bunnyblue

You were only supposed to stay for one semester.

That’s what made being an exchange student easier to handle. If things were awkward or embarrassing, you could always remind yourself:

You’ll be gone in a few months.

Still, standing in front of a classroom full of strangers made your stomach twist.

“This is Y/N,” the teacher said. “She’s joining us from abroad.”

A few people waved.

Some whispered.

You tried not to notice the way a couple of girls looked you up and down.

“Y/N, you can take the empty seat in the third row.”

You walked to the desk and sat down, hoping to disappear into your hoodie.

Then the classroom door opened.

And suddenly the entire room changed.

Girls straightened up.

Someone whispered, “He’s here.”

A tall boy walked in like he didn’t notice the attention at all. Messy hair, confident posture, that effortless kind of charm people only seemed to have in movies.

He scanned the room.

Then his eyes landed on you.

You quickly looked down at your notebook.

At lunch, you decided to eat outside under a tree. It was quieter there.

You had just taken out your food when someone sat beside you.

You froze.

“…Hi.”

You looked up.

It was him.

The popular boy.

The one everyone stared at earlier.

You blinked. “Hi?”

He pointed toward the building.

“You’re the exchange student, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m Ethan.”

Of course he had a name like Ethan.

You expected him to leave after introducing himself.

He didn’t.

Instead he glanced at your lunch.

“That looks way better than cafeteria food.”

You laughed softly.

“You’re welcome to trade.”

He grinned.

“Deal.”

From that day on, Ethan kept appearing.

Next to you in class.

Across from you at lunch.

Walking beside you after school.

It confused everyone.

Especially you.

One afternoon, you finally asked.

“Why do you keep hanging out with me?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I just—”

You hesitated.

“You could sit with anyone.”

He leaned back in his chair.

“True.”

Then he looked at you more seriously.

“But they’re not you.”

Your heart skipped.

Rumors started spreading around school.

“Why is Ethan always with her?”

“She’s not even from here.”

“She’s not his type.”

You tried to ignore it.

But one day in the hallway, someone said it loud enough for you to hear.

“Ethan could do way better.”

Your chest tightened.

You turned to leave—

But a voice stopped you.

“Hey.”

Ethan was standing there.

He had heard it too.

He walked up beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Then he casually slung his arm over your shoulders.

The hallway went silent.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, even though your face was burning.

After a moment, he added:

“For the record…”

You looked up at him.

“They’re wrong.”

“About what?”

He smiled.

“That I could do better.”

Your heart started racing.

The city at night felt colder than usual.

Not the normal kind of cold—the kind that crawled into your sleeves and made you regret leaving the house at 10 p.m. just because you suddenly wanted snacks.

Your plastic bag rustled as you walked down the sidewalk, humming to yourself.

Inside the bag were your treasures:

instant noodles

chips

chocolate milk

and a suspicious amount of cookies

“Healthy lifestyle,” you muttered proudly to yourself.

The convenience store behind you flickered its neon light like it was about to die any second. The street was mostly empty, except for the faint sound of a car idling somewhere nearby.

You didn’t notice the tall man standing near the corner.

Most people would have.

Because the moment people saw him, they usually walked the other way.

But you were too busy trying to open a chocolate bar while walking.

Which was exactly why it happened.

You slammed directly into a solid wall.

Or… what felt like a wall.

Your grocery bag flew out of your hands.

Instant noodles. Chips. Cookies.

Everything exploded across the sidewalk.

You froze.

For a moment you just stared at the disaster.

“…great.”

Slowly, you looked up.

The man standing in front of you was terrifyingly tall. Broad shoulders. Dark coat. His expression was blank, cold, and unreadable.

Sharp blue eyes stared down at you like winter itself.

Behind him, a black car sat parked by the curb.

Two men inside the car were staring at the scene like they’d just witnessed something illegal.

You sighed and crouched down, picking up a fallen noodle cup.

“Well,” you said, brushing dust off it, “now my instant noodles are dirty.”

Silence.

The man didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

You glanced up at him again.

“…you could at least pretend to feel bad,” you added.

Still nothing.

His gaze slowly shifted to the groceries scattered around his boots.

Then back to you.

For some reason, his expression looked… confused.

Like he expected something else.

Fear.

Screaming.

Running away.

But instead you just grabbed your chips and shoved them back in the bag.

“You’re built like a refrigerator,” you mumbled. “I thought I walked into a wall.”

Inside the car, one of the men choked on air.

The tall man finally moved.

He crouched down silently and picked up one of the fallen noodle cups.

You blinked.

“Oh… thanks.”

His movements were calm and precise as he gathered the rest of your things.

When he handed you the last item—your chocolate milk—your fingers brushed his gloved hand.

His eyes flickered slightly.

You smiled without thinking.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.”

He stared at you like you were some kind of strange creature.

You stood up, hugging the grocery bag to your chest.

Then you noticed something.

The street wasn’t just quiet.

It was too quiet.

Even the men in the car were staring at the tall stranger like he was some kind of king.

You tilted your head.

“…are you famous or something?”

One of the men in the car looked like he was about to pass out.

The tall man slowly stood.

Up close, he was even more intimidating.

But instead of fear, the first thought in your head was:

Wow… this guy looks like he hasn’t smiled since 1998.

You pointed at the noodle cup in your bag.

“Next time I run into you, you owe me new instant noodles.”

A pause.

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“…next time?” he said quietly.

His voice was deep, accented, unmistakably Russian.

You shrugged.

“The city isn’t that big.”

For a moment, something strange crossed his expression.

Like the idea amused him.

Just a little.

You waved casually and started walking away.

“Goodnight, refrigerator guy.”

Behind you, the two men in the car slowly turned to look at their boss.

The most feared Bratva enforcer in the city.

A man who had made hardened criminals beg for mercy.

And somehow…

A random girl had just called him a refrigerator and walked away.

One of the men whispered nervously.

“…Boss?”

The Russian man kept watching you disappear down the street.

For the first time in a long time—

something unfamiliar stirred in his chest.

You hated joint camps.

Not because you hated camping. You loved it — the smell of pine trees, the crackling of the campfire, earning badges that proved you could survive without WiFi.

You hated joint camps because that meant Boy Scouts.

And Boy Scouts meant tall boys with easy smiles and messy hair who could tie knots in five seconds while you struggled for ten.

You adjusted your Girl Scout sash over your chest, trying not to think about how it stretched slightly over your curves.

You were fine. You were capable. You earned your Wilderness Survival badge on your own.

Then he showed up.

He was laughing with his troop, sleeves rolled up, tan skin glowing under the late afternoon sun. He looked like the type who could build a tent blindfolded.

And unfortunately…

He looked at you.

Not past you.

Not through you.

At you.

You immediately looked down at your boots like they suddenly became fascinating.

Great. First day and you were already embarrassing yourself.

It happened during the “team-building challenge.”

Mixed troops. Of course.

You ended up paired with him.

“Hi,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Daniel.”

His hand was warm. Bigger than yours. Gentle.

You swallowed. “Y/N.”

His eyes flicked to your sash.

“You’ve got more badges than me.”

You blinked. “What?”

He leaned closer to look — respectfully close, not weird close — and pointed.

“You have the Advanced First Aid badge and the Orienteering one. Those are hard.”

You stared at him.

He wasn’t teasing.

He sounded impressed.

“Oh,” you mumbled. “Yeah. I just… practiced a lot.”

He grinned. “That’s cool.”

Cool.

No one had ever called your overachieving scout energy cool before.

Halfway through the rope bridge task, you slipped.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to wobble.

And before you could steady yourself—

His hand was at your waist.

Firm.

Supportive.

Not grabbing.

Just steady.

“You good?” he asked softly.

Your heart forgot how to function.

“Y-Yeah.”

He didn’t let go immediately. Just made sure you were balanced.

You noticed he didn’t comment on your weight. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t struggle.

Like holding you up was the most natural thing in the world.

Your brain short-circuited.

That night at the campfire, he sat beside you.

Not because it was the only seat left.

Because he chose to.

“You sing?” he asked.

“Only when no one’s listening.”

He smirked. “Good thing I’m listening then.”

You shoved his shoulder lightly. He pretended to be dramatically wounded.

And when you laughed — really laughed — his expression softened.

Like he’d just discovered something precious.

Later, when everyone was heading back to tents, he stopped you.

“Hey.”

You turned.

He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy.

“Tomorrow’s the cooking challenge.”

“Yeah?”

“My troop’s terrible at seasoning.”

You giggled. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He smiled slowly.

“What if… you teamed up with me?”

Your heart did that stupid flutter thing again.

“You just want my Cooking badge skills.”

“Maybe,” he said.

Then quieter.

“Or maybe I just want to hang out with you.”

And suddenly, for the first time in your scouting life…

You didn’t feel like the chubby girl trying to keep up.

You felt wanted.

Chosen.

Like maybe love didn’t care about badge counts or waist sizes.

The Deal

The dragons were fading.

Not dying — dragons don’t die easily — but disappearing. Their libraries burned, their treasures auctioned off, their names reduced to myths whispered in online forums.

So your clan did the unthinkable.

They negotiated with humans.

More specifically, with him.

The city’s most untouchable man. The one whose name was spoken in lowered voices. The one who owned politicians, ports, and people.

You were offered in exchange for protection.

Not because you were weak.

Because you were valuable.

A dragon who hoards knowledge is more dangerous than one who hoards gold.

The First Meeting

You expected cruelty.

You did not expect quiet.

He sits at the head of a long obsidian table, suit sharp, expression unreadable. His men look at you like you’re an exotic weapon.

You clutch your book tighter.

Your eyes flash gold for half a second.

He notices.

Everyone else misses it.

“Leave us,” he orders.

The room empties.

Silence stretches.

“You don’t want this,” he says finally.

It’s not a question.

You swallow. “My clan needs it.”

“And you?”

You hesitate.

Dragons do not lie.

“I need a library.”

For a moment, something in his expression shifts. Not amusement. Not pity.

Understanding.

The Wedding

It isn’t romantic.

It’s strategic.

Candles. Contracts. Ancient dragon vows spoken in a language that vibrates through the bones of the building.

When the final word leaves your mouth, magic wraps around both of you like heated silk.

Binding.

His hand tightens slightly around yours — not possessive.

Protective.

The Marriage

You expect to be displayed.

Instead, he clears out the entire top floor of the penthouse and says:

“It’s yours.”

A week later, custom shelves line the walls. Temperature-controlled glass cases. First editions flown in from private collectors.

He watches you touch the spines like they’re sacred.

“You smile differently in here,” he murmurs.

You flush.

A small puff of smoke escapes your lips.

He doesn’t flinch.

The Incident

It happens at a gala.

A rival family underestimates you.

“She’s just the wife,” someone laughs.

You hear it.

So does he.

Before he can respond, the chandelier above the man melts.

Not falls.

Melts.

The room goes silent as your pupils slit, gold blazing beneath soft lashes.

Heat ripples through the air.

You don’t raise your voice.

“You will not reduce me,” you say quietly.

The rival apologizes.

Repeatedly.

Outside, in the car, your hands shake.

“I shouldn’t have—”

“You should have,” he interrupts, voice low.

He removes his jacket and drapes it around your shoulders.

“They forgot you’re a dragon.”

His thumb brushes under your eye.

“I didn’t.”

Late Night

He finds you asleep in the library one night, curled in your smaller dragon form, wings tucked around a stack of books.

Careful. Always careful.

He lifts you like something holy.

You wake slightly, golden eyes blinking up at him.

“…Human.”

It’s what you call him.

Not cold.

Not distant.

Yours.

He presses his forehead gently to yours.

“Rest, Tesoro.”

Outside, the city belongs to him.

You’re the kind of girl who’s always tired.

Oversized sweaters. Messy bun that never holds. Dark circles you pretend are “aesthetic.” You reblog poetry at 2:17 a.m. and say you’re fine—but you’re not.

He’s your enemy.

Not the loud, dramatic kind.

The quiet, academically competitive, annoyingly observant kind.

He calls you out in class.

You roll your eyes at him in the hallway.

You both pretend the tension isn’t there.

But here’s the thing—

He notices.

He notices when you skip lunch.

He notices when you fall asleep on your folded arms.

He notices when someone makes a joke about your body and you laugh a little too fast.

One day, you snap at him.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

And he says, softer than you’ve ever heard:

“I know you haven’t slept more than four hours in three days. I know you pretend you don’t care. And I know you deserve better than how you treat yourself.”

You hate how your chest tightens.

You hate how he sees you.

The problem with living with your crush is that you can’t escape the after of moments.

After the power outage.

After the almost-confession.

After the “This is nice. You.”

Because now everything felt louder.

His footsteps in the hallway.

His laugh through his headset.

The way he’d casually say your name like it wasn’t the most dangerous word in the English language.

And the worst part?

He started hovering.

Not obviously. Not in a creepy way. Just… orbiting.

If you were in the kitchen → suddenly he needed water.

If you were in the living room → suddenly he needed to update a game.

If you were studying → suddenly he needed to exist within a 2-meter radius.

You tried to ignore it.

You really did.

Until game night happened.

It was his weekly Discord night with his friends. You knew the routine: yelling, laughter, competitive chaos.

You were on the couch reading, minding your business, being a peaceful little reader.

Then one of his friends said through the headset:

“Brooo is that your girlfriend in the background?”

Silence.

You froze mid-page.

Across the room, he froze mid-click.

“…No.”

Oh.

Okay.

That’s fine. Totally fine. So fine.

You nodded to yourself like a soldier accepting defeat and went back to your book.

His friend kept going. Of course he did.

“She cute though. She single?”

Your eyes didn’t move from the page, but you could feel the temperature in the room rise.

“…She’s my roommate.”

“Ooooh roommate trope 👀”

“She is NOT a trope.”

“Can I get her number?”

The mouse slammed.

“I said no.”

The firmness in his voice snapped your eyes up.

His shoulders were tense. Jaw tight. Gamer rage—but not gamer rage.

Territorial gamer rage.

“Ohhh someone’s jealous—”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You literally yelled.”

“I raised my voice.”

“You raised your feelings.”

You slapped your book over your face to hide your smile.

Later that night, you were in the kitchen making tea when he appeared behind you like a guilty ghost.

He hovered. Again.

“Are you… mad?”

You blinked. “Why would I be mad?”

“I said you weren’t my girlfriend.”

The honesty in his voice made your chest ache.

“…We’re not.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you like a string pulled too tight.

He rubbedzor (nervous gamer malfunction mode activated).

“I just— I didn’t want them asking for your number.”

You stirred your tea slowly. “Why?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Ran a hand through his hair.

Because he only does that when his brain crashes.

“I don’t like the idea of someone else making you laugh in our kitchen.”

The spoon slipped from your fingers and clinked against the mug.

“Our kitchen?”

He froze.

You turned slowly.

“Our kitchen?” you repeated softly.

His eyes widened like he’d just leaked classified information.

“I— the apartment kitchen. The shared kitchen. The communally owned kitchen—”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m spiraling.”

The confession happened at 1:13 AM.

Of course it did.

You were on the couch watching a comfort show. He sat beside you, unusually quiet, controller untouched.

After ten minutes, he said your name.

Not loudly. Not jokingly.

Soft. Careful.

“I think I liked you the moment you yelled at me for skipping meals.”

You blinked. “You were surviving on energy drinks.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

He inhaled like he was about to jump off a cliff.

“I don’t want you to be my roommate forever.”

Your heart stopped.

“I want you to be my… everything else.”

Silence.

The loud kind.

The world-pauses-to-listen kind.

“…You’re so bad at romance,” you whispered.

“I know. I’m literally shaking.”

He was. His hands were trembling slightly in his lap.

Your chest melted.

“You could’ve just said you like me.”

“I like you,” he said immediately. Too fast. Like a speedrun.

You laughed softly.

“I like you too.”

He stared at you.

“…Wait really?”

“Yes really.”

“…Are we dating now?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I need clear patch notes.”

The first cuddle happened because of a horror game.

He insisted he wasn’t scared.

You insisted on sitting beside him “for emotional support.”

Ten minutes in, a jumpscare hit and he flinched so hard he grabbed you.

Then froze.

Still holding you.

“…Sorry.”

You didn’t move.

“…You can keep holding me.”

He didn’t speak for a full minute.

Just slowly leaned back into the couch, pulling you with him like you were something fragile and precious and his.

His voice was barely a whisper.

“This is better than ranked.”

You smiled into his shoulder.

“Don’t let your teammates hear that.”

You knew moving in with a gamer was going to be loud.

You did not know it was going to be… domestic.

It started with the snacks.

At first, his side of the pantry was just energy drinks, instant noodles, and those suspicious neon chips that stain your fingers for 3–5 business days. Your side? Tea, biscuits, instant coffee, and the emergency chocolate stash hidden behind the oatmeal like a war secret.

Then one day you came home from class and saw it.

Your tea box… moved.

Not gone. Not empty.

Just… moved.

You walked into the living room slowly, like a detective in a crime documentary.

He was on the couch. Headset on. Gaming. Very serious. Very focused.

And holding your mug.

Your favorite mug.

The one shaped like a sleepy cat.

You stared.

He glanced at you mid-match and immediately froze like he’d been caught committing tax fraud.

“…You said it helps you focus.”

You blinked.

“I— what?”

“That tea. Chamomile. You said it helps you focus when you study.” He looked back at the screen, ears turning red. “I had ranked today.”

You stood there processing the fact that this man:

listened to you ramble about tea

remembered the type

made it

stole your mug

and was acting like you were the weird one

“…You could’ve asked.”

He shrugged. “You weren’t home.”

So this is how it starts, you thought.

This is how men commit crimes.

Weeks passed.

You started noticing things.

Your snacks stopped disappearing and started being replaced.

You’d finish the last pack of cookies → next day there were two packs.

You once mentioned liking strawberry milk → suddenly the fridge had a suspicious amount of strawberry milk.

One night you found him staring at the grocery list on the fridge.

Your grocery list.

Your cute pastel sticky note grocery list.

“Do we… need oat milk?” he asked, like it was a life-or-death decision.

You stared at him.

“…You drink oat milk now?”

He looked personally offended. “No.”

“Then why are you asking?”

He didn’t answer. He just added it to the list.

You went to your room and screamed into your pillow.

The confession almost happened because of a power outage.

Of course it did.

The Wi-Fi died. The lights died. Civilization died.

He looked like someone unplugged his life support.

“…What do people do without internet?” he whispered.

You lit a candle and handed him a book.

He stared at it like it might bite him.

“I don’t read.”

“It’s fantasy. There are dragons.”

He hesitated.

You sat beside him on the couch. Close enough that your shoulders brushed.

You expected him to complain.

He didn’t.

He read.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

Then an hour.

The candle burned low and the room turned warm and quiet.

And then—

He said softly, “This is nice.”

You smiled. “Reading?”

He shook his head.

“You.”

Silence.

The kind that hums.

The kind that makes your heart forget its job.

He blinked, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. Like the sentence escaped and he was chasing it.

“I mean— the quiet. The vibe. The—”

You laughed softly. “You’re bad at this.”

“Yeah.”

“…But you’re trying.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

Like you were the loading screen he’d been waiting to finish his whole life.

He is a giant. A cold giant who doesn't listen to anyone and does as he pleases and no one can stop him because of his intimidating appearance.

But when you asked, he listened.

"can you please move so I could seat, please?"

You asked politely and he surprisingly moved for her, making everyone shock at the sight.

He listened.

You thought it was a one thing but as time goes by, everyone asks for you for favors to tell higa, even the seniors ask for you to talk to him and when you did, he was looking at you with soft eyes and calm expression.

The more you talk to him, the more you realize something, he's a gentle giant.

Maybe he is to everyone if they try.

Wrong.

It's only you, he will listen to you because you were kind, humble, and polite. Also he was slowly for you.

So when valentine's day came, he gave you a big bouquet of roses and a box of chocolates.

And he asked "would you go out with me?"

You were hesitant but in the end, as you hold the bouquet of roses and the box of chocolate, you said yes.

"yes, I would love to go out"

They call him Il Professore.

Not because he teaches—

but because he calculates everything like a theorem no one else understands.

Glasses. Ink-stained fingers. Always quiet.

The type of mafia man who doesn’t pull the trigger—he decides when it should be pulled.

And then there’s you.

Soft. Warm. Chubby in the way that feels like home.

You sit on the arm of his chair without asking, steal his hoodie like it’s yours, exist loudly in a world that taught you to shrink.

He watches you like you’re the only variable he can’t solve.

You find him in the library at 2 a.m., surrounded by ledgers and crime maps, muttering probabilities under his breath.

“Did you eat?” you ask.

He blinks. Looks at the time.

Then at you.

“…No.”

So you sit there, legs brushing his, feeding him snacks while he explains money laundering like it’s a love language. You don’t understand half of it, but you nod anyway.

He doesn’t touch you in public.

Not because he doesn’t want to—

but because if he does, he won’t stop.

When someone once laughed about your body at a gathering, he didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t threaten.

He simply leaned in and said,

“Apologize. Now.”

That man disappeared three weeks later.

No one connects the dots.

You do.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you whisper later.

He adjusts his glasses, avoids your eyes.

“I did.”

He kisses you like you’re precious data—handled gently, protected fiercely.

Hands steady. Forehead pressed to yours.

“You make the noise stop,” he admits one night.

“My head… it’s quiet with you.”

You smile. Soft. Unafraid.

“Good,” you say. “Then stay.”

And he does.

Because for the first time, the smartest man in the room doesn’t want power.

He wants you—

They say patients don’t notice the small things.

They’re wrong.

I notice the way your pen pauses when I go quiet.

The way your eyes soften, not pitying—never pitying—but careful, like I’m glass that’s already cracked.

You sit across from me every Thursday.

Same chair. Same cardigan stretched softly over your body. Same calm voice that doesn’t flinch when I tell you about the nights where the walls breathe and my thoughts scream louder than I can.

You’re not afraid of me.

That’s new.

“Do you want to talk about what you felt before the panic?” you ask gently.

Not why.

Not what’s wrong with you.

Just what you felt.

I shrug.

You don’t push.

God, I hate that I like you for that.

You smell like warm coffee and paper. Safe things. Real things.

Your laugh—soft, surprised—slips out once when I make a dry joke about the ward food, and for a second you look embarrassed, like you didn’t mean to forget the distance between us.

I see it then.

The line you won’t cross.

And somehow, that makes me trust you more.

They warn you about patients like me.

About attachment. About projection. About blurred lines.

But you never blur them.

You ground them.

When my hands shake, you don’t touch me—but you slide the box of tissues closer, like an offering, not an obligation.

“You’re doing well today,” you say once.

I scoff. “That’s a lie.”

You smile. “No. You’re here. That counts.”

No one’s ever said that like it mattered.

I don’t fall in love with you.

Not really.

I fall in love with the version of myself that exists in your office—

the one who is heard,

the one who isn’t dangerous,

the one who isn’t broken beyond repair.

And you?

You care for me the way professionals are supposed to—steady, boundaried, human.

Still, sometimes, when our sessions end and you stand to open the door, I catch a flicker in your eyes.

Not desire.

Concern.

Hope.

And maybe that’s enough.

Because you’re not my savior.

You’re not my fantasy.

He is not loud like the stories say mafia men are.

He doesn’t shout.

He doesn’t threaten.

He decides.

The first time Don Alessandro Moretti walks into the library, the room subtly changes—like the air knows to behave. His suit is tailored, dark, expensive without screaming about it. His hands are clean. His knuckles unscarred. That alone should’ve warned you.

You look up from the desk, soft cheeks warm under the fluorescent lights, glasses slipping slightly down your nose.

“Yes?” you ask kindly.

His eyes meet yours and stay there.

Not hungry.

Not crude.

Intent.

“I need access to your restricted archives,” he says calmly, Italian accent smooth as aged wine.

You blink. “Those are for research purposes only.”

A pause.

Then—surprisingly—he smiles.

“Then I will research.”

He comes every week after that.

Always respectful. Always patient. Always returning the books in perfect condition. You learn he prefers history—old Italy, family dynasties, power written in ink instead of blood. You don’t ask how he knows so much already.

But you notice the way men in black linger outside sometimes.

The way strangers lower their voices when he passes.

The way trouble never follows him inside.

Until one day, it follows you.

A man waits too close behind you in the history aisle. Breath wrong. Eyes wrong. You feel it before anything happens.

Then Alessandro is there.

He doesn’t touch the man.

Doesn’t raise his voice.

He simply leans in and murmurs something in Italian so soft you almost miss it.

The man turns pale. Leaves immediately.

You’re shaking. Alessandro notices.

“Come,” he says gently. “Sit.”

He kneels in front of you—kneels—large hands hovering, never touching without permission.

“You are safe,” he says. “No one will ever disrespect you in my presence again.”

You swallow. “Who are you?”

A pause.

“I am a man with a very large family,” he answers. “And now… a very important librarian.”

After that, your life changes quietly.

You never walk home alone again.

Your library budget mysteriously increases.

No one ever speaks sharply to you.

And when you finally learn the truth—when you see him in a different light, surrounded by men who would die for him—you try to pull away.

He lets you.

For exactly three days.

On the fourth, he appears at closing time, eyes tired, voice low.

“I can rule cities,” he says. “But without you, I have no peace.”

He cups your face like you’re made of something sacred.

“I am dangerous,” he admits. “But my love for you is the safest thing I own.”

You stay.

And the Italian underworld learns a new rule:

The Don is ruthless.

Everyone fears him.

The rumors stick to him like smoke—Russian. Connected. Violent. Untouchable.

People lower their voices when he passes. Teachers pretend not to notice the way other students flinch.

You’re the class president.

You don’t flinch.

You sit straight in your chair, soft body wrapped in a blazer that never quite hides you. Your name is written on the board in neat handwriting. Authority earned, not taken.

That’s why he watches you.

The first time you correct him, the room goes silent.

“Phones away,” you say, calm but firm.

He doesn’t move.

You walk to his desk anyway. Heart steady. Voice even.

“Please.”

That’s when he smiles. Just a little.

“For you,” he says, and puts the phone away.

From that moment on, the rules bend around him—

but only when you’re watching.

He sits closer every week. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him. Close enough that you notice the scars on his hands. Close enough that when someone whispers something cruel about your body, his chair scrapes back slowly.

You feel it before it happens. The shift. The danger.

You touch his sleeve under the desk.

“Don’t.”

He freezes.

Later, he corners you—not roughly, never roughly—between the library shelves. Tall. Solid. Blocking the light.

“They shouldn’t speak about you,” he says quietly.

“I can handle it.”

His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t have to.”

You realize then:

he doesn’t see you as fragile.

He sees you as his responsibility.

From then on, no one bothers you.

People stop laughing when you walk by.

Your name is spoken carefully.

You ask him once, half-joking, half-afraid, “Did you scare them?”

He leans in, voice low, dangerous.

“I warned them.”

You should be afraid.

Instead, you feel safe.

He follows you home on late nights—not close enough to be seen, always close enough to intervene. He remembers your schedule. Knows when you skip meals. Notices when you’re tired before you do.

“You carry everyone,” he murmurs once, thumb brushing your wrist where your pulse jumps.

“Let me carry you.”

And when you finally ask him why he listens to you—

why someone like him would kneel to someone like you—

He answers without hesitation.

“Because you lead with kindness,” he says.

They never told you his name.

Not because he didn’t have one—but because names had weight, and his carried bodies with it.

You only knew him as the man who always sat behind you.

Same café. Same hour. Same seat with his back to the wall. The staff knew him. They didn’t smile, but they nodded. He paid in cash. He tipped too much. He never spoke unless necessary.

You came for the quiet.

You came with books held close to your chest, like secrets. Soft sweaters. Heavy steps. A body the world taught you to apologize for—yet you never did. You existed without permission.

That was the first thing he noticed.

The second was how you flinched at raised voices.

So he made sure there were none.

Men who lingered too close stopped coming. Conversations died when he glanced up. The air around you became controlled, curated, safe.

You didn’t know why.

He watched the way you read—how you disappeared into pages, how your breathing slowed, how your shoulders relaxed. He learned your habits like prayers. Coffee first. Book second. Window seat always.

You were not fragile.

But you were unguarded.

And that made something in him snap into place.

Possession wasn’t loud. It didn’t grab or bruise. It settled. Wrapped itself around you slowly, like a hand at your lower back that never quite touched.

The night it rained, you stayed late.

The café emptied. The lights dimmed. You packed your bag with cold fingers, rain tapping impatiently at the glass. He stood first.

“I will walk you,” he said.

Not a question.

You hesitated. Looked at him. Really looked.

Scar at his eyebrow. Bloodless mouth. Eyes that had ended lives—and were now careful with yours.

“…Okay,” you whispered.

The rain soaked your sleeves. His coat hovered over you, shielding without contact. Every step matched yours. Too close. Too aware.

A man across the street stared.

He stopped.

He turned away so fast you barely noticed—except you felt it. The sudden absence of threat. The silence snapping back into place.

“You don’t have to—” you started.

“I do,” he interrupted softly.

The way he said it sent a shiver through you. Not fear. Something worse.

Certainty.

At your door, you fumbled with keys. He waited. Still. Watching the hallway like it owed him something.

“You read to escape,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “How did you—”

“You read when you are overwhelmed. When you are tired. When the world is unkind.”

He looked at you then. Fully. No masks.

“I will not allow it to be unkind to you.”

Your heart pounded. “You don’t even know me.”

His mouth curved—not a smile. A promise.

“I know enough.”

You unlocked the door. Hesitated.

“…Goodnight.”

He stepped back. Gave you space. Always space.

“Sleep,” he said. “I will be here.”

And you knew—knew—he meant tomorrow. And the next day. And every shadow after.

You were not owned.

But you were chosen.

In a kingdom where marble towers touched the sky and magic hummed through the air, there lived a chubby princess with a heart too big for her royal corsets. Her laughter filled the palace halls, warm and bright, but people only ever saw her softness—never her strength.

They whispered.

They said she was too gentle to rule.

Too round to be beautiful.

Too kind to survive the world.

But the dark mage saw everything they missed.

He lived beyond the castle walls, in a tower wrapped in shadow and stormclouds. The people called him cursed, dangerous, unlovable. His magic was deep and ancient, stained with sorrow and loss. He expected fear when others looked at him.

Then one night, she arrived at his tower, soaked by rain, crown crooked, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“I was told you could help me,” she said softly. “But I think… I just wanted to meet you.”

No one had ever spoken to him like that.

She didn’t flinch when the shadows curled around his fingers.

She didn’t look away when his eyes glowed with magic.

She only smiled—sweet, sincere, and warm.

They began meeting in secret.

She brought pastries and stories from the palace.

He brought ancient spells and constellations from forgotten worlds.

She listened when he spoke of loneliness.

He listened when she spoke of being overlooked.

The dark mage fell first.

He loved the way her laughter chased away his shadows.

The way her soft hands felt safe in his.

The way she believed in him when the world never did.

And the princess fell harder.

She loved his quiet devotion.

His fierce loyalty.

The way he treated her like she was something sacred, not something to be judged.

One night, as moonlight painted silver on her skin, he whispered:

“They will never see you the way I do.”

She held his face gently and replied,

“Then let them stay blind.”

When the kingdom tried to force her into a loveless marriage, the dark mage stood before an army with nothing but his magic and his love.

“For her,” he said, shadows roaring behind him, “I will become a monster.”

But she stepped beside him, lifted her chin, and took his hand.

“For us,” she said, “you don’t have to be.”

And in that moment, the world learned something powerful:

A soft princess can be brave.

A dark mage can be gentle.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew Raze.

They whispered his name like a warning.

Like a storm.

Like something you don’t survive if it looks your way too long.

Black jacket. Scar on his cheek. A reputation that followed him like smoke.

And then there was you.

Soft.

Chubby.

Always carrying books and iced coffee.

The girl who sat in the corner booth of the late-night diner writing stories while the city moved too fast around her.

You weren’t supposed to exist in the same world.

Until one night, Raze walked into your diner.

Gunmetal eyes scanned the room like he was expecting trouble. When he sat in your booth by accident, the whole place went quiet.

You looked up at him.

He looked down at you.

“Oh— sorry,” you said, nervously pushing your notebook aside. “You can sit here if you want.”

No one ever talked to him like that.

Not softly.

Not like he was just… a boy needing a seat.

Something in his chest cracked.

You learned quickly that the rumors were only half true.

Yes, Raze was dangerous.

But he held doors open.

He paid for your pie when you didn’t have enough.

And he listened when you talked about stories like they were important.

“I like how you describe things,” he told you once.

“Like the world’s gentler than it really is.”

You smiled shyly.

“Maybe it could be.”

And he swore in that moment, quietly, that if the world ever tried to hurt you—

It would have to go through him first.

People stared when you walked together.

A soft, chubby girl with a sweet laugh.

A gangster with blood on his knuckles.

But Raze looked at you like you were made of starlight.

When you got insecure about your body, tugging your sweater down—

“Hey,” he said, taking your hands.

“You know what I see?”

You shook your head.

“I see someone warm. Someone real. Someone I’d fight the whole damn city for.”

Your eyes watered.

“No one’s ever said that to me.”

“Well,” he smirked, “guess they were stupid.”

The night everything went wrong, sirens filled the streets.

Someone had betrayed him.

A rival gang.

A setup.

You were waiting in your room when Raze showed up, bleeding.

You didn’t scream.

You just grabbed a towel and held him.

“Don’t leave me,” you whispered.

He cupped your face with shaking hands.

“I wouldn’t. Not for this world.”

You kissed him, slow and soft, like love was something fragile.

And for the first time in his life—

Raze wasn’t scared of dying.

He was scared of losing you.

Because even the hardest gangster needs somewhere safe to fall.

And he found that in your arms.

they say high school is loud.

but you and him

were quiet.

you sat two rows behind him in english.

he always tapped his pen when he was nervous.

you always pretended not to notice,

but you did.

you noticed everything about him.

the way he never met anyone’s eyes.

the way he laughed too soft,

like he was afraid of taking up space.

the way he always saved you a seat

without ever asking.

you’d sit beside him every day

like it was an accident.

like your hearts weren’t memorizing each other.

sometimes your hands brushed.

sometimes you both pretended not to feel it.

sometimes it felt like electricity.

you once asked him

why he never talked about himself.

he said,

“because no one ever asks.”

so you started asking.

what’s your favorite song?

what makes you scared?

what do you dream about when you can’t sleep?

and slowly

he gave you pieces of his soul

like he was afraid you might drop them.

you never did.

everyone thought you were just friends.

but friends don’t stay on the phone

until 2 a.m.

talking about the future

like it’s something you could build together.

friends don’t look at each other

like they’re home.

friends don’t make the world feel quieter

just by sitting close.

one night, he admitted it.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

and you didn’t even hesitate.

“yeah,” you said.

“me too.”

no fireworks.

no dramatic music.

just two hearts finally telling the truth.

and maybe the world was still messy.

maybe high school was still cruel.

maybe neither of you knew who you were yet.

but you knew this:

in a place full of noise,

you found each other.

Everyone always assumes the big buff nerd only lifts weights, not books.

They don’t see him in the quiet corner of the library, glasses slipping down his nose, reading about astrophysics like it’s poetry.

And they definitely don’t notice how he looks at the chubby librarian.

She’s all soft smiles and warm cardigans, the kind of girl who smells like old paper and vanilla. Her laugh is gentle, but it fills the whole room when he accidentally knocks over a stack of encyclopedias for the third time that week.

“Sorry,” he mutters, blushing harder than his bench-pressing face should allow.

“It’s okay,” she says, already kneeling beside him to pick them up. “They fall for you pretty easily.”

He doesn’t realize she means the books… and maybe herself too.

He starts coming in every day after that.

Sometimes for help with research.

Sometimes just to sit at her desk and listen to her talk about her favorite fantasy novels while he rests his chin on his giant hands like a devoted puppy.

She thinks he’s intimidating at first — broad shoulders, thick arms, always towering over the shelves — but then she sees the way he gently turns pages, the way he asks before touching her favorite book, the way he lights up when she recommends something new.

One day he admits, quietly,

“I come here because… you make the world feel quieter.”

And she, with her soft heart and softer body, realizes that this big strong nerd is actually the safest place she’s ever been.

So now: He carries her stacks of books without effort.

She slips notes into the ones he borrows.

Their hands brush.

They pretend not to notice.

They absolutely do.

Big muscles. Soft hearts.

Two people who never thought they’d be someone’s favorite story—