades flexing with each movement. And you? Struggling to breathe like an asthmatic Victorian maiden watching a gladiator fight.

There’s sweat. So much sweat. His shirt sticks to his chest in a way that makes you question if cotton was ever ethical to begin with. His arms are a living map of divine punishment. The way he pushes up his sleeves before spotting you? Fatal. Intentional or not, it’s like he’s loading a gun and handing it to your libido.

And then… life intervenes. Work. Time. Distance. You’re stuck at home, haunted by the ghost of Geo’s muscles and the memory of how low those sweatpants really sit when he's stretching in the kitchen.

So you beg. Not even with dignity.

“Geo, I’m serious. I need this. One gym selfie. Please. I'm losing my mind. Just—just one flex. For my health.”

His reply is a single, soul-crushing word: “No.”

You spiral. You threaten to write poetry. You do write poetry. Terrible, desperate haikus about forearms and jawlines. You light candles. Curse his ancestors. Offer sacrifices to whatever cruel deity decided to gift that body to a man who refusesto let you thirst in peace.

Then, just as you’re giving up hope—ping.

Message from Geo.

You open it expecting a meme, maybe a gif. Instead?

It’s him. Shirtless. Standing in front of the mirror. Every muscle gleaming with sweat and sin, carved like living marble. Obliques deep enough to drown in. That cruel V-line disappearing into those same grey sweatpants now riding even lower, like they’ve lost the will to restrain. The angle? Cinematic. The lighting? Demonic. His face? Calm. Expression flat, like this, is nothing. Like he’s nothing. Like he didn’t just destroy your week with one jpeg.

The caption? “Thought you’d like this.”

You did. You did, in fact, like that.

You screamed into your hands. Threw your phone across the room. Whispered “Geo, I’m literally at work” like he was there to hear you. Which he wasn’t. Because he was probably drinking water like a smug bastard while you mourned your innocence and tried to remember how to function in a world where that image now existed.

To this day, you can’t look at grey sweatpants without blushing. And Geo? He still wears them around the house like it’s nothing. Like he is nothing. Like he’s

not the physical embodiment of your final brain cell waving a white flag.

And the kicker?

He’ll ask why you’re so quiet, shirt clinging to his chest, waistband teasing danger, voice low and unbothered.

“You okay?” No. You are not okay.

Geo: 1. You: deceased.

Hot Thing #3: The Scent of Him

Geo smells… divine.

There’s no other word for it. It's not loud or obnoxious—he doesn't storm your senses like some overcompensating cologne ad. No. Geo’s scent is subtle. Discreet.

The kind of fragrance that lives in the air between words, like a secret only meant for you to discover. It’s private, restrained—something you have to earn the right to know. And once you know it? You're ruined. Addicted. Held hostage by it in the best, most unhinged way.

It’s hard to describe exactly. There's something warm and grounding in it, like clean skin kissed with cedar and maybe some barely-there spice—soft but masculine, clean but not sterile, a whisper of danger dressed in warmth.

It lingers like a ghost, clinging to his clothes, haunting your pillows, hanging in the folds of his hoodie long after he's gone. You’ve tried describing it to someone once and failed spectacularly. Ended up mumbling something like, “Imagine if safety and sin had a baby.” That about sums it up.

You pretend it's nothing. But your body reacts like it is everything.

It starts innocently—like the way you always end up seated beside him when you're out with friends. You don’t say why. You just... do. Your hand brushes his arm as you sit, your shoulder brushes his when you lean. He doesn’t flinch. Neither do you.

And that scent—it just exists, subtle and quiet and infuriatingly Geo. You find yourself pretending to reach past him for something, stealing half a second of inhaling him like you're not building a shrine to his laundry detergent in your soul.

Once, he caught you zoning out mid-conversation, eyes soft, brain mush.

“...You good?” he asked, deadpan, brow barely lifted.

You blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Tired.”

LIESSSSS, YOU LIE. You were high off his hoodie. No regrets.

But it’s at his place, where the scent becomes something else entirely. Something sacred.

You and Geo walk in from classes, kick off his shoes, shrug out of his hoodie, and suddenly the air feels warmer. You don’t even realize how bad your day was until he’s next to you on the couch, stretching with a quiet sigh, and that smell hits you—comfort layered in human form. Not strong. Just... there. Softly invading your lungs until the ache in your chest unwinds.

He doesn’t talk much at first. Just sits with you, occasionally resting a hand on your knee or brushing his fingers along your arm. He doesn't have to ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t even need the details. He just exists—radiating presence and calm—and that scent does more to soothe your nerves than an hour of therapy ever could.

And then, the nap.

You weren’t even planning on sleeping. Geo was working on something beside you, laptop open, brows furrowed in concentration, and you were scrolling mindlessly on your phone, your head drifting toward his shoulder more with each breath.

He smelled good. Not in-your-face good. More like ambient-good. The kind of scent that makes your muscles go slack without realizing it. Something herbal and clean and goddamn intimate.

Next thing you knew, you were waking up. Still on the couch. Room quiet. Phone forgotten. Blanket half-tangled around you, and—wait.

Geo. On top of you. Dead asleep.

Sprawled across your chest like a human furnace, one leg tangled with yours, his arm slung protectively over your stomach, his head tucked into the curve of your neck like you were built to hold him.

His breath was slow, steady, warm against your collarbone. His hair tickled your chin—messy, soft, smelling like his conditioner and his shampoo and him. And all you could do was breathe.

You didn’t dare move. Not because of the weight (though, good lord, the man sleeps like a stone statue), but because the moment was too precious. Too tender. You threaded your fingers through his hair slowly, reverently, breathing in that scent like it might vanish if you weren’t careful. He sighed in his sleep.

A little exhale, a subtle curl of fingers against your side. You almost cried. It wasn’t just about how good he smelled—it was what he smelled like. Comfort. Safety. Something yours.

And then there’s The Hoodie Incident.

You had one of his sweatshirts. Accidentally—Not really, he left it at you plce and you never said anything about it.

You wore it to bed one night because the scent of him helped you sleep better. Wrapped yourself up in it like armor. He noticed it missing after a few days and asked.

“That mine?” he asked casually, brow raised.

“Nope,” you said, already wearing it again, sleeves tucked over your hands.

He stared at you, then walked over, stopping way too close. He leaned down just a little, nose brushing your hair as he murmured: “Keep it.” A beat. Then softer, with that deadly smirk: “Smells like me, right?”

You froze. Brain stopped. Oxygen left the building. He knew.

He fucking knew. And he weaponized it. Now you own that hoodie. Officially. And every time you wear it, you remember the way he said those words. You remember the scent. You remember how it makes your shoulders drop and your thoughts still. And on the days he’s away, when your chest feels a little hollow and the world a little louder, you curl up in it, close your eyes, and breathe deep. It’s not just a hoodie. It’s a promise. A presence. A reminder that Geo might not always be in the room, but he’s still there.

In your space. In your breath. In the fabric of your comfort.

And he always will be.

Hot Thing #4: Incredibly Patient

It’s not something you notice right away—not in the obvious, neon-sign kind of way. Patience doesn’t announce itself. It creeps in slowly. Quietly. Steadily.

But once you see it in Geo, once it sinks in that he’s never rushed with you, never irritated, never short-tempered, you’re done for.

Geo is incredibly patient with you.

And not in the condescending, pretend-nice sort of way either. It's not a performance. It's just how he is with you. Whether you’re fumbling through something new or spiraling emotionally, he doesn’t push. Doesn’t pry. Doesn’t tap his foot waiting for you to get your act together.

He waits. Silently. Solidly.

Like a fortress with a heartbeat.

It shows in the little things first. Like the way he teaches you archery—because he’s your man, when you not never gonna touch archery. He never rolls his eyes when you mess up. Never sigh when you get the same move method four times in a row. You’ll be sitting on the floor, half-focused, frowning at the bow like it insulted your bloodline—and then his hand will appear, warm and massive, curling gently over yours.

“Here,” he murmurs, and his voice is always so low when he talks to you like that. Patient. Measured. Soft in the way gravity is soft—subtle, but you feel it everywhere.

He shifts your fingers gently, adjusting the angle of your hands, the way you’re holding the bow. And he leans over just slightly, close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back, his chest barely brushing yours. His breath ghosts past your ear.

“Try again.” But you can’t. Not really.

Not because you’re incapable, but because your entire nervous system is buzzing—not from the game, but from the feel of him. The way his touch isn’t rushed. The way he doesn’t even seem bothered that you’re not paying attention.

The way he notices, of course—but says nothing. Just lets you pretend like you’re actually trying to win when really, your brain is too busy short-circuiting over how gentle he is with you.

And it’s not just with archery practice.

There was one day—you were completely unraveling inside. Stress eating you alive, too many things happening all at once. You’d come over without warning, didn’t say much, just let yourself in with a weak excuse and sat stiffly on his couch. Geo looked at you—really looked—and didn't ask anything.

Didn’t push for an explanation. You could feel his gaze settle on you from across the room, could feel the weight of his silence, but it wasn’t judgment. It was presence. Waiting. Quiet support.

You didn’t want to talk. You couldn’t. So instead you got up, walked over without a word, and folded yourself beside him on the couch. Head on his chest. Nothing else.

Now, Geo isn’t one for touch. He doesn’t cling. Doesn’t really do hand-holding or snuggling or any of the cutesy, high-friction affection. But when it’s you? When you come to him looking tired and wrecked and saying everything in your silence?

He shifts wordlessly to make space for you. Tilts his body so you can settle into him. One of his arms slowly, carefully, finds its way around your shoulders—tentative at first, like he’s not sure if it’ll help.

It does.

You stayed like that for a long time. His shirt smelled like him—clean skin and woodsy soap and something faintly sharp, like wind on cold steel—and you buried your nose into it like it was oxygen. He didn’t ask what was wrong.

Didn’t fill the silence with empty reassurances. Just kept his hand loosely resting against your back, his thumb brushing a lazy, quiet rhythm there. Over and over. Like he was grounding you without even meaning to.

At some point, you must’ve whispered, “Sorry.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just blinked slowly, tilted his head so his jaw brushed your hair. “What for?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You didn’t have the energy to explain how your emotions had knotted themselves too tightly to speak. But he didn’t press. Didn’t sigh or pull away or make it about himself.

He just let you exist. In your mess. In your silence.

And later—after you’d dozed off and woken again with a sore neck and a clearer head—he asked, voice calm and unreadable: “You wanna talk about it now?”

You didn’t. But the way he asked? The way he waited for you to say yes or no, giving you full control of the moment—it made your throat ache. Made you feel safe. Like no matter how messy things got, Geo would be there. Not trying to fix it. Not trying to change you. Just staying.

And that’s what patience looks like with him.

It’s in how he watches you wrestle with learning something and never gets annoyed. How he lets you take your time, even when you’re being difficult. How he gives you space when you don’t want to talk, but also makes room for you to collapse wordlessly against him.

How he listens to you ramble about some obscure obsession for fifteen minutes and never once checks the time. It’s how he trusts your pace. Waits for you to come to him. And when you do—when you finally reach out with hands shaking and words unspoken—he’s already there, steady and silent and yours in the kind of way that doesn't need to be loud to be real.

That’s Geo. Incredibly patient. Almost unfairly so.

And when it’s just the two of you, and you’re fragile in a way most people don’t see? It doesn’t feel simple anymore. It feels sacred. Like maybe love isn’t always fire and fury.

Sometimes, it’s just a man letting you fall apart against his chest—and waiting quietly while you stitch yourself back together.

Attachment Style: 𝒶𝓋𝑜𝒾𝒹𝒶𝓃𝓉

Distant. Unemotional. Avoids Closeness.

GEO. GEO. GEO. MY MAN. MY MAN.

MY. MF. MAN. GEO. GODDDDD I MISS WRITING HIM.

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship. Geo’s Attachment Style: Dismissive Avoidant, But Not Entirely Heartless, an intimate autopsy of the man who flinches from closeness but still finds himself soft for you.

Let’s set one thing straight: Geo isn’t cold. He’s controlled.

There’s a difference—and it matters. Most people see the first layer: the distant, unreadable expression, the measured movements, the voice that rarely shifts tone unless absolutely necessary.

They call it stoic. Or maybe “chillingly calm.” They don’t realize it’s not for their benefit—it’s for his. A shield built over the years of knowing that needing people often ends in being disappointed by them.

Geo’s attachment style is avoidant, yes.

But not in the obvious “get away from me” kind of way. It’s more subtle. More surgical. He doesn’t avoid you physically; he avoids the implication of you. He’ll let you sit close. He might even make room for your leg to rest against his. But try to ask him what he’s thinking? What he feels?

And you’ll get a blank look. A pause that lasts just a beat too long.

Then something like, “Nothing important.”

That’s Geo. Dismissive to the core. Not because he doesn’t feel—no, that’s the real tragedy. He feels so much it becomes necessary to compress it all into a vault behind steel and smoke. Emotions are like open circuits in him. Dangerous. Hot. Always at risk of shorting out the entire system.

So he doesn’t express. He manages.

And the irony? Despite all this—despite the fact that he moves through the world like emotional intimacy is a sniper’s red dot aimed at his head—he’s still so incredibly patient with you.

That’s the paradox. That’s where the spell gets cast.

You’ve seen it. The way his brow never creases when you stumble through explanations. When you’re in a mood and don’t want to talk, he never pesters you with questions. He just makes space for your silence like it’s another language he happens to be fluent in. He teaches you things—like his likes and dislikes, his routines—with a steady hand and zero judgment. You fumble? He guides. You panic? He grounds.

He’s never unkind to you.

Even when you’re emotionally volatile, even when you show up unraveling and say nothing at all—he’s calm. Distant, yes. But never cruel. He lets you lean your head on his chest when you’re done pretending to be fine. He stiffens, sure, like physical closeness is a language he doesn’t quite speak fluently. But he doesn’t pull away.

And that’s the difference.

He doesn’t push you out.

He just… doesn’t know how to pull you in.

It’s funny in a way—how you might joke about showing up as a cat to get his attention. You’d think he’d roll his eyes or walk away. But no. He’d freeze. Horrified. Because of affection in feline form? That’s too direct. Too raw. But then he’d let you stay anyway. Make a space for you to curl up beside him without ever acknowledging what it means.

And once you’re in, even as a metaphorical cat? He’ll keep you.

He won’t say it. Won’t dare speak it out loud. But he’ll start moving differently. Making room for you in his routines. One night, he’ll throw you a hoodie without comment. Another time, he’ll share his charger before you even ask. And one day, when you’re bone-tired and thinking you might just break, he’ll make you tea—perfectly how you like it—without asking if something’s wrong.

Because he already knows. He always knows.

Geo doesn’t love declarations. He loves recognition. In presence. In survival. And his avoidant tendencies? They don’t disappear. But they bend—just a little—when it comes to you.

And the real kicker? Warning, I got into my feelings too much here.

You like him. You really do.

Not in the flippant, surface-level way you’ve liked others before—no. This is different. He is different. The attraction didn’t hit you all at once. It wasn’t an explosion. It was erosion.

Soft, steady. A slow collapse of every defense you’d so carefully built, worn down by quiet eyes, dry wit, and the kind of patience that made you want to shatter in his hands.

Here’s the unkind truth—the one I’ve had to accept without romanticizing, without making excuses or reading too deeply into things that aren’t there: when it comes to Geo, there are rules. Unspoken, razor-sharp boundaries written in the fine print of his presence.

And at the top of the list is this: I would never tell him.

Tell him I like him? Hell No. That’s not part of the plan.

The plan, instead, is quiet. Strategic. I’d start by getting close to the others—Crowe, the rest of the friend group. Make myself a part of their ecosystem. Not to deceive, but to anchor myself. To become a steady fixture. And then maybe, if I’m lucky, I can learn to be friends with him—Geo. That would be enough. That has to be enough.

Because unless I knew—absolutely knew—that he was ready to open that gate on his own, I wouldn’t risk it. Not a single word. Not a glance too long or a comment too soft.

Because the moment I confess, even slightly, even subtly… he will disappear. Not in fury. Not with cruelty. Just—cool, detached vanishing. His eyes would dull, his tone would shift into something polite and flat. And I’d feel the connection we built snap like a tripwire I never meant to cross.

The worst part? He wouldn’t even leave. He’d still be there—still at group hangouts, still responding in the same dry, measured cadence. I’d still see him because I’d still be friends with Crowe. But the closeness? Gone. Just like that. A line drawn. And I know—I know—I’d feel the change before I even understood what I did wrong.

He’d move me into the mental drawer labeled “Admirer.”

Fan. Supporter. Background character.

And once I’m in there? I never get to come out. Not to him.

Maybe that’s why I feel so strongly about him.

Because I get it. I understand that avoidant armor better than most. As a writer, I’ve lived in that space between longing and fear for years. I’ve crafted entire relationships on writing—made people fall in love with characters who could never abandon them, because they weren’t real. Because fantasy doesn’t leave you unread or misunderstood. Fiction is safe.

It’s the only place I’ve ever felt like love could be controlled.

In real life, intimacy terrifies me. Emotional closeness is a risk I struggle to take. It’s not just nerves—it’s a deep, gut-level dread of what happens when you let someone see all of you. So I keep my distance. I withdraw. I rationalize the silence. I bury the truth under sarcasm or detachment. And yeah—maybe that’s why I see so much of myself in Geo. Maybe that’s why I care.

Because when I look at him—through the cracks he doesn’t know are showing—I see someone doing the exact same thing. Someone who doesn’t reject connection because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s scared of what it could do to him. Of what it’s already done.

There’s something deeply human about that. Something raw. And I can’t help but wonder what happened to him. What shaped him into this version of himself—this reserved, unreadable, emotionally armoured man. Because no one just becomes that way. No one is born closed-off and analytical to the point of silence. That kind of detachment is a defense, not a default.

So no—you can’t blame me for wanting to know. For wanting to understand him, even if I never get to hold him.

And that’s the truth: if Geo were real, I’d want to be his closest friend before anything else. I wouldn’t push. I wouldn’t prod. I wouldn’t ask for more than he can give. I'd just stay. Let him learn that I won’t vanish when he goes quiet. Let him realize that I’m not afraid of his silence, his avoidance, his walls.

I know what lives behind them.

And if that friendship turned into something more—if, one day, he looked at me and chose us—then yes, I’d be ready. But only if he reached first. Only if he let himself want me out loud. Not because I asked, but because he couldn’t not.

Until then, I’d watch from the background. Not as a fan. Not as a dreamer.

But as someone who sees him. Truly. Quietly. Completely. And waits.

So all is recommended is to just stay silent. Carefully. Strategically. You become a student of him—his moods, his tells, the way he pulls slightly at his sleeves when he’s agitated but won’t say so. You learn to read silence like a second language. You hold your feelings like a loaded weapon—safety on, never raised. Never fired.

Because love, to Geo, is risk. And risk? He does not do it lightly.

He’s avoidant. Profoundly. Not because he doesn’t crave closeness—but because he fears what comes with it. Intimacy, to him, is exposure. Vulnerability. Leverage. A soft belly in a world of blades. So he compartmentalizes. He controls. And when things get too close, he doesn’t snap—he disappears behind the steel doors of practiced emotional restraint.

You’ve been on the receiving end of that vanishing act.

You’ve seen how quickly his warmth can turn to winter.

And that’s when you realized—Geo isn’t cold. He’s guarded.

There’s a difference.

He’s spent so long building walls that sometimes even he forgets what they’re keeping out. But every now and then? He slips. Just for a moment. A flicker. A look. A comment too tender to be accidental. And then—just as fast—he seals it up again. Buried. Archived.

He feels deeply. That’s the problem.

Geo has the heart of a poet locked inside the armor of a tactician. He observes everything—stores it all. He doesn’t forget the things that matter. Not your allergies. Not your favorite song. Not the way your voice catches when you’re trying not to cry. He just doesn’t know what to do with that tenderness.

Because he doesn’t trust people to hold it gently.

So he plays the long game. He tests. Watches. Waits.

And if you pass—if you’re patient, steady, real—then maybe, maybe, he’ll let you stay. Even then, the intimacy doesn’t come in big, sweeping declarations. You won’t get love letters. You won’t get flowers on your doorstep. What you will get is him moving silently through your life in ways no one else notices.

He won’t say, “I care.” But he’ll quietly correct your posture when you’re standing too long, press a water bottle into your hand when you’re too distracted to hydrate. He’ll edit your work without being asked. He’ll walk on the sidewalk. He’ll memorize your routines and build himself around them without ever needing acknowledgment.

That’s the paradox of Geo’s attachment style:

He avoids love like it’s a battlefield. But once he lets you in?

He loves like war. Strategically. Completely. Without retreat. And it’s never loud. Never boastful. But it consumes everything quietly, from the inside out. The only evidence left behind is how much softer the silence feels when he’s next to you. How even his presence at rest feels like protection.

And still—he flinches when it gets too real. He’ll pull back at times, without warning. He’ll retreat into logic, shift into disinterest, claim to be fine when he isn’t. But if you know him—truly know him—you’ll see the tension in his jaw. The pause before he looks away. The way his fingers twitch, wanting to reach for you and stopping short.

That’s the part most people miss.

Geo doesn’t fear connection. He fears being seen and discarded.

So he’d rather be unreadable. Untouchable. Unloved… than unloved after being known. But you stay. Quiet. Consistent. Not asking for more than he can give, but never letting him forget you’re there. And in time, he stops scanning the room for exits. He starts planning with you in mind.

He doesn’t say, “I love you.” But he changes his route to walk you home. He remembers your comfort shows. He lets you rest against him, even when he doesn’t know what to say.

Because you made it. You got past the gate.

You are no longer a threat. You are no longer a risk.

And Geo? Geo is not good at love. But he’s brilliant at loyalty.

Once he lets you in, you’re his. No conditions. No expiration. He won’t say it. But he’ll mean it. And in a world where most love burns bright and fast and dies in the ashes— Geo’s love is something else entirely. It’s forged. Tempered. Cold to the touch, but unbreakable. And if you’ve ever known a love like that?

You never forget it. Because no one else ever comes close.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Ah, yes. Hyugo. Such a sweet paradox!

Let’s talk about this baby boy—because honestly, even with all the chaos and brilliance dripping off the others, Hyugo holds his own in the pantheon of personal favorites. And somehow, the fact that he and Geo sit at the top of that list together just… says something dark and poetic about me, doesn’t it?

They’re complete opposites—Hyugo with his golden-retriever chaos, Geo with his stone-faced elegance—and yet, I adore them both with the same violent fervor. But today isn’t about brooding silence and suppressed emotion.

It’s about Hyugo. Our menace. Where do I even begin?

He’s sweet. So sweet.

Unreasonably kind in a way that makes you pause and side-eye the situation because you don’t trust people who smile like that and mean it. But Hyugo does. He’s genuine.

The type who holds doors without making it weird. Who notices when you’re off and asks if you’ve eaten today. Who has the emotional intuition of someone twice his age but hides it under playful sarcasm and that boyish grin.

Also: top student. One of the best on campus.

And yet? He misses class like it’s a sport. Like he’s actively trying to test the limits of how many absences a professor will tolerate before snapping. He'll stroll into class after ghosting for a week, turn in some god-tier assignment, and walk out again like an academic cryptid.

I wish I had that kind of university dominance. That’s not student behavior. That’s political power. It’s infuriating. It’s iconic. It’s Hyugo.

Now, depending on who you ask, he’s either a delinquent in disguise or a straight-laced prodigy. But no one denies one thing: he’s reliable. When it counts, when things get serious, when someone’s in real trouble, Hyugo shows up. Always. No drama. No noise. Just a quiet, steady presence and the kind of help that doesn’t need to be asked for.

And can we talk about how cute he is? No, like—actually cute.

He’s got that youthful glow, the kind that makes people go, “Aww,” before realizing he’s capable of absolutely unhinged behavior when provoked.

Oval-shaped face, soft features, maybe a bit baby-faced still, but it works. It works so well that when he does something unexpectedly hot—like cracking his knuckles while solving a logic puzzle, or shooting someone a sharp look mid-fight—you’re thrown. You're blindsided. You're clutching your metaphorical pearls like, “Oh???”

Because Hyugo is that rare, lethal mix of adorable + competent + quietly dangerous. A walking contradiction: he’s the storm and the rainbow. The mischief and the method. He’s playful, sometimes reckless, always charming—and he masks his depth with lightness.

But it’s there. Oh, it’s so there. Underneath the jokes and casual demeanor is a razor-sharp mind that doesn’t miss a thing. He knows more than he lets on. And you feel it. Every time he tilts his head just so and gives you a look like he already knows what you’re about to say.

That’s the Hyugo effect.

You go in expecting chaos, and somehow, you walk out with your heart rearranged. He’s not the loudest. Not the darkest. Not the flashiest.

But he stays with you.

Hot Thing #1: That Damn Sliver Tongue

There’s this thing Hyugo does—this unholy, maddening, absolutely criminal little habit that should honestly be banned by every institution of higher learning. And God help you, it’s never on purpose. That’s the worst part. It's not like he knows he's driving you to the brink of cardiac arrest. No. This man, this deceptively innocent-looking menace, just casually, absentmindedly… pokes his tongue into the inside of his cheek.

Or, if he’s feeling particularly destructive to your well-being, he’ll drag it slowly along the back of his teeth—like it’s just a casual muscle memory, no big deal, nothing to see here. Meanwhile, you're across the room calculating the odds of surviving your own attraction.

It happens at random. No warning. No preamble.

You could be hanging out in the lab, watching him bend over a desk, sleeves pushed up to his elbows as he messes with a disassembled drone that looks like it was stolen from Area 51. He's muttering to himself, utterly immersed in his task, hair a little messy, one hand balancing a screw between his fingers. Then—bam. Tongue in cheek. Subtle. Smooth. Like he’s tasting a secret only he gets to enjoy.

And your body? Instantly betrays you.

You feel heat crawl up your neck like a virus. Your pulse jumps. You suddenly forget how to breathe through your nose. And Hyugo? He’s just there. Fixing wires. Completely unaware that he's spiritually assassinated you with a single, lazy tongue movement.

“Hmm,” he murmurs under his breath, squinting at the circuit board like it personally insulted his mother. Then there it is—the soft swipe of his tongue over the bottom of his front teeth, slow and focused, as if he’s savoring the flavor of his own brilliance.

You? Dead. Absolutely spiritually slain.

The first time it happened, you choked on your drink so violently Hyugo actually looked up, concern flickering across his face. “You good?” he asked, brow arched, voice low and calm—like he wasn’t just casually making the most pornographic expression of the week by accident.

You nodded, hacking into your sleeve like a dying Victorian orphan. “Y-Yeah,” you wheezed. “Fine. Just thinking about... gravity.”

“Gravity?” he echoed, amused.

“Yeah. It’s the only thing keeping me from lunging across this table and committing multiple crimes.”

He laughed. The audacity. Laughed. And then had the nerve to go right back to what he was doing—eyes sparkling, tongue flicking out once more like he wasn’t a walking biohazard to your sanity.

It’s gotten worse with time. You start seeing it everywhere. He does it when he’s sketching, scribbling down blueprints with that focused look in his eyes and one earbud hanging loose.

He does it while reading, posture all lazy and slouched, legs wide open like a throne he doesn’t even know he’s sitting on. He even does it while playing with your hair absentmindedly during movie nights, gaze distant, and tongue pressing into his cheek like the scene unfolding on screen is somehow arousing to his neurons.

You swear to god—one of these days you’re just going to lose it.

You’ve already started imagining what else that mouth can do. Not even in a sinful way (okay maybe a little sinful), but in a deeply curious way. Like, surely no one’s allowed to have that much dexterity in their face for free. Surely it’s your moral duty to conduct an investigation. For science.

But no. You behave. Barely.

Because when it comes down to it, Hyugo doesn’t mean to be sexy. He’s not smirking on purpose. He’s not trying to fluster you or steal your soul with the ancient forbidden technique known as “tongue teeth cheek combo.” He’s just being himself. Just that kind, clever, infuriatingly focused version of himself who does hot things without realizing they’re hot.

And that’s what kills you most of all.

Because it’s natural. It’s honest. It’s so damn pure that it makes your crush feel one hundred times worse. Like, how dare he? How dare he sit there looking like that, doing nothing but existing in a hoodie and rolled sleeves, and somehow awaken thoughts in you that belong in a fanfiction archive under “E” for “Explicit and Emotionally Compromising”?

So now you live in fear.

Fear of the next time he’ll do it again—right in front of you, tongue dragging lazily, eyes lost in thought—and you’ll be expected to act normal, sane, rational. You won't, of course. You'll blink slowly like you're buffering in real time and mumble something about kinetic energy or friction or divine punishment.

“You're staring again,” he'll say, eyes flicking up to meet yours with a knowing smile.

“You’re the one doing… things with your mouth,” you snap defensively, then pout.

He blinks, confused. “...I’m literally fixing the game system.”

Yeah. Exactly. Send help.

Hot Thing #2: His Eye Contact Is Dangerous

Let me tell you something about Hyugo’s eye contact, and I need you to really listen—because this isn’t just any look.

This isn’t your average glance-across-the-room, polite-nod-of-acknowledgment kind of thing. No. This man stares like he was born to emotionally undress you using nothing but two annoyingly pretty eyes and a terrifying level of focused attention.

It’s not accidental. It’s not fleeting. It’s not safe. When Hyugo looks at you, it’s like he’s reading a page only he can see—in your brain. He listens to you talk like he’s decoding scripture, like every word out of your mouth might be the key to the universe. And you’re just there, talking nonsense about some random childhood movie that definitely shouldn’t be this deep, and he’s—

“So you’re saying… your favorite movie was Shrek 2 because it helped you process betrayal?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Struggles. “…Yes?”

He nods thoughtfully, eyes still locked on you like lasers made of warmth and unsolicited emotional insight. “That makes a lot of sense. The way the narrative reframes traditional heroism and confronts ego through the lens of ensemble character development—”

STOP. Why is he validating you? Why is he intellectualizing your brainrot? Why is he making Shrek 2 sound like a groundbreaking psychological thesis?

And the whole time, his eyes—those infuriatingly warm, soft brown eyes—stay locked on you like you’re the only person in the known universe. They don’t flicker away. They don’t bounce awkwardly to his phone. They stay. Steady. Present. Intentional. And it should be illegal, honestly, how good that feels.

You try to keep talking, you really do. But there’s a moment—a small, barely-there tilt of his head, the way his brows knit ever so slightly like he’s really invested in what you’re saying, and suddenly your brain starts buffering.

“Wait—what were you saying again?” you blink, face hot, internally screaming.

He doesn’t tease you. He doesn’t laugh. He just smiles—gently. “You were talking about that dream you had,” he says, tone calm and so stupidly nice it hurts. “The one with the haunted blender and the French goose?”

You nod like you remember. You do not remember.

“Right. Yeah. Haunted goose. Totally. Goose… blender…”

And he just sits there. Watching. Listening. Still tuned in like you’re not spiraling into existential embarrassment. Like your voice is honey and your rambling is holy. And what’s worse—he’s not even trying to flirt. This isn’t a seduction technique. This is just how Hyugo operates. Fully attentive. Ridiculously warm. Dangerously real.

He’s so earnest. So genuinely interested in what you’re saying. It makes you feel important. Like you matter. And that’s the problem. Because somewhere between his steady gaze and the way he tilts his chin like he’s trying to memorize your facial expressions, you start to think maybe you actually do matter.

And that’s how he gets you.

You don’t just get flustered. You get possessed. Your ears go hot. Your fingers start fidgeting. Your thoughts fall apart like poorly constructed IKEA furniture. You start using words like “haunted goose” in casual conversation. All because this boy had the audacity to look at you like your voice was the sun coming up.

Sometimes, when you're across from him—say, at a café table, knees accidentally brushing, his sleeves pushed to the elbows and his chin resting on his hand—you’ll glance up mid-sentence, and he’s already watching you.

“Don’t stop now,” he’ll say, soft grin tugging at his lips. “You were lighting up.”

Lighting up??? Sir. Please. Have some decency. You can’t just say things like that and expect people not to fall in love with you. That’s entrapment.

So now every conversation with Hyugo is a dangerous game. A tightrope walk between “casual chat” and “oops, I just imagined us getting married because you looked at me too long.” Because when he’s got his full attention on you—arms folded, head tilted slightly, eyes glowing like he swallowed a candle—you don’t stand a chance.

There should be a warning label on his forehead. Something like: “May cause heart palpitations, blushing, full-body stuttering, and immediate longing.”

And yeah, it’s a little pathetic how weak you are for it. But you don’t care. Because when he looks at you like that—and you feel seen, not just noticed but understood—you'd willingly melt under that gaze for the rest of your natural life. No regrets. Just vibes.

And possibly a haunted goose.

Hot Thing #3: That Parting Kiss

There’s something so stupidly, unfairly romantic about the way Hyugo never forgets to kiss your cheek goodbye. Every. Single. Time.

It doesn’t matter what the situation is—doesn’t matter if he’s late for something—knowing damn well it isn’t classes, mid-conversation, or if you're standing in the middle of a crowded station with fifteen people brushing past you. Hyugo always makes time. Always finds that one sacred second to pause, lean in, and brush a warm kiss against your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you’re his home base. His starting point and endpoint, and everything between.

And it’s not just a quick peck and run. No. There’s intention in it. His hand usually finds your waist—or sometimes your wrist, if you’re holding something—and his head dips close like he’s shielding the moment from the world.

“Later, baby,” he’ll murmur, lips just barely grazing your skin, voice stupidly soft and low like you’re the only one he ever speaks to like that. Then he pulls back with a half-smile, eyebrows raised. “Don’t miss me too hard, yeah?”

And then he’s gone. Just… gone. Like, he didn’t just casually throw a whole intimacy bomb at you and walk away with zero consequences. You, meanwhile, are left standing there blinking at the air where he used to be like:

“Okay. That happened. That’s fine. I’m fine. My heart is not skipping and my stomach is not flipping and my entire face is not turning to lava. That’s just your average Monday goodbye.”

It’s NOT. Even worse is when it’s done in front of people.

Because he doesn’t care. He could be surrounded by teammates, strangers, actual cameras—it doesn’t matter. He still leans in, still whispers your nickname like it’s sacred, and plants that soft kiss on your cheek like you belong to him and everyone should know it.

One time, you tried to beat him to it—get a quick hug and duck out before he could do the whole goodbye routine. Rookie mistake. You barely got three steps away before you felt fingers wrap gently around your wrist and pull you back in. Not hard, not demanding—just firm. Certain.

“Hey,” he said, tilting his head like you’d forgotten your keys. “You trying to skip my kiss?”

“I—wasn’t,” you lie, poorly, as he slides an arm around your waist and leans in again, closer this time.

“Mmhm.” He kisses your cheek, slower than usual. “Thought so.”

And then he goes. Again. Leaving you looking like a malfunctioning Disney animatronic with a brain full of nothing but soft lips and the smell of his cologne. What makes it worse—better? worse—is how casual he is about it. Like the kiss isn’t even the thing. Like it’s just… part of the ritual. Something unspoken and sacred that says:

“You matter.”

“I see you.”

“I’ll come back.”

It’s the consistency that kills you, really. Because it’s not some big dramatic gesture saved for special occasions. It’s every time. Whether it’s a ten-minute errand or a three-day trip, Hyugo never skips the goodbye kiss. And over time, that steady little act becomes something you crave. Something you wait for.

And when he forgets? Oh wait—he doesn’t.

Not once. Not even when he’s flustered or exhausted or running late. You’ve had mornings where he’s scrambling to shove on one shoe while chewing toast, and he still circles back, grabs your face in both hands like he needs it, and presses a kiss to your cheek like it’s oxygen.

“Sorry—almost forgot,” he’ll say, breathless, smiling like he’s teasing but means it more than anything. “Can’t leave without this.”

And how are you supposed to survive that?

How are you supposed to live a normal life when this man drops a kiss on your cheek like a love letter, like a promise, like a damn curse you never want lifted?

Short answer: You’re not.

You’re simply going to blush, melt, and wait for the next time. Because that parting kiss? That quiet, consistent, soft little thing? It’s the hottest form of affection there is.

And you’re absolutely, irreversibly, deliciously ruined by it.

Hot Thing #4: That Damn Smirk

Genuinely, someone needs to take this man—Hyugo, to court and file a class-action lawsuit for emotional damage. You’re just trying to have a normal, casual, totally-not-deranged conversation with Hyugo.

Maybe you’re recounting your day. Something safe. Mundane. Like the time you tripped over a wet floor sign and tried to play it off like you meant to launch yourself into a wall. But it’s impossible to keep your thoughts straight because Hyugo is sitting too close.

Not in a socially acceptable “we’re just friends” way either. No. His thigh is grazing yours, warm and solid. His shoulder keeps brushing your arm every time he shifts.

His arm is slung lazily over the back of the couch behind you, not quite touching you, but close enough to brand awareness into the skin of your neck. He’s giving the illusion of casual distance while actively breathing your air.

And then there’s his face.

His cursed, unfair, drop-dead criminal face.

More specifically: the smirk. That slow, knowing, devastating smirk that shows up right when your brain is at its weakest.

You’re mid-sentence—something about your embarrassing run-in with a poorly-placed caution sign—and then his eyes flick to your lips. Just for a second. Barely there. But it’s over. Your tongue ties itself in a knot, your thoughts scatter like startled birds, and suddenly you're blinking at him, completely blank.

“—and then I tripped over the sign, because I thought it was a—uh…” You trail off. “…What was I saying?”

You can feel the moment he chooses violence.

Hyugo shifts again, slouching even lower into the couch so that he’s all lazy limbs and confident calm, stretching himself out like a cat who knows damn well it’s the center of attention. He tilts his head slightly, that dangerous smile creeping onto his lips—not even a full grin, just a pull at one corner, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Take your time,” he says, voice soft and stupidly smooth. “I’m listening.”

No. No, he is not allowed to be that close and that hot and that patient. It’s too much. You are not emotionally equipped for this level of concentrated charm. You blink at him. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Nope. But if I did, would you stop me?”

Touché. He leans in, just slightly. His fingers ghost along the couch behind your back, not touching you but so close you can feel the heat. His breath brushes your cheek, and now you’re fairly certain your soul has left your body and is watching from the ceiling like, “Oh no. I’m going to fold.”

“You sure you’re not nervous?” he asks, low and teasing. “Your voice gets all high when you’re flustered.”

You scoff (weakly). “I am not flustered.”

He doesn’t argue. He just smiles wider—that smile, the smug one—and lets the silence stretch. The longer it goes on, the more it eats you alive. He’s not talking. He’s not moving. He’s just looking at you with those warm, rich eyes, with that maddening smirk that says, you’re mine, even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet.

“Say something,” you mutter, your voice barely there. “Anything. I’m about to crawl out of my skin.”

And he does.

He says, “You always look at me like that?”

“…Like what?”

“Like I’m the problem and the solution.”

You don’t even have a response. You just stare at him, mouth slightly open, breath uneven. And then—because he is made of sin and silk—he lifts his hand, brushes his knuckles against your jaw, and tilts your chin just slightly. You don’t remember leaning in. You don’t remember closing the space. But suddenly his mouth is on yours.

And oh, it’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s intentional.

He kisses you like he’s thought about it. Like he’s planned it. One hand settling around your waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head.

His lips move slow, deep, unhurried, like he’s savoring you—tasting every syllable you’ve ever stammered in his presence. When your fingers clench in his shirt, when you make a tiny sound against his mouth, he smirks into the kiss and pulls you closer, like that was exactly what he wanted to hear.

And when you finally pull back—barely, breathless, dazed—he’s looking at you like you’re the one who started it. “You were saying something about a sign?” he murmurs.

You blink, lips swollen, heart in your throat. “…What sign?”

He grins. Full-on. Smug and satisfied. Absolutely insufferable. “Exactly.”

So no. It’s not fair. It’s actually unethical. Because that damn smirk? That sly, quiet little upturn of his lips that always comes before he ruins your day with a single look or kiss or whisper? It’s a death sentence. A promise. A challenge.

And you’re failing. Beautifully. Voluntarily. Every. Single. Time.

Attachment Style: 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝑜𝓇𝑔𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓈𝑒𝒹

Those are three key words of what would be the start of your and his relationship. Hyugo’s attachment style? Disorganized as hell. Capital D. Italicized. Underlined twice in red.

It’s that rare, volatile cocktail of craving closeness and fearing it—of pulling someone in just to push them away the moment it starts to feel too real. It’s intense. Inconsistent. Unstable in a way that feels like whiplash and poetry at the same time. Hyugo: A Study in Disorganized Attachment and Devastating Presence.

Let’s not sugarcoat it—Hyugo is a mess.

Not. Not like Sol, he's—ugh, that man is whole other level.

Not the cute, quirky kind of mess you can fix with a night in and some chamomile tea. No, Hyugo is chaos wrapped in silence. The kind of person who makes you feel like you’ve just uncovered a secret, only to realize it’s already falling apart in your hands.

Disorganized attachment fits him like a custom-tailored curse. One minute he’s with you—so present, so tender, so there—and the next, he’s vanished like smoke. No call. No warning. Just gone.

And the wild part? Everyone’s used to it. “You’re in Hyugo’s class? Good luck catching him.” or “Mister MIA strikes again.” or “Does he even go here?”

But the truth is, he does.

Just not in the way that fits a schedule. Hyugo is everywhere and nowhere, running errands for professors, covering hush-hush matters for the administration, disappearing into side jobs he won’t talk about. He’s useful—too useful. The kind of guy who shows up when no one else can, handles what others won’t, and quietly earns the kind of backstage immunity that keeps him off the radar and still in the system.

He's a ghost with credentials.

And yet, when he's with you? He's with you. Fully. Deeply. Intensely. He speaks low and soft like your words are sacred, like you’re a language only he understands. He doesn’t touch often, but when he does, it’s deliberate. The brush of his fingers on your wrist. A palm between your shoulders when you’re tense. Barely-there moments that land like thunder.

And then—he’s gone again.

Hyugo is affection wearing armor. Intimacy holding its breath. He wants to love, to be known, to be seen—but he doesn’t trust it. Not really. Not fully. He’s lived too long managing expectations, compartmentalizing emotion, prioritizing others’ needs over his own. Somewhere along the way, closeness became a threat. So when you get close? He panics. He disappears. Not to hurt you, but because he doesn’t know how to stay.

He’s full of contradictions. He ghosts your texts but brings your favorite snack without you ever asking. He disappears for days, then returns with that tired smile and eyes that say, “Please don’t give up on me.”

He won't explain himself. Won’t offer apologies the way you might want. But he’ll show up with little offerings, hoping you understand the subtext:

“I’m still trying.” or “I care.” or “This is all I know how to give.”

And you believe him.

Because Hyugo isn’t manipulative—he’s terrified. Torn between the craving for connection and the deep-seated fear that he’ll ruin it the moment he touches it too hard.

That’s the heart of disorganized attachment: love feels like danger. So he pulls you close and pushes you away, hoping you’ll read the space between as loyalty. Hoping you'll stay, even if he doesn’t always know how to meet you halfway.

Hyugo’s affection feels like gravity—irregular, relentless. You orbit him without realizing you’ve started to. You excuse his absences. You memorize the cadence of his quiet. You forgive him, even when he hasn’t asked.

And that’s the trap.

Because when he does choose you—when he lets you into his emotional bunker—it’s like watching winter thaw. A slow, rare, aching thing. He’s still messy. Still inconsistent. But for once, he’s trying not to vanish. That effort is real. And when Hyugo tries, it’s the bravest thing he does.

So no, Hyugo isn’t the dream boyfriend you read about in neat little romances with perfect communication and stable text response times. He’s not reliable in the traditional sense.

But he is real. Raw. Complex. And if you’re patient—if you understand the language of broken patterns and unspoken apologies—then loving Hyugo becomes an act of rebellion. An act of faith. Because when he stays—when he chooses to stay—it’s not by accident.

It’s because you’ve become his safe place. And that?

That means everything—it’ll be the bravest thing he’s ever done.

787 notes · View notes