Blue

the day gator laid eyes on you he was captivated.

the way all your dresses covered and clung to the right places, leaving just enough to his imagination.

the way you were so devoted to the church, always on first in for sunday service and last to leave.

the stupid, yet oh so gorgeous, gold cross you wore around your neck on a dainty gold chain.

the pure fact that you were younger than him, and a virgin.

he hadn't thought about whether a girl being a virgin or not was important before.

but on you, it just made you so much more desirable.

it was a slow process, but that just made it all more enjoyable for gator.

it started with just watching, plotting, scheming. how he'd approach you, if you knew his reputation, if you'd be interested even deep down.

once he'd conquered talking to you casually he laid on the flirting. thick.

you couldn't help but feel enjoyment at his attention. never having experienced this before.

you were giddy, secretly of course. your whole family would be mortified if they knew you were talking to gator tillman.

but you couldn't help but look for him at church every week.

once he began to find you outside of church you knew you were gone. and so was he.

other girls he would have given up if he didn't get immediate attention back straight away. but you? he'd convinced himself you'd be worth the wait.

and you were proving to be.

a month of borderline stalking from gator, he'd gotten you on a date. he knew to take it slow, not scare you off. not until he'd gotten his full fix anyway.

he put on a heavy gentleman act, and you fell for it. hard.

three more dates and you'd let him kiss you in his car. just one kiss, no tongue. but it was enough of a taste to get gator addicted.

you'd confirmed to him, between these three dates, you were a virgin. completely inexperienced and innocent.

the moment you said it, gator was sporting a semi the rest of the night. going home to take care of himself to the thought of ruining you.

god what he would do to ruin you.

what he didn't know is that he already was.

you found yourself thinking about him, in more than just a casual way.

touching yourself to the thought of him under the cover of darkness. holding onto the cross of your necklace as if it reversed what you were thinking.

guilt washing over you straight after in a post-clarity way. jumping up to pray for forgiveness, just to get distracted by gator and do it all again the next day.

the night he'd gotten you back home to his he could have accepted an award.

and when your kiss finally turned into a proper make out, gator was ready to devote his whole life to you.

he was keeping up on the dates months later and even moved seats at church to be next to you.

you carried the guilt of engaging with a boy like him everyday, especially sundays, but when you met his eyes all your guilt subsided.

the next time you were at his house, making out on his lap as a new usual, it went further.

and it almost sent gator to heaven, or in your eyes- hell.

you were sat at an angle that made you extremely sensitive between your legs. you weren't a stranger to this feeling, but you had never been so sensitive actually in front of gator yet.

you were lost in the feeling of him, so much you didn't even notice you'd began rocking your hips over gators.

the friction of his jeans was catching your clothed core perfectly. too perfectly.

before you could stop it, a high pitched, desperate, whine left your mouth.

gator almost choked, your sound going straight to his half hard cock, now fully hard.

he kept kissing you, hands on your hips forcing more movement to try and pry another noise out of you.

your mind was clouded, only thoughts being gatorgatorgator.

another whine, louder, more distinct.

"gator"

yeah he was definitely in heaven.

"that feel good babygirl? huh?"

you nodded, hands firm on his shoulders as you sped up, closing your eyes.

"tell me baby use your words"

you opened your eyes looking at gator, he looked almost as ruined as you, if not more.

"so good gator" you breathed out.

"fuuuck- yeah keep going just like that baby"

he guided your hips, lifting his knees slightly to angle you better on him.

"gator"

"huh? what is it? talk to me princess"

you let out a load moan as your head fell onto gators shoulder, thighs tightening around his hips, nails digging into his arms.

"gonna cum? gonna cum for me baby? make a mess of your pretty panties?"

"yeahyeahyeah pleasepleasepleaseeee"

he let go of one hip, taking your jaw in his hand, forcing you to look at him. his eyes were dark with hunger, less gentlemanly, but had a glimmer of devotion.

"cum baby"

you came undone above him, white hot pleasure ran though your veins. your cheeks were flushed, a thin sheen of sweat forming on your forehead.

"yeahh good girl"

he kept your hips moving even as they were stuttering, forcing you to ride out your orgasm and bring you to overstimulation.

you collapsed against his chest, breathing heavily. hand tight on your necklace.

you could feel the wet patch from your release sticking to your core. it had spread to gators jeans, just over the bulge that felt wetter than you'd expected.

but you were too out of it to really notice what happened; gator had came in his pants.

as he kissed your head and praised you, your chest tightened. not in guilt for what you'd done. but guilt for how much you enjoyed it.

and how much you wanted more.

that didn't stop you from going home and praying for forgiveness... then touching yourself five minutes later and praying all over again.

that night gator came twice more, just thinking about you. how he'd gotten you to dryhump him into cumming.

it was absolutely risky, but god, you would lie if you said that you didn’t like the thrill.

and steve seemed to like it as well—at least it looked like that when you pulled him through the door, lips moving against his and finding him already hard in his pants.

“you know… it wouldn’t be so hard for me to hold myself back if you’d just loose that damn uniform… because stevie, this is absolutely sexy,” you murmured, giving the tip of his cock a kitten lick.

his hips bucked upwards instinctively, a low groan rumbling through his chest while one hand flew to the back of your head, clenching in the strands.

“jesus christ…” he whispered, pupils dark with lust, “it’s my work outfit. you know i can’t just ‘lose it’.”

that earned him a gentle suck on the head, and you felt him twitching greedily in your hand.

it all started when you came to him about two weeks ago, right after your date dumped you.

he was clearly convinced that an inexperienced girl like you wasn’t good in bed, that’s why he wanted to find someone else—someone with more experience.

shortly, not a virgin.

and so you came to your best friend, since you where twelve years old, asking him to help you get some of that experience.

since then, you made out almost every day.

and god, steve was a mess. he always was.

his eyes were pressed shut, biting down on those plump and pink lips, looking like some sex god who just jumped right out of your dreams.

the only difference: he was your best friend and all of this happened because you only needed him to teach you in things like blowjobs.

but lord, it was the best thing that ever happened to you.

“fuck! you’re…” steve grunted, more precum spilling out and coating your lips. “you’re learning so fast, princess.”

you decided to go further then. by now, you knew what drove him crazy.

so you took him slowly, swallowing on the way down until his head hit the back of your throat, making you gag.

steve’s hand gripped the arm of the chair he was sitting on, knuckles turning white while he other hand stayed in your hair, guiding you gently.

“oh shit, baby. just like that,” he choked out, his hips thrusting up, further into the heat but you stopped him by wrapping your hand around his base—the only part you couldn’t take.

the squeeze made him twitch against your tongue and you hummed, eyes beginning to water from the intensity of holding back more gags.

“you’re taking it so well…” you hear the praise and it made you press your thighs together. “such a good girl.”

then, his control snapped.

he bucked his hips upwards again, hitting the back of your throat again and you gagged, one single tear dropping down as your fingernails dug into the soft flesh of his hairy thighs.

“just like that… good girl…” he chanted out, his hips setting a steady rhythm, fucking up into your mouth.

you took steady breaths through your nose, relaxing your jaw, giving him the space he needed to get off.

he made you choke on him, tears streaming down your face and saliva dripping from your chin, making everything messy.

after a while, you swallowed again, his cock pulsing, signaling you he was close.

now it was you, starting to bob your head. up and down, letting him slip out, suckling on the tip before taking him all the way in again.

“baby, baby, i’m gonna—fuuuck—i’m gonna cum. you need to—“

you knew what he wanted to say. he always did. but you never pulled away.

thick ropes of his cum shot out, spilling down your throat and all over your lips and face when you pulled away.

it was messy, but god, it was absolutely perfect.

steve’s head lolled to the side, his cock still twitching as he came down from that intense high, his gaze on you without daring to look away.

you licked your lips clean from his semen, grinning when he let out a gasp. “you just… did it again,” he murmured, reaching out, his thumb brushing some drops of his cum away from your chin.

“licking my cum like it’s some kind of candy. my dirty little slut, hm?” he teased, but you knew better.

he meant every single word.

2026 whispersoflost

That really shouldn't piss you off as much as it does. It's not like you're bad looking by any stretch of the imagination. You're the queen fucking bee of Dickson High for crying out loud.

"Get your feet off the desk," you snap at him. He raises both eyebrows at you.

"Alright, your majesty," he drawls, shifting on his seat to push his legs back under the table.

You don't talk at all for the rest of the class, but you catch him looking at you a couple of times.

After school your friends, Brittany and Angie, drag you out to the mall to go shopping for the Halloween party one of the jocks is throwing at his place on Friday. Your clique has a reputation to uphold when it comes to Halloween costumes. It's way too fucking cold this time of year in North Dakota to dress slutty (the girls who do always end up freezing), so you tend to dress warm.

Last year you went as Envy Adams from Scott Pilgrim, and no one got your costume other than the nerd boys in your year level who probably were at the party uninvited. After a whole night of dudes dressed as star trek and lord of the rings characters following you around, and one guy dressed as Link from Legends of Zelda telling you that you didn't have the right body type or complexion to make a good Envy (he stopped after you pointed out that he was at least 50 pounds too heavy to make a game accurate Link), you decided to not dress as something even vaguely nerdy this year.

"We should coordinate outfits," Angie suggests, walking in front of the pack, "I think we should do like a Zombie, Vampire, Werewolf thing."

"That could be cool," Brittany muses, "I call dibs on vampire."

"I'm werewolf then," Angie chirps.

"Ugh really?" You catch up with the rest of the group, "I guess I'm the zombie."

On Halloween night you sit on the floor of Angie's bathroom doing your makeup. You opted to ditch the traditional zombie makeup, way to gritty for your taste, instead doing it more like how you'd seen some of the weirdo scene kids at school draw zombies. Your costume consists of your makeup, a wool lined jacket, ripped jeans, and a pair of worn out combat boots.

"We look like a bunch of emos," you call out to Brittany who is putting on red lipstick in the hallway mirror. She's gone quite gothic with her vampire outfit.

"An emo a goth and a furry," she responds, putting her lipstick back in her bag.

"It's Halloween, Angie points out, walking down the hallway in her wolf ears and tail, "the one time of the year we can dress however we want."

"I'm pretty sure that only applies to the people who show up half naked, but you make a valid point." You pull yourself up off the floor, "who's driving?"

"I can," Brittany offers, straightening out her dress, "I'm not gonna drink tonight anyway."

"Okay cool." you fix your makeup one last time in the mirror before you head off.

The party is already pumping by the time you get there. You lose your friends almost immediately but you don't really care. That's not why you are here. You grab yourself a cup of cheap lukewarm beer from the coffee table and get to partying. The music is pretty shit, and the beer is pretty shit too, but a party is a party.

You get quite drunk after a while, and walk straight into someone while heading to the kitchen to find more beer.

"Shit, sorry," you apologise, looking up at the person you walked into, only to find yourself looking right into the eyes of one Gator Tillman.

"Watch it," he grunts.

Interaction five.

He doesn't look overly dressed up. Just in jeans and a jacket. He does, however; have a baseball bat with nails hammered through it in one hand, so that's something.

Normally if you got yourself into this situation you would just walk past him, but you're pretty drunk, and you're kind of sick of Gator ignoring you, so instead you start to talk.

"What are you meant to be anyway?" you tilt your head at him.

"I'm a zombie hunter."

"Oh that's funny, because I'm a zombie," you ramble, just managing to catch your drunk tongue before you say something stupid like 'Oh, you should hunt me,'.

"Yeah I could tell." He keeps breaking eye contact and is barely giving you any kind of a reaction which is pissing you off. Any other guy right now lucky enough to have you stop and talk to them would at least be grovelling a little bit.

"Why don't you hit on me?" you blurt out, the alcohol taking hold of your tongue.

"Excuse you?" he arches an eyebrow.

"I mean," you consider backtracking and pretending you never said anything, but fuck it, you want answers and he is going to give them to you, "I mean you've pretty much tried to get with every girl in our year level now, and you haven't even catcalled me or anything."

"Do you want me to hit on you, your majesty?" he's smirking slightly now and that just pisses you off more.

"No, that's not, I didn't," you stumble over your words, "I just want to know why."

"Maybe I'm just not attracted to you."

"Bullshit." you flush, "If you aren't into me then why did you kiss me in 9th grade?"

Now it's Gators turn to fluster, "That didn't mean shit. I was sad, you were there, I kissed you."

"You shouldn't have done it if it didn't mean anything."

"Yeah I know." Gator pushes past you back into the party. Part of you wants to follow after him, but you shove that feeling down and get yourself another beer.

By the time you realise you might have had too much to drink, it's a bit late to turn back. You rush to a secluded part of the backyard as the bile makes it's way up your throat. When you drop to your knees and start to hurl you barely notice the hands that come behind you holding your hair up behind your neck.

You only really notice the man behind you once you've finished puking and he starts to speak.

"You're so gross." Gator screws up his nose, tucking your hair into the back of your shirt so he can riffle through his pockets without your hair falling back into your face.

"Why are you here?" you choke out slightly.

He doesn't answer your question, finally pulling a little travel pack of tissues from one of his pockets.

"Chin up," he commands, wiping around the bottom of your mouth with the tissue, "You need to go home now."

"I don't want to go home."

"You're way too drunk, and guys keep looking at your ass. You're gonna end up in some guys bed if you don't get out of here."

"Why does that matter to you? You're always in peoples beds." You watch as he chucks the used tissue away.

"That's different."

"No it's not"

"Yes it is, I'm taking you home." he stands up, waiting for you to do the same.

"Your home?"

"No, puke face. Not my home, your home."

"Oh."

"Don't sound so disappointed."

You blush a deep crimson, "I'm not disappointed I wouldn't let you take me back to your house if you were the last man on earth."

"Good to know. Do you want a lift home or not?"

Brittany was meant to drive you home, but she probably wont want to leave for another few hours considering the fact that her boyfriend is here.

"Fine," you eventually agree, climbing shakily to your feet.

THANKS FOR READING XXX

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When your footsteps finally approach your doorway - softer than he expected after a grueling twelve-hour ER shift - he almost breaks cover. The urge to step out, wrap his arms around your waist from behind, and bury his face in the crook of your neck comfortingly is a white-hot spike of longing. He wants to inhale the vanilla and lavender scent that’s been haunting his REM cycles for years - every night since college. The smell that’s uniquely you. That makes him feel like he’s coming up for air after drowning in code and loneliness.

Instead, he counts to ten and waits until he hears the scrape of your key in the lock, the heavy creak of the hinges, and finally, the decisive snick of the lock engaging again.

Only then does he exhale, a slow, controlled release of tension that he’s practiced in the mirror a thousand times. He adjusts his glasses, checks his reflection in the darkened window of the neighbor's door.

Not a stalker.

A guardian.

A best friend who understands that the world is a chaotic algorithm of variables, and you are the only constant worth protecting.

Keys waits exactly seven minutes. He knows it takes you three to get your coat off, drop your bag, and scroll absently on your phone while you set out one of those shitty frozen meals and preheated the oven. Two to use the bathroom and wash your hands. One to pour that glass of cheap Pinot you like. One to settle onto the couch and begin to flip through the channels.

It’s not obsession so much as it is pattern recognition. Care. A precaution for your safety in the big city.

Hey, he types, his thumbs flying over the screen. Just wanted to make sure you got home okay after that double shift. I can grab us reservations at that Italian place you love for Friday if you're free?

You’re typing

A shiver works its way down his spine, primal and electric. It’s as if you sensed him standing there, just feet away, separated by brick, drywall, and social convention. As if you can feel the weight of his attention. The sheer gravitational pull he feels toward you. The one he’s always felt towards you.

Almost home now, the message reads.

Keys’s smile waivers. You’ve been inside for eight whole minutes now. You’re lying. He isn’t sure why, but maybe it doesn’t matter. He’ll allow you this illusion of privacy. Besides, he knows where you are. Almost down to the inch.

Great! he replies, carefully leaning into the facade of the casual friend. Let me know when you're inside. You know how I worry.

He does worry. With a visceral, gut-wrenching intensity that keeps him pacing his living room floor at 3AM. The world is unsafe. From the drunk driver statistics in your neighborhood to the carbon monoxide detector in your hallway that hadn’t worked properly when he secretly tested last month. He worries about the way your smile didn't quite reach your eyes a few days ago at brunch, and how it made him want to tear the world apart until he found the thing that hurt you so he could erase it.

Keys pulls up the tracking app he developed himself last year as he heads to his car down the street. The same application he’d presented to you as a beta test for "Soonami employee safety," a feature he was "troubleshooting”. You’d downloaded it without a second glance, because he’s Keys. He’s the harmless genius. Loyal sidekick. The friend zone personified.

The screen illuminates his face in the gloom. Your dot is stationary. Third floor. Third window from the left. He’s spent hours staring at that window from the street, memorizing the shadows you cast when you forget to close the blinds. He knows the rhythm of your pacing when you’re on a call with your mother or a friend. He knows the erratic, joyful movements of your late-night dancing, solitary and beautiful, when you think no one is watching.

He saves the data point, adding it to the sprawling, encrypted spreadsheet he maintains on a private server. It has everything he could possibly need. Your commute times, grocery lists, sleep cycles.

It’s not stalking. It’s merely a comprehensive map of your wellbeing so that he can predict your needs before you even know you have them. So he can be the perfect solution to every equation in your life.

Keys is idling at the curb, the engine of his car purring in the damp evening air, when your location pings three blocks away at the local grocery store. Perfect. Not far away at all, and it was the perfect excuse to “run into you”. He hasn’t seen you in what feels like days, and he’s going a bit stir crazy with concern. Valid concern. You don’t take care of yourself the way you should.

A short drive later, he finds you in the produce section. Your scrubs are wrinkled, dark circles bruising the skin beneath your eyes - but to him, you look like perfect, radiant, and terrifyingly fragile.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, sliding into your peripheral vision with a smile that he’s calibrated to be charming and utterly forgettable as anything other than friendly.

You jump, hand flying to your chest. "Keys! Jesus, you scared me. What’re you doing here?"

"Just restocking the essentials," he lies, holding up his basket. It contains exactly one item: the specific, overpriced small-batch coffee you stopped buying months ago to save money. "Saw you from over there and thought I’d say hi."

“Ah. Okay. Well, hi.” You offer him a tight smile and Keys notes immediately that it doesn’t reach your eyes.

He taps the handle of his basket, trying to ascertain what the problem is. There haven’t been any anomalies in your daily patterns, exceptionally difficult patients or coworkers. And there’s certainly no logical reason for you to be upset with him of all people. So why the cold shoulder? Why the fake pleasantries and absent smile?

“You alright?” Keys cocks his head, scrutinizing you under the harsh florescent light of the grocery. “You seem off.”

“Long day,” you shrug. “Long week, honestly.”

“Why do you work so much?”

“Not all of us can have a cushy tech job where we play video games for a living.”

The words come out as a snap, and based on the uncomfortable expression that washes over your face, Keys knows you don’t really mean anything by the insult. You pinch the bridge of your nose, hanging your head in defeat as soon as the words leave your mouth.

“Fuck, Keys. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean -“

“It’s okay!” Keys sets a light, comforting hand on your shoulder, reveling in the warmth of your skin & the way you relax slightly under his touch. “You’re not wrong. I mean, you’re literally saving lives, and I’m looking at zeros and ones all day. You’re a real-life hero and I only ever play one on a screen.”

You shake your head slightly. “I guess. I’m still sorry, though. Haven’t been sleeping super well lately,”

Keys glances at your basket - inside there’s several boxes of protein and granola bars, coffee grounds, and a bag of carrots. That won’t do. “You eating okay too?”

You let out a strangled laugh. “You sound like my mom.”

“I mean…” Keys gestures to your haul. “If this is all you’re getting, that’s a little concerning.”

“I eat plenty,” the lie comes out easily, but your gaze flits away from him. “It’s just been super busy at the hospital and when I do get a break I don’t have time to prepare a five course meal.”

“But-“

“I gotta go. It was nice seeing you, Keys.”

Before he can respond, you’ve already scurried away, ducking into another aisle as if anxious to end the conversation about your terrible eating habits. You got like this in college too - so focused and locked in to your studies and clinicals that you didn’t take good care of yourself. One time you’d even ended up in the ER due to severe dehydration, and you’d had to be hooked up to an IV for two days until you got back on your feet. Then - less than twenty-for hours after you’d been discharged - you were back working. You were a great nurse, but a terrible example for those you took care of.

The kindness, understanding, and care you extended to others was rarely ever reciprocated. Not that it would be at the hospital. But it didn’t have to be that way outside of it. Keys was determined to make sure of that.

The grocery isn’t the only place Keys orchestrates inserting himself into your orbit throughout the week.

Two days later, he appears at the nurses' station with Tupperware of homemade soup, timed to the minute of your scheduled break. The secretary - a woman old enough to be him mother - thought he was a very handsome young man, and Keys had milked her attraction to him for all it was worth, eventually getting her to agree to pass the soup on to you.

"It’s my mom's recipe," he says, and it’s not a total lie. He found it in a recipe book attributed to a mother on some blog, modified it for maximum nutritional density based on your shift work, and spent three hours simmering it. "Made too much and thought my friend would like some."

He’d spent hours the previous night parked outside the hospital, waiting to watch you leave through the sliding glass doors, measuring the slump of your shoulders against the severity of your exhaustion. He’d cross-referenced your gait and visual symptoms with medical journals, and it appeared you have severe burnout and likely nutrient depletion.

On Friday, he invited you over for a "beta test" of a new streaming platform his work is launching. In reality, he’s spent the last week consuming every piece of media you’ve ever mentioned liking, building a predictive model of your entertainment preferences so seamless that you’ll never want to leave. Extreme? Maybe. But having all your favorite films and shows migrated into one place is practical. And, Keys decides, very romantic.

"Keys, this’ll be the fourth time we’ve hung out in like two weeks," you say over the phone, and your voice is thin, fraying at the edges. "Don't you have… I don't know, work? A life?"

"Of course I do. But this is important," he says, and he doesn't mention that he rescheduled a critical deployment meeting, risking a reprimand from Millie herself, to ensure his Friday evening remained free. "Besides, it's been ages since we had a real movie night."

The guilt trip. It’s a dirty tactic, but Keys knows it works. It always works. You show up at his door twenty minutes later, looking like you haven't slept since he saw you last.

His apartment is no longer just his space. It’s a curated habitat designed for you as well. A vanilla candle - the one you’d lingered over in a store months ago - burns low on the coffee table, scenting the air. Your favorite soda is chilling in the fridge. The throw blanket, the one you’d absentmindedly stroked during your last visit and remarked on for its softness, is draped across the couch in an invitation that screams domestic intimacy.

"Perfect timing," he says, pulling the door open wider, drinking in the sight of you. A stunner in sweats and an oversized t-shirt of a band he knew you didn’t really listen to. "I was just about to start dinner. Come sit.”

You slide onto one of the barstools at his spotless kitchen island, propping your head up on one of your elbows as your tired eyes aimlessly track his movements around the kitchen. Between your slow blinks and smothered yawns, Keys almost feels bad for inviting you over. Almost.

"Tired?"

"Mhm," you hummed, now not even bothering to open your eyes. You looked gray, the skin under your eyes bruised with shadows that makeup couldn't quite hide. "Twelve-hour shift. The floor was a zoo."

"And you worked a double yesterday," Keys notes, leaning on the counter, his tone carefully calibrated between concern and judgment. "When’d you last sleep?"

"Catnap in the breakroom around four," you mumble, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. "And last night? Uh. Three hours, maybe."

Keys feels a familiar spike of irritation lance through his chest. It was upsetting how you treated your own body. Humans required maintenance; it was a machine that needed fuel, rest, and calibration. You treated yours like an old junk car - the sort that redlined constantly, was fueled by garbage, and never got taken in for an oil change.

"Keys, really," you sigh, finally prying your eyes open to look at his frustrated face. They were bloodshot, the pupils sluggish. "There’s no need for you to worry. I'm fine."

"You're not fine," he counters, frustration tinging his voice. "You're working yourself to an early grave, and you look like you haven’t slept or eaten in a week"

"Damn, you know how to charm a girl," you mutter.

"You need rest. And nutrients. I can help with at least one of those.”

“I get nutrients.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the cafeteria has -“

"Cafeteria food is processed sodium," Keys snapped, turning to face you. "Look at you. You’re shaking. When was the last time you ate a decent meal?"

“Whats your definition of a decent meal, Keys? Since apparently nothing I do is up to your lofty standards?”

The snarky words cut through Keys like a knife. “Someone has to look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after.”

“Yeah? Well maybe I’ll believe you when you’re not slumped in half against my kitchen counter, how’s that? I hate that you don’t give a shit about yourself. You take care of all those other people and don’t leave anything for yourself.”

“So?”

“So - if someone came in who looked like you and had your symptoms, would you turn them away, or ignore them?”

Your shoulders fall, making you look small. “No.”

“There you go then. What’d you eat today?”

“A bagel this morning. And coffee. Lots of coffee."

"Lots of coffee," Keys repeated, feeling a headache bloom behind his eyes. "That’s not fuel. That’s a chemical stressor. You’re running on caffeine and panic."

"I'm fine," you insist, though your voice lacks any sort of conviction. "I just need to sleep the entire weekend. Get a nice reset."

"You won't reset," Keys replies, his voice dropping, intensifying. "You'll crash. You always do."

He remembered last month. The flu that had knocked you flat for nearly ten days. He remembered coming over to find you delirious with fever, shivering under a pile of blankets in a far too toasty apartment. He remembered the empty boxes of Theraflu on the nightstand and the way your skin had felt like paper.

"Your immune system is compromised," Keys continues, ticking the points off on his fingers. "You don't sleep, eat, or hydrate. You live on caffeine and granola bars. It’s a miracle you haven't ended up in the ICU as a patient. Again.”

"I'm a nurse," you say defensively, though you looked away from his scrutiny. "I know how to take care of myself."

"Do you?" Keys challenges. "Because based on the evidence, this isn't self-care. It’s slow-motion suicide."

You stare at him, lower lip trembling slightly. He knows that normally, you’d have more fire to argue with him. But it’s been snuffed out by your chaotic life. Maybe that’s why he feels emboldened to push you until you break. Not out of cruelty, but you need to see where he’s coming from. It’s for your own good.

“I'm just tired, Keys. Really tired. I don't have the energy to... To be a person right now."

"So you’re just going to shut down?" Keys asks, stepping closer. "Keep not taking care of yourself and just hope for the best?”

"It’ll get better.”

"It won't," absolute certainty seeps into his voice. "Not unless someone intervenes."

You slouch further into the chair, resting your forehead on your arms. Keys watches you for a moment, taking in the fragile curve of your spine. He rounds the counter and placed a comforting hand between your shoulder blades. You don’t instantly relax like you had at the grocery, but a bit of the stress seemed to slowly ebb out of you as he stands there, thumb rubbing slow circles just below your neck.

“Breakfast for dinner?” He asks. It’s your favorite. Has been since well before the two of you met. And he knows it. You grunt noncommittally, but that’s all the encouragement Keys needs.

The next few minutes he moves about the kitchen with precision and purpose. This sort of thing is what he’s good at. This was what you needed. Someone to manage the variables and optimize the system so that you didn’t have to think about a single thing.

The kitchen fills with the smell of eggs, sausage, and chocolate chip pancakes. After a little while, he places a plate and a bowl of fruit in front of you, and you slowly lift your head, blinking at the feast before you.

“Awe, Keys. You really didn't have to."

"Eat.”

To his satisfaction, you follow his order without any protest. Picking up the fork and taking a small bite. You chew slowly, mechanically, as if your body has forgotten how to process a real meal. After a few bites, some color seems to return to your face, but the exhaustion in your eyes remained - a deep, cavernous weariness that one good meal and a night of sleep alone won’t be able to fully fix.

"Keys?" you ask softly, staring at the eggs.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad I came over."

The admission was small, fragile. It hit Keys in the chest with the force of a physical blow. You’re finally getting it.

"I’m glad you did too," he replies, watching you take another bite. "I'm always going to be here. Someone has to keep you alive."

You let out a soft huff of laughter, not realizing he wasn't joking.

I'm serious, Keys thinks, watching you with a possessive tenderness that terrified as much as it thrilled him. I'm the only thing keeping you from dissolving entirely. If I left, you'd drift away. You'd waste away.

He watches you finish the food, his mind already cataloging your deficiencies, planning future meals and ways to get them to you. You were pliable now due to how exhausted you were - but he knows that the second you get a modicum of strength back, you’ll be a patient who refused to comply with her own treatment plan. But that was okay. That was what he was for.

He would take care of you. He had to. Because clearly, no one else was going to.

A little while later, Keys convinces you to migrate over to the couch so he can start up a movie. Some easy romantic comedy you’ve always enjoyed. But Keys isn't watching it. He’s watching you.

He’s cataloging the micro-expressions flickering across your face, now that you’re not nearly passed out from exhaustion at his kitchen counter. The way you’re sitting on the very edge of the cushion, spine rigid. The way you keep checking your phone, screen lighting up every few minutes with notifications you aren't sharing. The way you haven't rested your head on his shoulder - something you did once when you were really tired, and that he’s been praying for a repeat of for months.

"I should probably get going," you say abruptly, only an hour or so in. The credits haven't even started rolling.

Keys feels the blood drain from his face, cold and sudden. Why would you leave early? He made you dinner. You should be feeling better. It wasn’t even that late. Did he say something? He knows he was hard on you earlier, but that was to help you.

"Already?" He keeps his voice level, but his hand tightens around his knee, nails digging into the denim. "But we haven't even gotten to the part where…"

"Next time," you say, but the word feels like a door closing. You’re already standing, moving toward the front door. "Early shift tomorrow."

Keys watches you gather your things and slip on your shoes, his mind racing, running through a million variables, a million scenarios to fix this. To stop you. Make you stay. But he sees it in the tight line of your shoulders, the way you can’t quite meet his eyes.

You aren't just leaving. You're pulling away.

The thought steals the air from his lungs. It’s confusing. Just over an hour ago you said you were glad to be there. With him. Now, even though he followed you to the door and you’re only standing a few feet from him - it feels as though you’re miles away, behind a thick stone wall with barbed wire at the top. Did he do something? Did one of your phone notifications upset you? He hasn’t planned for you to leave so abruptly for no reason.

The silence of the apartment feels loud suddenly, mocking him. He looks at the scattered shrine he’s built to you - the candle, the movie that still plays quietly on the TV, the blanket - and all he sees is the hollow reflection of his own desperation.

Next time.

But the data doesn't lie. The pattern is shifting. And the thought of a world where next time doesn't come, where the algorithm he’d built around you and your life finally collapses in on itself, is a terror so profound he can barely breathe through it.

He forces a smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes, one that feels like a fracture in his soul. "Right. Early shift. Go get 'em, tiger."

“Thanks again for everything, Keys.”

As the door clicks shut behind you, Keys doesn't move. He stands there in the center of his perfect, curated habitat, and the silence screams at him. He checks his phone. Your dot is moving away, walking down the street, further and further out of his carefully constructed radius.

For a moment, the sheer, ugly weight of his need for you presses down on him, heavy and suffocating. He shouldn’t be so reliant on your existence. But God help him, he’s not sure he can stop.

Over the next several weeks, the inexplicable distance between the two of you doesn’t just grow; it calcifies. It turns into a wall that he can see but cannot breach, and every text message returned with minimal words - “Fine," "I’m busy," "Okay" - is another brick in that barrier.

The silence is deafening. Keys finds himself checking his phone every thirty seconds, the phantom vibration syndrome becoming a real, twitching in his pocket. When you leave his messages unread for hours, a stretch of time that used to be unfathomable between them, he feels it like a withdrawal symptom - like he’s well and truly addicted to an scrap of attention you’ll throw his way. The dull ache in his chest sharpens into a serrated blade, twisting deeper with every passing hour. He timestamps your responses, plotting them on a graph that trends violently downward, cross-referencing the dips with your work schedule. He tries to find the variable that is breaking his system, but the data is incomplete.

Did you decide he was too overbearing? That had to be it, although to the best of Keys knowledge, you had no idea the extent of his obsession - no, not obsession - commitment to keeping you healthy and safe.

When you cancel plans two weeks in a row - vague, flimsy excuses about being "busy" that he knows are lies because he knows your schedule better than he knows his own - something inside him snaps. The fragile tether holding his darker impulses at bay frays and breaks.

One night, he doesn't go home. He goes to a hardware store across town, paying in cash, wearing a hat he keeps in the trunk for emergencies. By 2:00 AM, he’s installing a high-resolution, motion-activated camera in a gnarled oak tree across the street from your apartment building, angling the lens to capture the street and your window that faces said street.

Keys tells himself it’s for security. There was a break-in three streets over last week; he read the police report. He’s just being proactive. Ensuring the variables of your safety remain constant.

But as he tests the feed on his own phone, watching the night-vision footage of your empty apartment, the rationalization begins to sour slightly. He knows he isn't entirely doing this for security or out of genuine concern. He’s doing it because the silence is killing him, and he needs to see you come and go. Verify you’re safe. Know exactly when you’re lying to him.

A thought comes unbidden, sharp and terrifying, as he watches the light in your apartment kitchen turn on: If I can’t have you, at least I can watch you.

He locks the phone, hands trembling slightly. The rationalization is seamless. Automatic. Rehearsed a thousand times in the theater of his mind, where wanting you so badly feels like a sickness and a cure all at once. It’s toxic. Controlling. But it’s all he has.

If Keys knows one thing about you - and he knows many - it’s that a guilt trip will always work. He’s well-versed on what it takes to emotionally manipulate you - composed from years of friendship and data he’s collected on your psyche. He knows your buttons. That you can’t stand to see him or any of your loved ones hurting. That the fear of disappointing people is a lesion burned into your soul - a cancer you’ve never cut out.

"I know you've been super busy," he says when he finally corners you into a phone call, voice carefully calibrated to sound wounded and soft. A dying man asking for water. "I just... I miss my friend, you know? We used to talk like every day. It feels like I'm losing you."

He doesn't mention the tracking app that shows him you aren't at work when you claim you are. Doesn’t need to. Even without knowing the full extent of his action, he knows your own guilt will do the heavy lifting for him.

You sigh, and Keys worries he might’ve not laid on the guilt thick enough. "One night. But Keys, I really am exhausted. I can't do... Much. Just a movie night, okay?”

That's all he needs. A foothold. A crack in the wall.

“Of course. I’m just excited to see you.”

The evening unfolds according to the script he’s written in his head. Your favorite wine is breathing on the counter. A rom-com with a "will they/won't they" tension that he hopes seeps into the room air is queued up on the television. The extra-soft blanket is draped over the couch. Snacks ranging from sweet to salty are arranged on the coffee table.

Perfect. Everything is perfect.

Except it’s not.

You’re physically present, but your mind is clearly miles away. You’re stiff, any laughter is a hollow sound, echoing without reaching your eyes. You check your phone constantly, a habit entirely unlike you.

Keys’s chest tightens like a python squeezing his lungs. This isn't right. You’re supposed to melt into the couch, maybe rest your head on his shoulder again. Ideally you’re supposed to remember that he’s the only one who knows you, the only one who cares enough to make all the noise stop.

Maybe he severely overestimated his role in your life. That, while you hung the moon and planets in the vast night sky of his life, perhaps he was merely a tiny, meaningless star amidst thousands in yours. The thought threatens to crush him under an avalanche of insecurity and doubt.

The blue light of the television washed over the living room, casting long, flickering shadows across your face. The Princess Bride was nearing its climax, the swashbuckling hero facing impossible odds, but Keys wasn't watching. He was watching you.

You were curled up on the far end of the couch, a physical chasm between your bodies that hadn't existed three months ago. You were scrolling through your phone, the screen illuminating your distant expression, thumb scrolling with a repetitive, mindless rhythm. You hadn't laughed at the jokes or quoted the classic lines. You were just... physically present. And barely at that.

"You're missing the best part," Keys tries to keep his voice light, desperate to ignore the leaden weight in his stomach.

You glance up, eyes slightly unfocused. "Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

You lock the phone and set it on the side table, but instead of relaxing back into the cushions, you shift uncomfortably and wince, hand flying to your left side, pressing against your ribs just below the breastbone.

Keys pauses the movie. The room plunged into sudden silence. You shoot him a side long glance.

“Thought this was the best part.” You mutter absentmindedly, reaching for your phone once more. Keys narrows his eyes, zeroing in on the subtle flinch he’d caught.

“What happened?"

“Huh?”

“You just winced and held your ribs. What’s going on?”

"Nothing," you reply quickly, pulling your hand away as if burned by your own skin. "Just... A cramp. Something I ate."

"Bullshit," Keys had long since hacked into your cycle tracking app - an invasion of privacy he knew wasn’t right, but it had helped him be exactly the person you needed on many occasions - and therefore he knew for a fact you shouldn’t be cramping for another two weeks at least. "That wasn't a cramp. You flinched."

You sigh, a heavy, rattling exhale that spoke of a deep exhaustion. "It's nothing, Keys. Seriously. Just drop it."

"Show me," he commands, scooting closer. "Lift your shirt."

“What the fuck, Keys?” You push yourself father away, but the thick arm of the couch presses into your back, impeding your escape. “I’m not undressing for you.”

“Christ, baby. I’m not asking you to strip for me. Just lift up your shirt a little.”

If you notice his slip-up of calling you baby, you don’t let on. Keys wonders if you didn’t care, or… Maybe that you liked it. God, he hopes you secretly did, even if you look exhausted and frustrated.

"Just stop," you snap, but there was little heat in it, only a weary resignation. "I'm fine."

"Then show me." The tone was non-negotiable. A flat line of authority. “Please. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You hesitate, eyes darting to the door then back to him. Finally, you relent. Sliding off the couch to stand a few feet away, you grip the hem of your t-shirt and slowly pulled it up, exposing the soft skin of your stomach. Keys follows you, drawing near and his breath catches in his throat.

There, marring the perfect canvas of your skin, is a sprawling galaxy of bruises. Not just a single mark; it was a violent patchwork of purple, blue, and angry red, spread across your left ribs and wrapping around toward your back. It looked fresh, the skin still tender and inflamed.

The air leaves Keys’s lungs in a sharp hiss. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"It looks worse than it is, I swear,” you say, letting the shirt drop back down to cover the damage. "Just some discoloration and swelling."

"Just some - who the hell did this?" Keys demands, his voice rising, the calm, nerdy facade shattering instantly. "Did someone hit you?"

"It was nothing," you insist, turning away from him to glance out the window. "Just some guy in the parking garage after work. Disgruntled former patient, I think. He was confused, maybe high. He got in my face and wanted painkillers. When I said no, he... He shoved me. I fell against the bumper of my car. I think he kicked me a few times. Dunno. It’s all kind of a blur. But security took care of him.”

The room felt suddenly small, suffocating. The blood was roaring in Keys’s ears, a hot, deafening rush of white noise. A thin film a red coated his vision, and images flash through in his mind - cold concrete, flickering fluorescent lights, you, alone, tiny and vulnerable against a predator. You being thrown against a car, hitting the ground, and some faceless stranger’s shoe colliding with your torso repeatedly.

"When?" The word sounds like a shot from a canon in the quiet room. "When did this happen?"

"Two days ago," you admit softly.

"Two days ago?" Keys feels like he’s losing his already tentative grip on reality. "You've been walking around with this for two days? And you’ve been sitting here for hours and didn't think to mention that you were assaulted?"

"I didn't wanna make a big deal out of it!" you shout back, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes were wide, startled by the intensity of his reaction. "It’s not like you can do anything about it now. I filed a report. Security handled it. I’ve been icing it. I'm fine!"

"Did he touch you?" Keys asks, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. He grabs your shoulders, turning you to face him, his fingers digging in, maybe a bit harder than he meant to. “Did he touch you anywhere else?"

"What? No! Jesus, Keys, you're freaking me out -“

"Did he hurt you? Besides the ribs? Punch you? Choke you?" The questions were tumbling out, frantic, fueled by a manic need to catalog every injury, every violation. It was cruel to make you relive the encounter, but he had to know if it was worse that you were letting on.

"No, none of that," you struggled against him, trying to pull away. "I told you the entire thing. That’s it."

"That’s it?" Keys feels like his carefully constructed world is caving in more by the second. "You were attacked."

"It was a scuffle," you reply evenly. "It happens. It’s the city."

Keys releases you, stepping back, chest heaving in anger. You were content just shrugging the whole thing off. Minimizing it and acting like this was just another day in the life of an ER nurse.

Does she think it’s normal? The thought settled in his stomach like lead. That being assaulted is part of the cost of living?

But at least Keys knew that it wasn't normal. It was utterly unacceptable. Not only that - it was a catastrophic failure on his part.

Where was I? The question tortured him, echoing in his skull. Where was I two nights ago when she was walking to her car? I was here. I was in my apartment, probably playing a video game or coding some useless app while she was being thrown against a car bumper.

He hadn't been there or able to stop it.

The panic set in then - an icy, clawing dread that gripped his throat. If he hadn't known about the bruises, what else didn't he know? If you hadn't told him about the attack, what else were you hiding?

You can't protect what you can't see, his mind whispered, the logic cold and flawless. You can't save her if you don't know when she's in danger.

He looked at your phone, sitting innocently on the coffee table. You still had the tracking app he’d lied to you about, but it was admittedly occasionally glitchy. And if your phone was off, or service was bad - or God forbid, if someone stole it or smashed it - he wouldn’t know where you were, period.

I need eyes, Keys thought, the plan beginning to form in the back of his mind, rapid and distinct. I need eyes that never close. A tether she can't cut.

"Keys?" You reach out to touch his arm, looking genuinely concerned now, frightened by his silence. "You're shaking."

He looked down at his hands. They were indeed trembling, vibrating with the aftershocks of adrenaline.

"I'm fine," he lies, voice sounding distant even to his own ears. "I just... I hate that I wasn't there."

"It’s not like you can be everywhere," you reply softly. Sweetly. Entirely misunderstanding the true depth of his fixation.

"Can't I?" Keys murmurs.

He sits back down on the couch, but he doesn’t bother to look at the TV, where you’d unpaused the movie. The only thing he can focus on is you - sitting there with your fractured ribs and your casual dismissal of violence.

This isn't the end, Keys mind feels utterly frantic. What if next time, it’s not just a shove and a few kicks? What if it’s a a knife? A gun? Someone who wants to violate her?

Right then, Keys makes a promise that he would not allow there to be a next time. He couldn’t allow you to exist in a world where you could be bruised and battered without him knowing. He had plenty of ways to observe you, but he needed to be inside the perimeter. A more integral part of the operating system.

"I'm ordering you food," Keys says abruptly, picking up his own phone. "Real food. And you're staying here tonight. I'm not letting you go back to that apartment alone."

"Keys, it was several days ago. I -“

"Not a discussion," his eyes lock onto yours. "I'm taking care of this. I'm taking care of you."

You sigh, defeated, and leaned your head back against the couch. "Okay. Fine."

The bruise on your ribs was fading. But the mark it had left on Keys's psyche was indelible.

When you disappear into the bathroom a little while later, an opportunity to see if you’ve been hiding other things from him drops into his lap like a gift from a vengeful god. Your phone sits there, screen black. Unlocked, probably Because you trust him. Because he’s Keys. The harmless genius. The good friend.

The rationalization forms instantly, a slick, oily coating over his conscience: I'm not snooping. I'm investigating. Something is wrong with the system. I need to investigate. For her own good.

Keys’s hands tremble as he picks up the device. He’s crossed a lot of lines before, though never one so direct and close to you. But the desperation clawing at his insides overrides the warnings. He swipes to open it, and is immediately drawn to a folder on the second page of your Lock Screen.

Dating apps.

The words hits him like a sledgehammer to the sternum. Not just one. Multiple.

His vision blurs, tunnelling down to the screen as he taps into one and scrolls, fingers moving with a detached, mechanical horror. Nearly two dozen conversations between the different apps - ranging from quick exchanges about movies or the best place in town for an espresso martini, or longer conversations that belied your immediate interest in these men you didn’t even know.

A handful of the conversations include plans to meet up for coffee or drinks, and Keys feels blindsided. He sees a world you’re building without him. A world where strangers are privy to your smile, wit, possibly even intimacy. He frantically reads messages where you’re flirting and joking - being the person he thought only existed for him. The betrayal tastes like copper in his mouth. It’s not just that you’re quietly moving on; it’s that you’re giving them what should be his.

"What’re you doing?" Your voice isn't angry. It’s shocked. Disappointed. And it cuts deeper than rage ever could.

Keys freezes, the phone still clutched in his hand, the blue light casting his face in a ghastly, accusing pallor. “I was -“ whatever lie he’d been planning dies in his throat, choking him. "I was worried about you. The.. Assault and everything. Plus you’ve been so distant, I thought -“

"Distant?" You snatch the phone from his grip, your eyes scanning the screen, seeing what he saw. The betrayal radiates off you in waves. "Or busy having my own life? Were you hoping to find something? A secret boyfriend, maybe?”

The accusation lands. It’s too accurate, and he’d never admit it.

"I just wanted to understand why you don't need me anymore. Why you didn’t tell me what happened in the garage right away," he snaps, feeling the mask slipping. The desperation leaks out, toxic and raw. "Why you're replacing me with... With these strangers."

"Replacing you?" Your voice rises, incredulous. "Keys, we're friends. That doesn't mean I can't date people, or that I have to report to you like I'm your fucking property."

"But you used to," he counters, stepping closer. He can’t stop himself. Proximity to you is a drug he craves. "You used to share everything with me. What changed? Am I not enough anymore?"

"Everything changed!" You shout, backing away until your spine hits the wall. "We're not in college anymore, Keys! We both have lives. I’m trying to move forward, not stay stuck in the past pretending that -“

"Pretending what?" He’s in your space now, looming over you. His voice lowers to a dangerous register, the calm that precedes the storm. "Pretending that we don't have something real? That this thing we’ve always had between us is just friendship?"

"W-what? God, Keys." Your eyes are wide now, filled with something that isn't even close to love. It’s confusion and fear. "We’re not… Fuck, forget it. You're a nice guy, but you’re suffocating me. I need space."

Space.

A slippery slop towards abandonment, and Keys knows it.

"You can't leave," he says, and his hand shoots out, gripping your arm. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to stop you. To assert ownership. "We need to fix this. I can fix the variables. Make it work."

The look in your eyes - pity mixed with a terrifying, sharp fear - makes him release his grip instantly. The silence hangs there in the air between you, a ghost that has finally manifested due to his admission. He wants to kick himself for letting his true nature rear its ugly head in front of you. Why did you go through her phone, you idiot?

"I'm not angry," he lies, forcing his hands to his sides, balling them into fists until his nails dig into his palms. "I'm just... Hurt, okay? I need you to understand that."

For a second, a heartbeat, he thinks you might stay. That you might look past the craziness, the obsession, and see the love beneath it that was the true catalyst and fuel for his actions.

Instead, without another word, you turn and storm out the front door. You don't look back.

Keys stands frozen in his entryway, listening to the retreating sound of your footsteps. They echo down the hall like the final notes of his favorite song that he’s afraid he’ll never get to play again. Then, the vibration of his phone in his pocket breaks the trance.

He knows what it is before he even looks. He can feel it in the marrow of his bones.

Location sharing disabled.

That only happens when the app’s been deleted. Maybe you didn’t know he’d been tracking you - but you certainly hadn’t wasted any time in removing his app from your phone.

Something inside him breaks. Not like glass shattering, but like a tectonic plate shifting - deep and catastrophic. The rationalization fails. The logic loop crashes.

After a few moments, a cold, hard clarity settles over him. The fear of losing you was a low-level ache before. Now, it’s a razor blade against his throat. And he will do whatever is necessary ensure that you don't just disappear into the digital ether with some stranger from Hinge.

This isn't about just keeping you safe anymore.

It’s about keeping you.

And if his usual methods aren't working... If gentle manipulation and apps and guilt and love bombing aren't enough to tether you to him...

Well.