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requested ۶ৎ | a/n: do we like this layout 🤔 i wanted to try something new, i hope you like it anon :)

tags: @akaashiit, @blythmourning, @bakugosgrenade, @bookworm-center, @levisotakugf, @wellitseugi, @badtzmai, @returntothefae, @noyamlv, @charukii, @amisuh, @z9mbo, @showhay, @wowbyselene, @heavybit3rr, @kotarosangel, @kpopmultistans, @girlwithanattitude, @eclipsedivan, @imgonnashartmyself, @listentothemelody00, @dearestelsie, @scarymygodurdivine, @immortalblazethief, @kagstobioisthelightofmylife, @qrxswan, @wave2cal, @velvetaya, @oceanaesthete, @imagoodwriter, @haniipie, @lsirria, @venusdreamr, @cwinxclub, @creamelon, @xyyyulat, @catgvrl, @misasprout, @fiannee, @https-kasley, @katsukisser, @sunnysideupx5, @lsirria, @thickthighsthickthighs, @sickenedhonesty, @livelaughlovetoru

"Kenny, are you even listening to me?"

Kenny doesn’t look up. He’s got his pencil balanced between two fingers, rolling it back and forth like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. His physics textbook is open on his lap, filled with equations you’re pretty sure he hasn’t actually read in the last ten minutes.

You groan. “Unbelievable.”

He finally looks up, blinking like he’s just remembered you were talking. “Huh?”

“You weren’t listening.”

Kenny smirks, tilting his head. “Nah, I was. You’re freaking out about your big, life-changing first date.” He shifts, closing his textbook with a lazy thud. “With Damien.” A pause. Then, a slow grin. “Damn, never thought you’d be into the whole spawn of Satan thing. Should I start dressing in all black? Buy some candles? Sacrifice Cartman?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so stupid.”

“I’m just saying, I didn’t peg you as the type to fall for a guy who probably writes poetry about fire and brimstone.”

At that, your stomach twists—not just from nerves, but because, honestly? You’re still trying to figure out how you ended up here.

You had met Damien a few weeks ago at the beginning of the semester, in one of your shared sociology classes. He had this certain presence, the kind that made people instinctively lean in when he spoke. His dark hair was always perfectly styled, sharp against his pale skin, and he had these striking gray eyes that seemed to study everything—like he was dissecting the world in real time.

He dressed like he’d stepped out of an indie rock band’s music video, all sleek black jeans, worn leather boots, and button-ups with just enough undone to show a silver chain beneath. His answers in class discussions were always thoughtful, maybe a little pretentious, but captivating.

You never expected him to notice you, let alone talk to you, but then one day he did. It started with him borrowing your pen when his ran out of ink, followed by a few casual comments after class. Before you knew it, he was sliding into the seat next to you, effortlessly chatting about everything from sociological theory to obscure albums. Then, out of the blue, he’d asked you out. Just like that.

He’d said it so casually, like it wasn’t a big deal at all, but you’d been internally screaming ever since. And now here you were, sitting on Kenny’s bed, spiraling.

You groan, flopping onto the edge of his bed. “I don’t like him like that. I just—” You exhale sharply, running a hand through your hair. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how to act, or what to wear, or if I’m supposed to flirt or let him make the first move. What if I screw it up?”

Kenny watches you for a second, something flickering behind his eyes. It’s not unreadable—it’s softer than usual, almost thoughtful, but it’s gone before you can place it. He stretches, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… it’s just a date. You talk, you eat, you go home. Not much to screw up.”

You glare. “Wow. Thanks for the wisdom.”

He snorts. “Alright, alright.” He taps his pencil against the textbook, eyes flicking over your face before he sighs. “I don’t know why you’re asking me, though.”

“Because,” you say, exasperated, “you’ve been on, like, a hundred dates.”

Kenny hums, leaning his head back against the wall. “Yeah, and?”

“So you know how this stuff works.”

For a moment, he just studies you. His usual smirk is there, but it’s lazy, a little less cocky than normal. He exhales through his nose, stretching his arms behind his head. “Fine. I’ll help.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

Kenny shrugs, but there’s an ease to it, like he’d already made up his mind before you even asked. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” His lips twitch. “Just don’t get all weird on me when you realize I give really good advice.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. The only advice you’ve ever given me is ‘don’t be a little bitch’ and ‘always keep cash for bail.’”

Kenny grins. “And have those ever steered you wrong?”

You shove his shoulder lightly. “You’re such a perv.”

That makes him laugh—an actual laugh, warm and unbothered, like you just confirmed something he’s always known about himself. “What does that have to do with anything?”

You roll your eyes. “Literally everything.”

Kenny smirks, kicking at your thigh lazily. “I think you just like calling me names.”

“I think you just like being a perv,” you shoot back.

He shrugs, all mock innocence. “Gotta stay true to myself.”

You both laugh, the usual back-and-forth coming so easily that, for a second, you almost forget why you came here in the first place. But then the nerves creep back in, and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “Okay, but seriously—what the hell am I supposed to wear?”

Kenny raises a brow. “Uh… clothes?”

You glare. “Wow. Genius.”

He smirks. “I try.”

“No, but seriously.” You sit up, crossing your legs under you, suddenly restless. “Do I go full goth? Full emo? Full e-girl? What’s the move here?”

Kenny blinks, like he wasn’t expecting you to get this worked up. “You’re… actually stressing about this?”

“Yes, obviously!” You grab a pillow and press it over your face, groaning into the fabric. “I’ve never done this before, and Damien actually looks like he stepped out of a Hot Topic ad, so if I don’t dress the part, what if he thinks I’m lame?”

Kenny snorts. “Babe, you are lame.”

You rip the pillow away just to smack him with it. He laughs, ducking out of the way, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying—you don’t have to be goth to impress him. He’s already taking you out, right? So he clearly likes you as you are.”

You frown, chewing the inside of your cheek. “But what if—”

“No buts.” Kenny leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at you. “You could show up in a trash bag, and he’d still think you look good.” A beat. Then, his lips twitch. “Though, if you do go the trash bag route, I’d definitely want to see it.”

You smack his arm. “I’m being serious!”

“So am I! I think you’d rock the hell out of some Hefty.”

You groan, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “This is useless. I’m gonna wear something completely wrong, and he’s gonna realize I have no idea what I’m doing—because I don’t.”

Kenny’s smirk falters for half a second. It’s quick—so quick you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already staring at him. He exhales, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. “Look,” he says, his voice softer now, “I don’t think you need to be anything for him. Just wear what makes you feel good, and you’ll be fine.”

You blink at him. “That was… surprisingly solid advice.”

Kenny shrugs, playing it off. “Told you I was good at this.” Then, just as quickly, his smirk returns, all smug and teasing again. “Now, if you really want to impress him, I’ve got a few ideas that involve—”

You cut him off by launching the pillow at his face.

Kenny dodges it at the last second, leaning to the side with an exaggerated whoa before laughing. “Weak throw,” he taunts, tossing the pillow back onto the bed. “Zero form, no follow-through. Maybe I should be giving you lessons.”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother with a comeback. Instead, you stare up at the ceiling, tracing random patterns in the chipped paint above.

“I’ll probably just lean into Damien’s aesthetic anyway,” you say quietly. “When I do my makeup. When I pick my outfit.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything right away. There’s a small pause, just a couple of seconds, but long enough that you notice it. When he finally speaks, his voice is casual—too casual.

“Yeah?” He shifts, resting his chin in his palm. “So, what’s the plan? Smudged eyeliner? Black lipstick? Maybe some fake fangs to really sell the whole ‘mysterious and brooding’ thing?”

You huff a small laugh. “I’m not trying to cosplay as a vampire, Kenny.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He stretches out on the bed, arms behind his head. “But hey, if that’s your thing, no judgment. I support whatever dark and spooky transformation you’re about to undergo.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, hesitating. “It’s not a transformation,” you mutter. “I just… I don’t know. I want him to think I fit into his world.”

Kenny goes quiet again. You don’t look at him, but you can feel him looking at you. It’s different from his usual teasing glances—this one lingers, like he’s debating whether or not to say something.

Then, his voice comes, low and even. “You already do.”

Your brows furrow slightly, and you finally turn your head toward him. “What?”

Kenny shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “You don’t have to look like him to fit in with him. If he’s into you, he’s into you. Not some—” He gestures vaguely. “Knockoff Hot Topic model.”

You exhale, pressing your palms over your face. “God, you make it sound so dumb when you put it like that.”

“That’s because it is dumb.” He nudges your foot with his. “You could show up in sweatpants and still have him eating out of the palm of your hand.”

You peek at him through your fingers. “You don’t know that.”

Kenny gives you a look—half amused, half are you serious? “Babe, I do know that. Trust me. He’s already interested. You’re just overthinking.”

You drop your hands and sigh. “That’s all I do.”

Kenny smirks. “Tell me about it.”

You grab the pillow again and whack him with it. This time, you land the hit.

He groans dramatically, flopping onto his side. “Abuse,” he mutters. “This is abuse.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling. It’s always like this with Kenny—effortless, familiar, like breathing. You can say the stupidest things, overthink every little detail, and he never makes you feel bad for it. Annoyed? Sure. But not bad.

Your smile fades slightly. “I just don’t wanna mess this up.”

Kenny props himself up on one elbow, looking at you properly now. “You won’t.”

“But what if—”

He cuts you off with a scoff. “Nope. We’re not doing this. No what-ifs, no spiraling. You’re gonna go, be your usual, kinda-annoying-but-still-charming self, and it’s gonna be fine.”

You make a face. “That was almost sweet until you insulted me.”

Kenny grins. “Can’t have you getting too comfortable, babe.”

You shake your head but feel some of the tension in your chest ease. “Okay. Fine. I’ll stop spiraling.”

“For now,” Kenny corrects. “Let’s be real, you’ll start up again in, like, twenty minutes.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “Shut up.”

Kenny just smirks, but there’s something softer beneath it, something he’s not saying. It’s in the way he watches you, the way he seems too relaxed, like he’s holding something back.

You don’t notice it, though. You’re too busy trying to keep your nerves from creeping back in.

Kenny’s phone buzzes against the blanket. He groans, rolling onto his side to grab it, squinting at the screen before muttering, “Oh, shit. I gotta go.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He shoves his phone into his pant pocket and stretches, cracking his back like an old man. “I promised Butters I’d help him with his stupid project for one of his classes.”

You raise a brow. “Wait—project? What, are you teaching a lesson on how to shotgun a beer?”

Kenny smirks. “Tempting, but no. He’s testing out some lesson plans for a class, wants me to pretend to be a first grader so he can practice.”

You snort. “Oh my God. Please tell me you’re gonna mess with him.”

“Obviously.” Kenny grabs his jacket off the chair, slinging it over one shoulder. “I’m thinking full chaos. Maybe some fake tears, throw a tantrum, refuse to share my crayons. Really give him the authentic experience.”

You laugh, standing up to follow him to the door. “He’s gonna regret asking you.”

“He always does.”

You pull the door open, and the two of you step into the hallway. Kenny starts walking backward, hands in his pockets, that lazy smirk still in place. “Hey, by the way—”

You tilt your head. “What?”

His grin widens. “Don’t fuck on the first date.”

Your face heats instantly. “Kenny!”

He barks out a laugh, turning on his heel. “Just saying! Make him work for it, babe.”

“You’re disgusting!” you call after him.

Kenny just throws up a peace sign over his shoulder as he disappears down the hall.

The walk back to your dorm is quiet, the distant hum of campus life barely registering over the sound of your own thoughts.

As expected, Red isn’t there when you step inside. The room is still, untouched since this morning, save for the half-empty coffee cup on your desk and the pile of blankets twisted at the foot of your bed. The silence presses in, thick with the weight of anticipation, of indecision.

Your closet doors are already open, the clothes inside hanging limply, offering no more answers now than they did before.

You exhale, pressing your fingers to your temples. This shouldn’t be so difficult.

And yet, here you are, standing in front of your closet like you’re waiting for it to choose for you.

Your fingers skim over the fabrics—worn-in band tees, oversized sweaters, your favorite pair of ripped jeans. Comfortable. Familiar. You could throw any of them on and be out the door in five minutes, no second-guessing, no spiral of what ifs. But not tonight.

Your hand moves past them, stopping on something buried near the back. A dress. You barely remember buying it, much less why. It’s different from anything you normally wear—shorter, tighter, the kind of thing designed to be looked at.

Damien would like it. Wouldn’t he?

It’s closer to the kind of thing the girls he talks to wear—the ones who fit effortlessly into his world, who don’t overthink every little thing. You aren’t one of them, but maybe for one night, you could pretend. Maybe this is how it’s supposed to be done.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you pull it from the hanger and toss it onto the bed.

The rest comes quickly—heels instead of sneakers, jewelry you barely wear, makeup choices you’ve only experimented with in private. Each layer feels like stepping further into something unfamiliar, like molding yourself into a version of you that doesn’t quite exist.

The mirror doesn’t lie. You look different. Not bad. Not wrong. Just… not you.

You adjust the hem of the dress, shifting under the weight of your own reflection. It’s fine. It’s just for tonight. And tonight, you’re going to be the kind of girl someone like Damien would want. Even if you’re not sure that girl is you at all.

Your nails find your lips before you even realize what you’re doing, teeth scraping against the black polish. The sharp chemical taste spreads across your tongue, bitter and familiar, but you don’t stop. You stare at your reflection, eyes scanning over every detail—how the dress clings, how the heels make your legs look longer, how the makeup sharpens your features just enough. You should feel confident. You should feel excited. Instead, the longer you look, the more something uneasy coils in your stomach, tight and restless.

The room is too quiet. The silence only makes it worse, amplifying the thoughts swirling inside your head. You turn away from the mirror and grab your phone from the nightstand, flipping it over in your hands. Your thumb hovers over Kenny’s name in your messages, hesitating. He would answer. Probably. Even if he was busy helping Butters, he’d at least send something, a dumb joke or an offhanded comment, something that would make you roll your eyes but somehow settle the nerves buzzing under your skin.

You type out a message, then delete it. Then do it again. Then again. He already listened to you spiral about this once today. You don’t need to drag him into another round. Instead, you scroll down your contacts and tap on Stan’s name.

You: hey, does this look okay for a date???

You attach a picture, just a mirror selfie, nothing dramatic. The moment you hit send, you regret it. Stan isn’t exactly the best at responding to texts, and Wendy is probably with him anyway. You back out of the chat before you can overthink it any more and tap on Kyle’s name instead.

You: kyle. fashion emergency.

Nothing.

A full minute passes, and your anxiety only grows.

You bite your nail again, tasting the polish, then open Cartman’s chat. You type out something sarcastic, then delete it. Then something a little more serious, then delete that, too. Finally, you just settle on:

You: be honest, do I look stupid in this???

You wait. And wait. And wait. Nothing.

You refresh the messages. Still nothing. No typing bubbles, no read receipts, no responses. The silence feels even louder now, stretching out across the room, pressing against your ribs. They’re probably just busy. That’s all. It has nothing to do with you. You tell yourself that over and over, but it doesn’t stop the creeping unease from settling deeper inside your chest.

You inhale deeply, pressing the phone against your palm, fingertips tapping anxiously against the sides. The rational part of your brain tells you it’s fine. They’re just busy. There’s no reason to feel like this, no reason for the gnawing pit of unease sitting heavy in your stomach. But it’s there anyway, tightening with every second that passes, with every unanswered text sitting in your inbox.

Maybe Kenny would answer.

You hesitate, staring at his name in your messages. You already talked to him about this once today—more like ranted while he rolled his eyes and gave you half-serious advice. He didn’t seem annoyed, but what if he was? What if you were being clingy? What if you were being weird?

You shake your head. It’s Kenny. He wouldn’t care.

Before you can overthink it, you type out a message.

You: ok, real question. do I look good or do I look like an idiot trying too hard??

You bite your lip, stare at the words for a second, then send a follow-up.

You: don’t be a dick about it. ☹️

You exhale, setting the phone on the bed next to you. He’ll answer. He always does. He might take a second if he’s still with Butters, but it won’t be long. Kenny’s the only person who texts back fast—sometimes instantly, sometimes before you even finish typing. But this time, the seconds drag on. Then a full minute. Then another.

You refresh the messages. Nothing.

You check the time, thumb hovering over the screen like maybe, somehow, that will make the notification appear. But there’s still nothing. No reply. No read receipt. Not even the little typing bubble to tell you he saw it.

Your stomach twists. It’s stupid. You know it’s stupid. He’s busy. He said he’d be helping Butters, and Butters actually takes his schoolwork seriously, so it’s not like Kenny can half-ass it the way he does everything else. He’ll probably see your message later, send back something dumb like “didn’t know you were into the whole desperate goth look, but hey, it works”, and you’ll roll your eyes and move on. But you don’t want to wait.

The walls of your dorm feel smaller by the second, the silence pressing in too hard. You feel ridiculous just sitting here, watching the clock, waiting for a response that isn’t coming anytime soon.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab your bag and shove your phone inside. If he’s not answering, you’ll just go to him. It’s not weird. You’re friends. You’ve crashed Butters’ dorm a million times before—usually with Kenny, but still.

You step out of your dorm and immediately regret it. The hallway is empty, the soft hum of the overhead lights buzzing faintly, but the air feels too open, like the walls have been stripped away and you’re standing under a spotlight. The dress clings uncomfortably to your body, the fabric too thin, too unfamiliar, and the heels throw off your balance just enough to make every step feel unnatural. You cross your arms over your stomach, but it doesn’t make a difference. You still feel exposed.

Campus is quiet. The occasional student walks across the quad, a couple of people sit on the benches outside the library, but no one is paying attention to you. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. But your skin still prickles with the crawling sensation of being watched, of standing out in a way you never do. Every step feels heavier than the last, like your body is moving forward while your mind begs you to turn around.

You’ve never cared about things like this before. Not about whether people were looking, not about how you came across, not about whether or not you belonged in a space. But now, the weight of it settles into your chest, cold and suffocating, the realization creeping in at the edges of your mind—this isn’t you. You aren’t the kind of person who wears things like this, who walks through campus like she owns the place, who turns heads and likes it. You aren’t effortless. You aren’t confident. And right now, you aren’t comfortable.

Your phone stays silent in your bag. You tell yourself not to check it, but the thought lingers anyway. If Kenny had texted back, you wouldn’t still be stuck in this loop of doubt, wouldn’t be picking apart every decision that led to this moment. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything. But it still stings.

You press your lips together and keep walking. Butters’ dorm isn’t far, but the walk stretches out endlessly, each step echoing too loud in the quiet night. The wind moves through the trees, cool against your skin, and you can’t tell if the shiver that runs up your spine is from the temperature or from the uneasy, sinking feeling in your gut. It’s not just that the dress is uncomfortable—it’s that you feel uncomfortable in it. Like you’re wearing someone else’s skin, slipping into a version of yourself that was never meant to exist.

The building finally comes into view, warm light glowing through the lobby windows. You stop at the entrance, heart beating too fast against your ribs.

You could turn around. You could go back to your dorm, change into something that doesn’t make your chest feel tight, and pretend this never happened. No one would know. No one would care.

But instead, you pull open the door, step inside, and head toward Butters’ room before you can change your mind.

The hallway is quieter than you expected, the fluorescent lights above casting everything in a pale, artificial glow. Your heels click against the tile floor, a sharp contrast to the silence, and you wish you had worn anything else—sneakers, boots, something that didn’t announce your presence with every step. You walk for at least a minute before stopping in front of his door.

You hesitate.

Kenny’s voice carries through the thin wood, low and lazy, words muffled but still carrying that familiar tone of amusement. Butters’ voice follows, more animated, his usual nervous energy laced with whatever conversation they’re in the middle of. You lift your hand to knock, but at the last second, doubt creeps in, and the sound that actually comes out is weak, barely more than a tap.

For a second, nothing happens. Then there’s movement inside. A chair scraping back, footsteps approaching. The handle turns, and when the door swings open, you’re immediately hit with a wall of weed smoke.

Butters blinks at you, blue eyes going wide, mouth parting slightly like his brain hasn’t caught up yet. “Oh—uh—hey,” he says, voice cracking a little. He clears his throat. “What’re—uh, what’re you doin’ here?”

His room smells like a full-blown dispensary. Which is insane, considering he’s an RA. Technically, he’s supposed to be the one enforcing dorm rules, making sure no one is drinking or smoking or doing anything remotely fun. Butters being the Butters, though, probably just means he looks the other way whenever someone offers him a hit.

You glance past him. The window is cracked open, a sad attempt at ventilation, but it’s not doing much. Kenny is sprawled out on Butters’ bed, one arm behind his head, the other holding a joint between his fingers. He hasn’t noticed you yet, still mid-laugh at something that was said before you knocked. His shirt is pulled up slightly, exposing the dip of his hipbones, and the sight of him—completely at ease, completely unbothered—makes something twist in your stomach.

Butters is still staring at you, visibly thrown off. His gaze flickers down for half a second, barely noticeable, but it’s long enough to tell that he’s clocked the outfit. His brows furrow like he’s trying to figure out if he’s hallucinating.

You swallow thickly, throat suddenly dry, and lick your lips, the waxy taste of your lipstick spreading across your tongue. Your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag, nails pressing into the material as you shift on your feet. The air feels heavier now, like it’s pressing down on you from all sides, making the dress cling tighter, the heels feel even more unstable beneath you.

“Hey,” you say softly, barely pushing the word past your lips. “Uh, sorry—didn’t mean to interrupt your project or whatever.”

Butters blinks again, like he’s still processing that you’re actually standing here, dressed like this, standing in his doorway. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then tries again, his voice higher than usual.

“Oh, uh—gosh, no, you ain’t interruptin’ nothin’!” He laughs, a little too quick, a little too forced. “I mean, I was workin’ on my lesson plans, but, uh, I don’t think Kenny’s takin’ it all too seriously.”

Behind him, Kenny exhales a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his voice dripping with lazy amusement. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, dude. I think I make a pretty convincing first grader.”

You force a small smile, but it feels stiff on your face, unnatural. Butters glances back at Kenny, his brows still slightly raised, like he’s searching for some kind of explanation—maybe from him, maybe from you. But Kenny hasn’t even looked at you yet.

You shift your weight again, fingers twitching against the strap of your bag. “Um—can I come in?”

Butters straightens immediately, like he just realized he’s blocking the doorway. “Oh! Oh, yeah! Yeah, sure, come on in!” He steps aside quickly, waving you in, though there’s still a hint of confusion in his voice, like he’s waiting for you to explain why you’re here.

You step inside, the door clicking shut behind you, and the smell of weed thickens, clinging to your clothes, settling in the back of your throat. The air in here feels different—warmer, hazier, lived-in. A stark contrast to the sterile quiet of your own dorm. But that contrast does nothing to settle the unease sitting heavy in your chest.

You glance at Kenny again, your stomach twisting slightly at how relaxed he looks, at how completely unaffected he seems by the fact that you texted him and he never answered, that you literally had to show up in person just to get a response. He still hasn’t looked at you.

Instead, he flicks the ash from his joint into a crushed soda can on Butters’ desk, stretching his arms over his head with a slow, lazy sigh. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a strip of skin just above his sweatpants. It’s nothing, just a fleeting glimpse, but for some reason, it makes your fingers clench against your bag strap even tighter.

Then, finally—finally—his eyes drag toward you. At first, there’s nothing. Just a glance, casual and fleeting, like you’re just there in the room, another person, another interruption. But then his gaze drops lower, taking in the dress, the heels, the effort you never put in. His smirk falters—just barely, just for a second. His brows knit together, his lips parting slightly like he’s about to say something but then stopping himself.

Something flickers across his face, something sharp and momentary—like recognition, or realization, or maybe something closer to irritation.

Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. His lips curl back into an easy smirk, his head tilting slightly to the side, his usual amused indifference slipping right back into place like a mask.

“Well, well,” Kenny murmurs, his voice slow and deliberate, finally looking you over like he’s seeing you for the first time. His smirk widens, his tone dropping into something almost mocking. “Look who decided to get all dressed up.”

You don’t like the way Kenny says that. It’s not the words themselves—it’s the way they come out of his mouth, slow and drawling, soaked in something that makes your stomach twist. The way his eyes linger a second too long, like he’s assessing you rather than just seeing you. The way his smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes, like he’s already decided this whole thing is funny, like you’re just another thing for him to make fun of.

Heat rushes up your neck, crawling over your skin, and before you can stop yourself, you whip around, turning your back to him completely.

“Butters.” His name leaves your mouth in a rush, urgent, almost pleading. You step forward and plant both hands on his shoulders, gripping them just a little too tightly, enough that you can feel the way his body stiffens in surprise. His eyes go huge, his mouth parting slightly, frozen under the intensity of your stare.

“Do I look fine?” Your voice comes out breathless, higher than normal. You barely give him a second to respond before you press further. “Like—actually fine. Do I look… pretty?”

Butters looks like you just grabbed him by the collar and shook him. His entire body goes rigid, his face turning the color of a stop sign, eyes darting everywhere except at you. “W-Well, uh—” He lets out a nervous laugh, shoulders twitching under your hands. “G-Golly, uh, ya look—uh, I mean, o’course ya do! I mean, I ain’t—uh, I ain't never seen ya wear somethin’ like this before, but—uh, y-yeah! You—you look real nice!”

His voice jumps an octave toward the end, cracking slightly, and if you weren’t currently spiraling, you might’ve found it funny. But right now, all you can focus on is the way he stammers through his words, the way he doesn’t sound sure at all, the way his hands twitch awkwardly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. That sinking feeling in your chest only gets heavier.

Because that’s not the answer you wanted. You wanted something solid, something confident. Something to make you feel good. But instead, all you feel is ridiculous. 

Like you’ve made a mistake. Like you knew this wasn’t right, but you did it anyway, and now you have to stand here and sit with it.

You swallow hard, your grip on Butters’ shoulders loosening slightly. Your heartbeat pounds too fast in your ears, and suddenly, the dress feels tighter than before, like it’s constricting your ribs, like it’s too much.

Behind you, Kenny makes a noise—something between a scoff and a laugh, exhaling smoke as he speaks. “Jesus, dude, try not to have a heart attack.”

Butters flinches, his face burning even redder, and you should feel bad, but you don’t have the space for it right now. Because now Kenny is talking again, and you can feel his eyes on you without even turning around.

“You good, sweetheart?” His voice is lighter now, teasing, but there’s something underneath it—something you can’t place, something that makes your stomach churn. “You seem kinda stressed.”

You don’t turn to face him. You can’t. Not when you know he’ll still be wearing that damn smirk, not when you already feel so stupid. Instead, you pull your hands away from Butters and take a small step back, curling your fingers into your palms.

“Yeah,” you mutter, voice tight. “I’m fine.”

Kenny hums like he doesn’t believe you. You don’t believe you either.

Then Butters—sweet, oblivious, perfectly timed Butters—cuts through the tension like he just remembered why you might be here in the first place.

“Oh, wait a minute—ain’t ya got a date with Damien tonight?”

You blink. The words hit you like a slap to the face, grounding you just enough to snap you back into reality. Right. That’s why you’re here.

Not because you needed to see Kenny. Not because you needed someone to talk you off the ledge. Because you have a date. A real one. With someone who actually asked you out instead of just messing with you until you lost your patience.

You shift on your feet, clearing your throat. “Uh. Yeah. I do.”

Butters brightens a little, clearly relieved to have something normal to latch onto. “Well, shoot! That’s real excitin’! He, uh—he must be real lucky, huh?”

His voice is gentle, reassuring in the way Butters always is, but the compliment makes your stomach twist. You should feel good about that. It’s what you wanted to hear. But the way it sits in your chest feels wrong, like you’re holding onto something fragile, something that might crack open if you let yourself think about it too much.

You barely notice the way Kenny exhales smoke again, slow and measured, before he speaks.

“Lucky, huh?” His tone is light, but there’s something behind it, something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. “Yeah, I bet he thinks so.”

You don’t turn around. Because if you do, you’ll have to see whatever look is on Kenny’s face right now. You’ll have to see that smirk, that lazy amusement, that stupid thing in his eyes that always makes you second-guess everything. And you can’t do that right now. Not when you already feel like you’re hanging onto your confidence by a thread.

Instead, you force a small, dry laugh. “I mean. He asked me out, so. Guess he thinks so.”

Butters nods enthusiastically. “Well, yeah, course he does! I mean, you—you really do look nice n’ all! Bet he’s gonna love it!”

Kenny makes another noise behind you, and you don’t know what it means, but you feel it in your spine.

“So, what?” he says, tone still casual, still teasing. “You dress up like this for him, but not for me?”

It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. Kenny says shit like this all the time—pushes buttons, says things just to get a reaction, makes everything sound like something when it isn’t. That’s just him.

And yet.

The way he says it—low and smooth, a smirk audible even without looking—hits somewhere deep in your chest, somewhere you don’t know how to name. You swallow hard, fingers clenching against your bag strap.

You still don’t turn around. Instead, you force another laugh, but this one is thinner, more strained. “Kenny.” You say his name like a warning, but it comes out weaker than you want it to.

He huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff. “Relax, sweetheart. Just messin’ with you.”

Butters, ever the peacemaker, laughs nervously. “A-Aw, c’mon, Kenny, don’t tease her too much now! It’s her first date, she’s probably real nervous ‘bout it already!”

You exhale, shaking your head slightly, trying to pull yourself together. There's an uncomfortable tightness in your chest, like a string pulled too taut, threatening to snap. You don’t want to leave yet. You can’t leave yet—not when you feel like this, like your skin is too tight, like if you step outside, the air itself might suffocate you.

So instead, you turn back to Butters, ignoring the way your pulse jumps when you catch Kenny watching you from the corner of your eye. “Hey, um… mind if I chill here for a while?” Your voice is light, casual, like this is normal. “I’ll even help with your project if you want.”

Butters blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Oh! Uh—well, gee, yeah, sure! I mean, if ya ain’t in a hurry or nothin’—I could definitely use some help!” He brightens immediately, shuffling back toward his desk. “I was just tryin’ to work out a lesson plan on, uh, phonics! Y’know, like, the way kids learn sounds n’ letters n’ such.”

Behind you, Kenny exhales another slow drag of smoke, shifting on Butters’ bed. “Phonics, huh?” His voice is easy, smooth, teasing. “You think she even knows how to read, dude?”

You roll your eyes and turn to face him fully, arms crossing over your chest. “I do know how to read, actually. But thanks for your concern.”

Kenny smirks, flicking the ash from his joint into the soda can on the desk. “Yeah? Prove it.”

“Oh my God,” you mutter, fighting the urge to throw something at him.

Kenny grins wider, completely at ease, and it’s annoying how unaffected he looks. He’s lounging back, half-sprawled, the dim light casting soft shadows along his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the lazy half-lidded amusement in his eyes. He’s comfortable, relaxed, like nothing about this—about you standing in his friend’s dorm, in a dress you wouldn’t normally wear, about the way you were practically begging Butters for validation just a minute ago—means anything to him.

And maybe it doesn’t. Maybe he’s just high, maybe he’s just being Kenny, maybe he’s just teasing. Or maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You suck in a slow breath and shake your head, forcing yourself to turn back to Butters. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got so far.”

Butters immediately brightens again, flipping through a mess of papers on his desk. “Now, see, the tricky part is makin’ it fun, ‘cause kids, they don’t got long attention spans, right? So ya gotta make it a game or somethin’ interactive! I was thinkin’ maybe, like, flashcards or a little song—”

You nod along, grateful for the distraction, for something to ground yourself in. But just as you reach for one of the papers, Kenny shifts behind you, the bed creaking slightly.

“You sure you’re in the mood for schoolwork right now?” His voice is light, teasing, but there’s something beneath it—something smug, something that makes the back of your neck prickle. “Thought you’d be too busy planning your big night.”

You don’t turn around, but your grip tightens slightly around the paper. “And I thought you’d be too busy helping Butters instead of sitting here getting high on his bed.”

Butters laughs nervously. “A-Aw, c’mon now, I don’t mind it! Besides, it’s, uh—it’s good to have, uh, a subject to practice on, y’know? Kids do get distracted real easy, an’ all—”

Kenny hums. “Right. Gotta prepare for all the troublemakers.”

You do turn then, just enough to glance at him over your shoulder. His eyes are already on you, his smirk small but sharp, like he’s amused by something you haven’t figured out yet. But there’s something else too—something lingering in the way he’s looking at you, something that makes your stomach feel unsteady. Like he’s waiting for you to react, to crack, to let slip whatever it is you’re trying to hold together.

It’s infuriating. So you hold his gaze, tilting your head slightly. “That is kind of your specialty, isn’t it?”

Kenny’s smirk twitches just slightly, like he wasn’t expecting you to push back. Then he grins again, slow and lazy, and taps his fingers against his stomach. “Guilty.”

You roll your eyes but don’t look away as long as you probably should.

Butters, ever oblivious, clears his throat and gestures back to the papers in your hands. “Uh, so, about my project—”

You blink and snap yourself out of it, finally breaking eye contact with Kenny as you turn back toward Butters. “Right. Yeah. Let’s focus on that.”

Butters shuffles his notes together, puffing up a little like he’s getting into character. “Alrighty then!” His voice lifts with forced authority, a little shaky but full of determination. “For this lesson, I’m gonna be the teacher, an’ you two are gonna be my students, alright?”

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “We’re really doing this?”

Butters nods enthusiastically. “Yup! Roleplay is a great way to engage young learners! Helps ‘em get immersed in the lesson an’ retain information better!”

Kenny chuckles from behind you, low and amused. “Y’hear that? We’re gonna retain information better.”

You turn your head just enough to glance at him, your lips twitching with a barely restrained smirk. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll love being a first grader again.”

Kenny shrugs, taking another slow drag from the joint. “Hey, I was a great first grader.”

“Doubtful.”

Butters claps his hands together, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark Kenny is about to make. “Alright, students! Go on an’ take a seat now, class is about to begin!”

You hesitate for a second, eyes flicking to the only two seating options: Butters’ desk chair or his bed, where Kenny is already sprawled out like he owns the place. Sitting at the desk would be too serious, too separate, and after everything tonight, after how you feel in this outfit, sitting alone just feels… unappealing.

So you move toward the bed, pressing a knee onto the mattress before settling in next to Kenny.

The second you do, Kenny shifts, stretching his arms up before letting them fall back against the blanket, his body loose and lazy, completely unbothered. The mattress dips slightly under his weight, and the scent of smoke and faded cologne lingers in the air between you.

You try not to focus on it.

You also try not to focus on the fact that your dress rides up just a little when you sit, exposing more of your thigh than you expected. Or the fact that Kenny notices, his gaze flickering down for half a second before he props an arm behind his head like he wasn’t looking at all.

You clear your throat and cross your legs, leaning back against the wall. “Alright, Mr. Stotch,” you say, forcing yourself to focus on Butters instead. “What’s today’s lesson?”

Butters beams, clearly excited to finally have your attention on the lesson itself. He flips through his papers, scanning his notes before looking up at the both of you. “Alrighty, class! Today, we’re gonna be learnin’ all about phonics! Now, does anybody know what a vowel is?”

Kenny snorts. “Yeah, man, I love vowels.”

Butters sighs, already exhausted. “Now, Kenny, that ain’t an answer—”

“They’re the ones that aren’t consonants, right?” you chime in, smirking slightly.

Butters looks relieved. “That’s right! Good job!”

Kenny makes a show of gasping. “Wow. Teacher’s pet much?”

You elbow him lightly. “Maybe if you paid attention instead of getting high, you’d know things.”

Kenny grins, turning his head to look at you fully, his expression playful but unreadable in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Oh, I know things, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches just slightly, but before you can fire back, Butters groans dramatically. “Alright, alright, enough goofin’ off now! Let’s focus, class!” Butters, clearly relieved to have his class under control, puffs up again and clears his throat. “Now! Like I was sayin’, vowels are real important ‘cause they help make up all sorts of words! Ya can’t have a sentence without ‘em! So, let’s practice soundin’ ‘em out together, alright?”

He starts going through his notes, explaining how vowel sounds change depending on the word, how long and short vowels work, how they’re the building blocks of reading. And for a little while, it’s… actually kind of fun. Kenny still throws in dumb remarks here and there, making you roll your eyes, but you let yourself get into it, trying to at least be a little helpful.

Then, just as Butters is getting into a section about blending letters, a loud BANG echoes against the door.

“Butters!” A voice shouts from the other side, urgent and impatient. “Dude, open up! We need an RA!”

All three of you freeze. Butters blinks, caught completely off guard. “Oh, uh—hold on now, I—” He fumbles as he stands, hastily shuffling his papers together before hurrying toward the door. He throws a panicked look over his shoulder as he reaches for the handle. “I swear, if this is ‘bout another clogged toilet—”

He pulls the door open, and standing outside is a frazzled-looking freshman, wide-eyed and out of breath. “Dude,” they gasp, leaning against the frame. “You gotta come quick—there’s, like, actual blood.”

Butters visibly pales. “Wh-What?!”

“My friend split his forehead open downstairs, and there’s so much blood—I think he passed out, man, you gotta do something!”

“Oh golly,” Butters breathes, panic washing over his face. He turns back to you and Kenny, eyes darting wildly. “I—I gotta go—”

Kenny, still lounged on the bed like nothing could possibly be this important, exhales slowly and flicks his joint into the soda can. “Dude, you gonna handle that, or you need me to step in and perform emergency brain surgery?”

Butters gapes at him. “Kenny, this is serious!”

Kenny shrugs. “So’s brain surgery.”

You smack his arm. “Kenny.”

He grins at you, but before he can say anything else, Butters is already scrambling to grab his keys. “Y’all just—stay here! I’ll be right back!”

And with that, he rushes out the door, leaving you and Kenny alone in the hazy dorm room, the sound of hurried footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against the wall as Butters’ frantic footsteps disappear down the hallway. The room feels strangely quiet now, the distant hum of campus life barely filtering through the closed door. The lingering scent of weed still hangs heavy in the air, settling into your skin, into your clothes, into the fabric of Butters’ bedspread beneath you.

You shift slightly, reaching for your phone, unlocking the screen with a quick tap. The time blinks up at you—you still have a little while before Damien picks you up. Not long, but enough. Enough to stay here a little longer, enough to push away the nerves creeping up your spine, enough to breathe.

Kenny hasn’t moved. He’s still sprawled out next to you, half-sitting, half-lounging, his head tilted lazily against the wall. His eyes are half-lidded, heavy-lashed, watching you in that slow, unreadable way that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers tap idly against his stomach, and even though his expression is relaxed, there’s something about the way he’s looking at you that makes your breath feel shallow.

You hesitate for a moment, fingers drumming lightly against the side of your phone. Then you turn your head toward him and smile.

“Okay,” you say, shifting a little closer, pressing your knee against the mattress for balance. “Honest opinion.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You tilt your head slightly, meeting his gaze. “Outfit. Makeup. Everything. Be real with me.”

For a second, he doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you, eyes flicking slowly over your face, then down, tracing the line of your dress, the curve of your legs where they cross. His tongue flicks over his lower lip, slow and thoughtful, before he exhales and leans back further against the wall.

“You really want my honest opinion?”

You nod, waiting, your stomach twisting with anticipation.

Kenny hums, dragging his fingers through his hair before smirking slightly. “Alright.”

Then he shifts suddenly, moving closer—just enough that you catch the faint scent of his cologne under the smoke.

“You look hot,” he says simply, like it’s just a fact, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

It’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it. No teasing lilt, no exaggerated flirtation, no smugness. Just those two words, direct and confident, sinking straight into your ribs.

You swallow, your fingers gripping your phone a little tighter. “Yeah?”

Kenny’s smirk twitches, his eyes flicking back to yours. “Yeah.”

Warmth floods through your chest, and before you can stop yourself, you’re smiling—brightly, wide enough that your cheeks start to burn. The relief is instant, washing over you like cool air after being stuck in a too-hot room. It’s stupid how much you needed to hear that, how the knots in your stomach loosen just from two simple words.

You exhale a small, nervous laugh. “I hope Damien thinks so too.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t come back with something snarky like “oh, he will” or “if he doesn’t, he’s blind”. He just looks at you, his smirk frozen in place but his expression unreadable, something flickering behind his eyes too quick to catch.

The silence stretches a second too long, so you shift closer to him, moving across the mattress until your thigh nearly brushes his. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t move at all—just watches as you tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers twisting a loose strand nervously.

“I’m so nervous,” you admit, voice quieter now. “Like, I feel stupidly nervous.”

Kenny huffs a laugh, dragging a hand through his hair. “Yeah, no shit.”

You groan and press your palms together in your lap, bouncing your foot against the mattress. “Like, it’s just a date. Just dinner. It’s not that big of a deal, right?”

Kenny shrugs, taking another slow drag from his joint. “Depends. Are you plannin’ on suckin’ his dick in the parking lot after, or is this more of a getting to know you situation?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes wide. “Kenny!”

“What?” He exhales smoke lazily, smirking. “It’s a valid question.”

You shove at his arm, half-laughing, half-mortified. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

He grins, tapping the ash off into the soda can on the nightstand. “I’m just sayin’, if it’s the first option, then yeah, I’d be nervous too.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ.”

Kenny chuckles, watching you with that easy, amused expression. You shift slightly, pressing your knee into the mattress for balance, your body angling toward him. The air feels warm, dense with the sharp, skunky bite of weed, layered beneath the lingering scent of his cologne—something musky, a little sweet, like amber and worn leather. There’s sweat in the mix too, faint but present, clinging to his hoodie from being in this cramped dorm room for too long. It’s familiar, grounding, the kind of scent that sticks to fabric, to skin, to memory.

You hesitate for a second, then take a slow breath. “What do you think of Damien?”

Kenny finally moves, tilting his head slightly, his smirk twitching. “Oh, we’re really doing this?”

You blink. “Doing what?”

“Asking for my opinion like it actually matters.” He lets his head roll against the wall, looking at you with an exaggerated pout. “I dunno, babe, you’ve never given a fuck about my thoughts on the people you’ve dated before.”

You snort. “That’s because I’ve never dated anyone before.”

Kenny’s eyebrows lift slightly, like he forgot that part. “Shit. Right.”

You exhale, fingers playing with the hem of your dress. “I dunno, I just… I feel like I should ask?”

Kenny watches you for a beat, his expression shifting—his smirk falters just slightly, his eyes narrowing like he’s working through a thought he’s not sure he wants to say out loud. Then he shakes his head, the usual amusement sliding back into place. “Alright.” He stretches his arms behind his head, exhaling dramatically. “He’s fine.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s it? Fine?”

Kenny scoffs. “You want me to write a fucking dissertation?” He deepens his voice, putting on a fake, pretentious tone. “Damien Thorn is a captivating subject with an aura of brooding mystique, and I believe he would make an excellent breeding partner for my best friend.”

You smack his arm. “Oh my God, I hate you.”

Kenny laughs, shaking his head. “Look, I don’t hate the guy. He’s just kinda… predictable.”

You tilt your head. “Predictable how?”

“Y’know.” Kenny waves his hand vaguely. “The whole mysterious, I only wear black, I stare out of windows dramatically and contemplate the void thing. Talks like he’s been alive for 300 years and saw all his wives die in childbirth.”

You let out a short laugh. “Okay, that’s dramatic.”

Kenny grins. “Tell me he hasn’t unironically said the words ‘society doesn’t understand me’ at least once.”

You hesitate. “…He might have.”

“Exactly.” Kenny sits up a little, leaning toward you. “I mean, I get it. He’s got that whole tortured artist, vampire prince, probably jerks off to his own poetry thing going on. Some girls are into that. You’re obviously into that. Just don’t let him convince you to do weird cult shit, alright?”

You shove his arm again, laughing. “I highly doubt he’s in a cult.”

“Bet you twenty bucks he owns a human skull.”

“He does not own a human skull.”

Kenny snickers. “Not one he admitted to owning, anyway.”

You roll your eyes, but the tension in your chest is lighter now, your nerves not nearly as suffocating as they were before.

Kenny’s smirk lingers for a second before he shifts again, moving just slightly closer. His knee knocks against yours, barely noticeable, and when you look up at him again, his expression isn’t as cocky as before.

“Just don’t let him make you feel like you gotta change anything,” Kenny says, voice lower now, steadier. “He likes you, right? So don’t do that thing where you overthink shit and start trying to fit into his world instead of just… y’know. Being you.”

You stare at him for a second, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. His gaze is steady, his smirk smaller now, like he’s saying something important but trying to play it off like it’s nothing.

“I’m not,” you say quickly, instinctively, but even as the words leave your mouth, they don’t feel entirely true.

Kenny doesn’t call you out on it. He just hums, tilting his head slightly, watching you like he’s waiting for you to say something else.

And you know he knows you’re lying.

It’s in the way his gaze lingers, sharp and assessing, like he’s picking apart your words, unraveling the things you don’t say. Kenny’s always been good at that—good at knowing when you’re bullshitting, good at catching the cracks in your voice, the little shifts in your body language that most people don’t bother to notice.

You don’t want to talk about it. You don’t want to sit in this feeling, in this stupid tension twisting in your chest, in the way his eyes keep pinning you in place. So you do what you always do when you don’t want Kenny to get too close to the truth.

You change the subject.

You exhale through your nose, glancing down at the joint still smoldering between his fingers. “Can I take a hit?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

You shrug, forcing yourself to look casual, even though your heart is still beating too fast in your chest. “It’ll help me relax.”

Kenny huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Babe, you take one hit of my shit, and Damien’s gonna have to carry your ass to dinner.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not that much of a lightweight.”

Kenny smirks, lifting the joint between two fingers. “Oh yeah?” He leans in just slightly, voice dropping into something lower, more amused. “Prove it.”

You don’t hesitate. You snatch the joint from his hand and bring it to your lips, inhaling slow and deep just to be a little cocky about it.

The burn hits immediately, hot and acrid down your throat, and you almost cough but refuse to give him the satisfaction. You hold it, exhaling slower than necessary just to make a point.

Kenny watches, eyes flicking between your lips and the lazy tendrils of smoke curling into the air.

“Not bad,” he murmurs, lips twitching. “Didn’t even choke. Proud of you, babe.”

You smirk, tilting your chin up. “Told you.”

But then, after a few seconds, the warmth starts to settle into your limbs, a slow, creeping buzz spreading through your chest, your fingers, your head. It doesn’t hit all at once—it moves in waves, rolling in slow and syrupy, making your body feel both heavier and lighter at the same time. Your shoulders loosen, your legs relax, and the tension that had been coiling in your stomach just moments ago starts to unravel, leaving a strange, heady calm in its place.

You blink, sucking in a slow breath, and hand the joint back to Kenny, your fingers brushing against his as he takes it. “Jesus Christ,” you mutter, pressing the back of your hand to your forehead like you need to steady yourself. “Fucking how strong is your shit?”

Kenny grins around the joint, taking a lazy drag. “You feelin’ it already?”

You scoff. “No, I just always lose control of my spine after one hit.”

Kenny exhales a slow stream of smoke, chuckling. “Yeah, that’ll happen.” He leans back against the wall, stretching his legs out, still watching you with that smug, entertained expression. “My guy hooks me up with the good shit. You’d die if I gave you an edible.”

You groan, letting your head drop back against the wall. “I am gonna die. I can feel my bones.”

Kenny laughs at that, a real, unfiltered laugh, the kind that makes his shoulders shake. “God, you’re a fuckin’ lightweight.”

You glare at him, but it has no weight behind it. Everything feels too hazy, too warm. “Shut up,” you mumble, dragging a hand down your face. “I don’t usually do this, okay? Sorry I don’t have a stoner tolerance like you.”

Kenny smirks, tapping the joint against the ash-filled soda can before taking another drag. “It’s cute.”

You pause, blinking slowly, the words settling over you in a way they probably shouldn’t. Maybe it’s the weed making everything feel heavier, warmer, but the way he said it—it’s cute—lingers in the air longer than it should, hanging between you like an unspoken thing. You don’t look at him. 

Instead, you exhale softly, tracing your fingers against the fabric of your dress, grounding yourself in the feeling of it. The buzz in your head makes it easier to let words slip out without overthinking them first, makes it easier to just ask without worrying about how it’ll land.

“Kenny,” you say suddenly, tilting your head to the side. “What was your first serious date like?”

Kenny looks over at you, raising an eyebrow. “Serious?”

“Yeah,” you say, shifting slightly on the bed. “Like, not just some random hookup or some girl you took to a movie just to make out with her after. Like, actual dating.”

Kenny huffs a quiet laugh, leaning his head back against the wall. He twirls the joint between his fingers, exhaling a slow curl of smoke before speaking. “Alright. Lemme think.”

You watch him as he stares at the ceiling, like he actually has to dig through his memories to find one that counts.

“Guess that’d be my junior year,” he finally says. “Dated this girl for a couple months. She was nice. Real sweet, real into, like… astrology and crystals and shit.”

You blink, caught off guard. Not because it’s shocking—Kenny’s always been good with people, always had people drawn to him in a way you never really questioned—but because you didn’t know this.

And now that you think about it, you don’t really know anything about any of them when it comes to dating.

You’ve been friends with Kenny, Cartman, Stan, and Kyle since childhood, close enough to have a million inside jokes, to know exactly how each of them takes their coffee, to predict their reactions before they even open their mouths. But their love lives? They never talked to you about that. Maybe you never asked. Maybe it never seemed important. Maybe, until now, you never cared.

But now, sitting here, listening to Kenny talk about a girl you never knew existed, about dates you were never aware of, about pieces of his life you were never a part of… It feels weird.

You push the thought down, forcing a smirk. “Oh, so a witchy girl.”

Kenny grins, glancing at you. “Yeah, she used to say our star signs weren’t compatible or some shit, but she still let me feel her up behind the bleachers, so, y’know. Guess she wasn’t that concerned.”

You roll your eyes, shoving at his arm. “You’re so fucking dumb.”

Kenny chuckles, shaking his head. “Nah, but, for real—it was kinda nice. We went on actual dates. Coffee shops, late-night drives, that kinda shit. Used to sit on her roof and talk for hours.”

Your fingers twitch slightly against your lap. “Why’d you break up?”

Kenny exhales, rubbing his thumb against the filter of the joint. “She moved.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He shrugs, but it’s slower this time, like he’s trying to brush it off before it can mean too much. “Her mom got a new job or whatever, and that was that. We texted for a little after, but y’know how that shit goes.”

You watch him for a second, the way his jaw tenses just slightly, the way he keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling like he doesn’t really want to see your reaction.

“You liked her a lot, huh?” you ask, softer this time.

Kenny smirks, but it’s smaller now, lazier, like he’s letting it sit on his lips just to keep up the act. “Yeah. Guess I did.”

A strange weight settles in your stomach, warm and pressing, like a slow burn spreading through your chest. It isn’t anger, isn’t sadness, but it itches in a way you don’t know how to shake. The thought of Kenny—your Kenny—being with someone else, taking her on late-night drives, sitting on rooftops with her, kissing her—it twists at something deep inside you, something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

You shift on the bed, pressing your foot against Kenny’s ankle without thinking. Your fingers move automatically, tracing slow, absentminded circles against the bone, grounding yourself in the warmth of his skin through his socks. It’s casual, the kind of touch that’s always been normal between you, but right now, under the weight of his gaze—half-lidded, curious, lingering—it feels different.

You clear your throat. “Were you nervous?”

Kenny blinks, tilting his head slightly. “For what?”

“Your first date.” Your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “Like, actually nervous?”

Kenny scoffs, his grin twitching. “Pfft, no.”

You narrow your eyes. “Really?”

He smirks. “What can I say? I’m naturally charming.”

You roll your eyes but keep tracing circles against his ankle. “Kenny.”

He exhales, like he’s debating whether to tell you the truth. Then, finally, he sighs and leans further back against the wall, legs stretching out slightly.

“Alright, fine,” he admits. “Maybe a little nervous.”

You smirk. “I knew it.”

Kenny nudges your knee with his own, the pressure warm and firm. “Shut the fuck up, dude. I wasn’t you nervous.”

You scoff. “Okay, rude.”

He chuckles, shifting slightly, his knee pressing against yours again. “I mean, c’mon. You’re sitting here rubbing my ankle like you’re tryin’ to summon a genie. If you were any more nervous, you’d be vibrating.”

Heat spreads up your neck, but you don’t move your hand. You should, but you don’t. Instead, you huff, tilting your head back against the wall. “God, I hate you.”

Kenny grins, lazy and satisfied. “Nah. You love me.”

The words land differently this time, settling into the space between you. They should roll off like they always do, easy and meaningless, just another joke between best friends. But tonight, they hang in the air for a second too long, stretching between the warmth of his skin against yours, the slow buzz in your head, the way his voice dips just slightly when he says it.

You straighten up, pulling your hands away from him, suddenly too aware of yourself, of where you’re sitting, of how close you let yourself get. Your body still feels loose from the weed, but inside, there’s a tight knot of unease curling in your stomach. It’s not about him, not about who he kissed, not about some girl you never met. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that you’ve never kissed anyone.

You press your palms against your thighs, staring down at them. Your dress has ridden up slightly, showing more skin than you meant to, and for some reason, that makes your face heat even more.

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. It’s never mattered before. None of the guys ever talked about their relationships with you—not Stan, not Kyle, not even Cartman. Not because they didn’t have them, but because… because why? Because they knew? Because they knew you didn’t have stories of your own to share, because they knew you’d never had a first kiss, a first date, a first anything?

It’s like they were all protecting you from it. From knowing too much, from feeling left out. But now, sitting next to Kenny, it’s impossible to ignore.

You swallow hard. “Did you guys kiss?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow. “Huh?”

You clear your throat, eyes still locked on your lap. “On your first date,” you clarify, quieter now. “Did you kiss her?”

Kenny exhales slowly, like he’s deciding whether to mess with you or just answer. Then, after a pause, he smirks. “Yeah.”

Your stomach dips. Not because you’re jealous. Not because you wish it had been you. But because he just knows—because they all know—and no one ever says it out loud.

“Why?” The word slips out before you can stop it.

Kenny tilts his head, looking at you like you just asked the dumbest question in the world. “Uh… ‘cause I wanted to?”

You nod, your nails digging into the fabric of your dress. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

Kenny frowns slightly, watching you a little too closely now. “Babe, what’s with the interrogation?”

You force a small laugh, shaking your head. “No reason.”

Kenny doesn’t buy it. You can feel him not buying it. But he doesn’t push.

Instead, he leans back, dragging a hand through his hair. “Y’know,” he says, voice lazier now, like he’s just musing aloud, “I was gonna ask if you’ve ever kissed anyone, but I feel like I already know the answer.”

Your entire body tenses. “Fuck off.”

He grins, eyes flashing with something smug. “So that’s a no, then?”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my God.”

Kenny laughs, stretching his arms behind his head. “Babe, it’s fine. Nothin’ wrong with being a late bloomer.”

You exhale sharply, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck. It’s not like you didn’t know, but hearing it out loud, having it confirmed, makes you feel stupid. You force yourself to shrug, shaking your head. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Kenny watches you for a beat, smirk twitching slightly. Then, suddenly, his grin turns sly. “You nervous about kissing Thorn tonight?”

You freeze. His smirk widens. “Oh shit—you are.”

You click your heels together nervously, the soft tapping sound filling the space between you. Your fingers twitch against your thighs, and the heat from the weed makes everything feel too much—too loud, too noticeable, too real. You groan, dragging your hands down your face before turning to Kenny, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“Of course I’m nervous,” you say, voice tight. “I don’t wanna screw this up.”

Kenny tilts his head slightly, that same knowing smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes stay locked onto yours, sharp and focused. He doesn’t interrupt, just watches as you press your palms against your lap, shifting against the bed.

“I don’t know the first thing about kissing,” you admit, voice quieter now, like saying it out loud makes it real. “Like, yeah, I’ve read books, and I’ve seen it in movies and TV and whatever, but it’s not the same. It’s not real.”

Kenny exhales through his nose, and for once, he doesn’t throw out some crude joke, doesn’t immediately make fun of you. He just leans back against the wall, rolling the joint between his fingers, tapping it lightly against the edge of the soda can.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, his voice easy, like this is just another conversation. “It’s not the same.”

You let out a long sigh, tipping your head back. “God, what if I’m bad at it? What if he can tell I’ve never done it before?”

Kenny lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Babe, trust me, it’s not that deep.”

You snap your head toward him. “Yes, it is that deep! I don’t wanna be weird about it! I don’t wanna be one of those people who doesn’t know where to put their hands or, like, smashes their teeth together or—”

Kenny laughs, cutting you off, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ, dude, you are way too in your own head about this.”

You frown. “Because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Kenny hums, exhaling another slow curl of smoke toward the ceiling, and when he looks at you again, his smirk has faded just a little. His gaze lingers, his expression thoughtful, like he’s actually considering something instead of just coming up with another joke.

Then he tilts his head slightly and says, “You want me to teach you?”

For a second, you think you misheard him, that maybe the weed is making you imagine things, but no—Kenny is still looking at you, still smirking, still waiting. His posture is relaxed, but there’s a sharpness in his expression now, a weight behind the words that makes your stomach twist.

Your mouth goes dry. “What?”

Kenny shrugs, tapping ash from the joint. “I mean, I could teach you.” His lips twitch, like he’s amused by the way you instantly froze. “Since you’re so fuckin’ worried about being bad at it.”

Your stomach flips, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Your body knows this is a joke, knows this is just Kenny being Kenny, but for some reason, your brain short-circuits at the idea, at the possibility.

You scoff, trying to play it off. “Oh, please.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, entirely too entertained by your reaction. “What? You don’t trust me?”

You cross your arms. “I do trust you.”

“So what’s the problem?” His voice is smooth, coaxing, like he’s daring you to take him seriously.

“The problem is that you’re a jackass,” you shoot back, glaring at him, but your chest feels too warm, your skin buzzing.

Kenny chuckles, watching you like he’s already won. He leans in just slightly, his knee pressing more firmly against yours. “C’mon, babe. What better way to learn than hands-on experience?”

Your heartbeat stutters. You don’t say anything. You can’t say anything. Because if you open your mouth right now, you’re not sure what’s going to come out.

And Kenny—fucking Kenny—sees it. His smirk deepens, but his eyes stay locked on yours, steady and unreadable in a way that makes your stomach tighten. His fingers tap against his thigh, slow and deliberate, and when he speaks again, his voice has lost the teasing edge. It’s quieter now, lower, like he’s giving you an out.

“Just say the word.”

You fiddle with the hem of your dress, twisting the fabric between your fingers as your frown deepens. Heat creeps up your neck, your chest, your face—too much warmth pooling beneath your skin, making it impossible to sit still.

You swallow hard, eyes darting toward the door before flicking back to him. “You’re just gonna make fun of me,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, his smirk twitching at the edges. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes.” You glare at him, but it doesn’t hold much weight, not with the way your pulse is racing, not with the way his knee is still pressed against yours, grounding you in place. “You’ll do it, and then you’ll be a dick about it forever.”

Kenny exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “If I was gonna make fun of you, I would’ve already done it.”

You press your lips together, still twisting the fabric of your dress, still feeling like you’re one wrong move away from completely losing your grip on reality.

“And what if Butters comes back?” you say quickly, grasping at the excuse like it’s a lifeline. “That’d be—mortifying.”

Kenny chuckles, leaning in slightly. “Please. Butters walks in on this? That’s what makes him finally drop out and join a monastery.”

You let out a short laugh despite yourself, shaking your head. “Shut up.”

Kenny grins, but the usual lightness in his expression doesn’t fully return. There’s a sharpness beneath the amusement, a glint in his eyes that lingers as he watches you. His gaze moves over your face, slower now, like he’s picking apart every detail—the way your fingers won’t stop twisting in your dress, the way your breathing has changed, the way your eyes flicker to the door like you’re looking for an escape. He’s searching for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that you’re refusing just to refuse.

You shift slightly, your body moving before your brain fully catches up. It’s small—just a slow, uncertain scoot closer—but Kenny notices immediately. His smirk twitches, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches as you close the space between you.

Without looking away, he reaches over and taps the joint against the edge of the soda can, snuffing it out before setting it down completely. The room feels quieter now, the haze of smoke lingering but no longer moving, the only sound the distant hum of campus outside and the soft rustling of your dress as you fidget in place.

Your fingers curl against the fabric. Your throat feels tight. “This won’t be weird, right?”

Kenny’s eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn’t speak, waiting for you to finish.

You lick your lips, glancing at him before looking down at your lap. “We’ll still be best friends?”

For the first time tonight, Kenny hesitates. It’s brief, barely a flicker, but you see it—the way his smirk fades just enough, the way his eyes drop from yours for half a second before snapping back up. He leans back against the wall, resting his arm against his knee, and lets out a slow breath.

“Yeah, babe,” he says, his voice lower now, quieter. “We’ll still be best friends.”

You study him, searching his face for anything—any shift, any sign that he’s just saying what you want to hear. But Kenny is good at this. He’s always been good at keeping things easy, at making you believe nothing ever rattles him.

And maybe that’s what you want right now. Maybe you just need this to be easy.

Your fingers tighten around the hem of your dress again, pulse hammering in your ears. You nod, exhaling softly.

“Okay.”

Kenny blinks at you owlishly, his usual cocky smirk nowhere to be found. For a moment, he just stares, like he’s waiting for you to take it back, to laugh it off, to shove him and call him a dumbass like you always do. But you don’t.

Instead, you stay right where you are, hands resting lightly against your lap.. The warm haze from the weed still lingers in your body, but this feels different now—clearer, more deliberate.

Then Kenny exhales through his nose, a boyish smile tugging at his lips, lopsided and easy in a way that makes your stomach flip. He tilts his head slightly, eyes still locked onto yours.

“C’mere.” The words are soft, almost coaxing.

You should hesitate. You should think about this more, about what it means, about why Kenny—your best friend, your Kenny—is looking at you like this, like he’s completely fine with this, like it’s not a big deal at all.

You laugh softly, shaking your head as you fully climb onto Butters’ mattress, shifting closer to him. The bed creaks beneath the movement, the fabric of your dress rustling as you settle beside him. You’re close enough now that your knees bump together, close enough to feel the warmth coming off him, his orange parka bunched up slightly where it’s unzipped, revealing a worn-out band tee underneath.

You tilt your chin up, looking at him, and smile wider. “You seriously don’t have to do this,” you say, your voice quieter now, like you don’t want to break whatever this moment is. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Kenny’s eyes flicker, the dim lighting making the blue of them darker, softer. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t make a joke, doesn’t do any of the things you expect him to do. Instead, he reaches up lazily, rubbing the side of his neck before dropping his hand back down.

“Babe,” he says, and his voice is different now—lower, warmer. “If I was uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have told you to c’mere.”

You nod once, barely moving, voice just above a whisper. “Okay.”

Kenny’s lips twitch, and for a split second, he looks at you like he knows exactly what’s going through your head. But he doesn’t say anything else. He just waits.

You wet your lips, shifting slightly on the mattress, fingers still curled against the hem of your dress. Your pulse is loud, drumming in your ears, and even though you’re the one who asked for this, who let it get this far, you suddenly feel like you’re out of your depth.

You blink up at him, hesitating before mumbling, “So… how does this usually start?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, smirking. “What, you want me to narrate it for you?”

You huff, nudging his knee with yours. “Kenny.”

He grins, but there’s something easy about it, something reassuring. He leans back a little, resting his weight on one hand, the other draped over his knee. “Relax. It’s not a fuckin’ science experiment.”

“Yeah, but—” You exhale sharply, fidgeting with your dress again. “Do I, like… do something? Say something?”

Kenny watches you for a second, amusement flickering in his eyes, but there’s no teasing bite behind it. His gaze drops briefly—to your mouth, then back up—and the movement makes your stomach flip.

He tilts his head slightly, voice dropping just enough to make your skin buzz. “Nah. You just let it happen.”

Just let it happen. Like it’s easy. Like it’s normal. Like it’s not sending a nervous jolt through every inch of your body.

Your fingers twitch, and you inhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. You glance at his lips—just a flicker of a look, barely a second—but he catches it. His smirk deepens, but his voice stays calm when he murmurs, “You wanna try, or you need me to do all the work?”

You laugh, breathless and anxious, shaking your head. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Kenny grins. “Yeah, that’s kinda the whole point.”

You swallow, hands gripping your dress tighter. Finally, you make yourself move. Your heart pounds as you shift closer, your knees sinking into the mattress. Your movements are slow, hesitant, but Kenny doesn’t pull away—he just watches, his expression calm, patient, like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do next.

Your hands land on his knees, plopping down with a little less grace than you intended, fingers squeezing lightly like you need something to ground yourself. You can feel the warmth of him through the fabric of his jeans, solid and real beneath your palms.

You’re close now. Really close. You stare at his face, your breath uneven as you take in every detail you never let yourself look at for this long before.

His eyes—so blue, deeper in this dim lighting, framed by lashes that are unfairly thick. His freckles, scattered across his nose and cheekbones, some so faint they’re almost invisible against his skin. The silver glint of his lip piercing, the slight redness around the hoop in his eyebrow, like he’s fidgeted with it too much today.

And fuck, he smells good. The familiar scent of smoke clings to him, but underneath it, you catch the warm spice of his cologne—something woody, a little sweet, mixed with the faint musk of skin warmed by too many layers. It makes your stomach twist, makes your fingers dig just slightly into his knees.

Kenny doesn’t smirk, doesn’t joke, doesn’t make it a thing. His lips part just slightly, his gaze steady, something careful about the way he’s looking at you now—relaxed, sure of himself, but also waiting. Like he’s giving you all the time in the world to figure out what you want to do next.

Your breathing is shallow, your pulse wild. You wet your lips, eyes flicking downward for half a second before snapping back up, nervous energy coiled tight in your chest.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, voice low. “You good?”

You bite your lip, the pressure grounding you for half a second, but it doesn’t help much. Your chest is tight, stomach twisted into nervous knots, hands still resting on Kenny’s knees like they belong there. You can feel your pulse, each beat heavy in your throat, behind your ribs, beneath your skin.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you shake your head lightly. Kenny notices. His eyebrows lift just a little, his lips parting like he’s about to ask what’s wrong, but you speak first—your voice barely above a whisper.

“Can you…?” Your fingers twitch against the rough denim beneath them, gripping slightly before loosening again. You swallow hard, eyes flicking to his lips, then back up. “Can you start it?”

Kenny blinks once, slowly, and you hate how nervous you feel under his gaze, how exposed you must look right now. You don’t even know why you asked, why the words slipped out so naturally. Maybe it’s because you don’t trust yourself to get this right. Maybe it’s because if you make the first move, you’ll hesitate, overthink, ruin it before it even happens.

Kenny’s expression shifts—his smirk isn’t there anymore, but he doesn’t look surprised either. He lifts a hand, slow and easy, and rests it against your hip.

“You sure?” His voice is quiet,  so much gentler than you expected.

You nod again, a little too quickly. “Yeah.”

Kenny hums, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress, barely a touch at all, just a faint pressure against your hip. He’s still watching you, still waiting like he’s making absolutely sure you won’t change your mind.

And then, finally, he moves. It’s slow—so slow that it almost drives you insane. He shifts forward just enough that his nose bumps yours, his breath warm when it ghosts over your lips. His hand on your hip squeezes, just a little, like he’s giving you one last chance to pull away.

But you don’t. You can’t. Your eyes flutter shut just as he finally closes the space between you, pressing his lips to yours.

For a moment, your brain short-circuits. Every nerve in your body goes into overdrive, screaming at you that this is happening, that Kenny’s mouth is on yours, that this isn’t a dream or a joke or some hypothetical situation—you’re kissing him.

In your panic, you react way too fast. You lean in too hard, pressing your face into his like you’re trying to merge with him. Your nose smashes against his cheek, and for half a second, you swear you can hear the muffled oomph he lets out as you practically headbutt him.

Kenny jerks back, startled, hands instinctively flying up.

And then—

He starts laughing.

A deep, unrestrained laugh bursts out of him, his head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking. His fingers press against his mouth for a second like he’s processing what just happened, but it does nothing to hide his grin.

“Oh, fuck—” He exhales through his laughter, eyes shining with amusement. “You tryna kill me?”

Your entire body floods with mortification. “Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with both hands. “I hate myself.”

Kenny snickers, still shaking his head. “That was—I mean, holy shit, that was aggressive. That was a choice.”

“I didn’t mean to!” Your voice comes out strangled, your face burning so hot you swear you’re seconds away from combusting.

Kenny wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, still grinning. “You face-planted into me. That was like—” He presses his palm flat against his face, mimicking the movement. “That was a full-on body slam.”

You groan again, collapsing forward onto his shoulder. “I knew this was a mistake.”

Kenny chuckles, hands settling lightly against your waist. “Nah, it was hilarious.”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “It was not hilarious.”

His smirk grows. “It kinda was.”

You let out a dramatic, suffering groan, gripping the fabric of his band tee in your fists. “I knew I’d be bad at this.”

Kenny clicks his tongue, tilting his head. “Nah. You’re just overthinking it.”

You huff, still gripping his shirt. “Overthinking what? I literally attacked your face.”

Kenny grins, squeezing your waist lightly. “Yeah, you did. Real eager. Love the enthusiasm.”

You whine in embarrassment, dropping your forehead onto his shoulder again. “You’re so annoying.”

Kenny snickers, rubbing slow circles against your hip with his thumb. “Relax. We’ll try again.”

You hesitate, your breath catching slightly. “W-We?”

He leans in a little, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Yeah, we.”

Slowly, you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, your fingers still curled into the fabric of his shirt. His smirk is smaller now, his amusement still lingering, but there’s no teasing in his expression anymore. His eyes are steady, locked onto yours, his grip on your waist grounding, warm.

Kenny tilts his head slightly, his voice lower when he asks, “That okay?”

You nod. That’s all it takes. Kenny leans in again, slower this time, his lips brushing against yours before pressing in fully. The kiss is soft, deliberate—nothing rushed or messy, just the warmth of his mouth against yours, the slight tilt of his head, the faint inhale he takes between movements. It’s nice. It feels good.

And then, without thinking, you shove your tongue into his mouth like you’re trying to force the next step instead of easing into it.

Kenny makes a muffled, startled sound before breaking away, hands gripping your waist to push you back slightly. You barely process what happened before you see the expression on his face—his mouth parted, blinking like you physically knocked the breath out of him.

His lips twitch. And twitch again. His shoulders shake as he presses his fist against his mouth, exhaling sharply through his nose, trying so hard not to crack up.

“NOT AGAIN,” you groan, hands flying to your face.

Kenny inhales sharply, his voice tight like he’s forcing himself to sound normal. “I—” He clears his throat, shaking his head. “No, no, it was good—”

You peek between your fingers. “You’re lying.”

“I swear,” he says, his voice strained like he’s barely keeping it together.

“You are literally trying not to laugh—”

“I’m—” Kenny presses his lips together hard, but a short chuckle escapes before he can stop it. He exhales, grinning. “Okay, maybe you jumped the gun a little.”

“I suffocated you,” you mumble into his shirt.

He snickers. “I mean, yeah. A little. But hey, some people are into that.”

You groan louder, shoving his shoulder weakly. “Shut up.”

Kenny only grins, reaching up with deliberate ease to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, warm and unhurried, lingering for just a second longer than necessary before falling back down. The touch is soft, so casual, like he’s done it a hundred times before, like it means nothing. But your stomach clenches, breath stalling in your throat as if it does.

He hums lightly, amusement flickering in his expression as he tilts his head. “Third time’s the charm.”

Your pulse jumps. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, because you know he’s teasing, but the way he says it—the slow drag of his voice, the rasp in his tone—makes your body go completely useless. You feel it everywhere, a warmth that pools beneath your ribs, creeping down your spine, curling into your fingers. You should say something back, roll your eyes, laugh it off. Do anything but stare at him like an idiot.

Kenny notices immediately. The smirk on his lips softens, the playfulness in his expression giving way to something calmer, something steadier. He doesn’t make another joke, doesn’t push you like you’re expecting. Instead, his hands lift with an ease that makes your throat tighten, fingers curving around your face like he’s done this before—like it’s second nature. His palms are warm, rough in some places but gentle against your skin, his thumbs brushing slow, absentminded strokes over the apples of your cheeks.

You feel small beneath his hands, every inch of you burning under his stare. You can’t remember the last time someone looked at you like this—like they weren’t in a hurry, like they weren’t waiting for you to mess up, like they wanted to see you like this.

You barely manage to force a weak smile, uncertain and shaky, but it’s real, and Kenny sees it. His own smile lingers just a second longer, and then, finally, he leans in.

Your entire body feels locked in place, nerves coiling so tightly that you’re convinced you might combust before his lips even touch yours. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your mouth, the slight shift of his fingers against your skin as he tilts his head. It’s slow—painfully, agonizingly slow—and you don’t know if it’s because he’s hesitating or because he knows you need the time to process what’s happening. Either way, it makes your head spin.

Then, finally, his lips press against yours. Your stomach tightens, breath catching in your throat as you press in slightly, mirroring the gentle pressure he gives. His lips move against yours with an easy confidence, coaxing you into the rhythm of it, letting you take your time. It’s nothing like you imagined. It’s better.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss just enough to send a shiver down your spine, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks again, keeping you steady. It’s effortless, natural, like you were always supposed to be here, like kissing Kenny McCormick was never meant to feel awkward or forced or rushed. It just is.

You mirror him, shifting slightly as your hands slide up from his knees to rest against his chest. The fabric of his shirt is soft under your fingers, warmed by his body heat, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your touch. You part your lips just a little more, letting him take the lead, letting yourself follow the rhythm he’s already set. When you exhale, a quiet, breathy whimper slips out before you can stop it.

Kenny reacts immediately. His fingers tighten against your waist, just enough for you to feel it, for it to send a spark down your spine. His lips press harder against yours, the teasing edge from earlier gone completely, replaced with something slower, heavier. His hand slips from your cheek, fingers dragging lightly down your jaw before settling at the side of your neck, his thumb pressing just beneath your pulse point.

Your lips part slightly, and the second they do, Kenny takes it. His tongue slides against yours, slow, careful, like he’s waiting to see how you’ll react. And the only thing you can do is melt into it.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, pulling slightly, and Kenny groans softly into your mouth. The sound is quiet, but you feel it like a shock straight through your chest. It makes, your body feel too warm, too aware of every place he’s touching you. You can’t tell if it’s the weed still lingering in your system, making everything feel heavier, or if it’s just him. Either way, you don’t care. You don’t stop. You don’t overthink it. You just let it happen.

Kenny moves against you, slow and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to teach you what this is supposed to feel like. His lips mold perfectly to yours, warm and sure, his fingers pressing into your waist in a way that makes your body melt into the heat of him. You part your lips slightly, mirroring the way he tilts his head, and the second he deepens the kiss more, a slow warmth curls through you, leaving your fingers twitching against his chest.

Then—

The sound of keys jingling outside the door yanks you back to reality like a bucket of ice water.

The two of you jerk apart so fast it’s almost embarrassing. You scramble to put space between your bodies, hands gripping the mattress to steady yourself as your heart slams against your ribs. Kenny reacts a second slower, still blinking like his brain hasn’t quite caught up yet, his lips slightly parted, his fingers frozen midair where they had been gripping your waist just moments ago. Your breaths come fast, uneven, your body still buzzing with the ghost of his touch, and you barely have time to process what just happened before the door swings open.

Butters rushes inside, his face flushed, hair slightly damp with sweat, his entire body vibrating like he just ran all the way across campus. He doesn’t even look at you and Kenny, doesn’t notice how far apart you suddenly are, doesn’t clock the tension radiating off you both like heat off pavement. He just stumbles into the room, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his hands shaking as he points back toward the door, his voice high and breathless as he blurts out, “There was so much blood.”

You barely register the words at first, still too dazed from what just happened, your mind still stuck in the feel of Kenny’s hands on you, his mouth pressed against yours. But the way Butters’ voice cracks at the end, the way he looks genuinely rattled, has your body catching up before your brain does. You sit up straighter, blinking fast, heart still hammering in your chest as you try to force your thoughts back to reality.

Kenny, on the other hand, just sighs, running a hand down his face like this is the most exhausting thing he’s had to deal with today. “Jesus, dude,” he mutters, shaking his head. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Butters is still catching his breath, gripping the back of his desk chair like he needs to physically steady himself. “Th-That kid that knocked earlier—he wasn’t jokin’!” His voice wobbles, his hands still shaking. “Some guy split his forehead open on the stairs, and—and oh golly, Kenny, there was so much blood—I think he passed out before the paramedics even got there!”

The words hit you like a slap, your stomach flipping in actual concern this time. “Are you serious?”

“I—I didn’t know what to do! His friend was freakin’ out, and I—oh gosh, I’ve never seen so much blood come outta someone’s head before, I swear—”

You barely hear the rest. Your brain is still reeling, but not for the right reasons. Butters is talking, still rambling about the student, about how the ambulance showed up and how the paramedics asked him questions he definitely wasn’t qualified to answer. But you’re only half-listening, only catching pieces of his words, because your whole body still feels hot from the kiss, your lips still tingle from Kenny’s, and sitting here next to him like nothing happened feels impossible.

And Kenny—of course Kenny—looks totally fine. Relaxed, even. Like he wasn’t just making out with you on Butters’ bed, like he wasn’t just kissing you like he meant it, like he wasn’t just touching you like he wanted to. He sits there, his legs stretched out slightly, arms resting on his knees, nodding along to whatever Butters is saying like he’s actually paying attention. But when you glance at him, you see it. The way his tongue flicks out just slightly to wet his lips. The way his fingers twitch against his knee like he’s resisting the urge to move. The way he hasn’t put much distance between you, like some part of him doesn’t want to.

Kenny finally exhales, long and slow, before pushing himself off the bed. The mattress shifts beneath you as he stands, and you watch from the corner of your eye as he crosses the room, his usual lazy swagger in his step despite the fact that Butters still looks shaken.

Butters is gripping the back of his desk chair so tightly that his knuckles are white, his chest still rising and falling unevenly. His face is flushed, his eyes darting wildly like his brain is still stuck back there, still seeing the blood pooling on the floor.

Kenny doesn’t say anything at first. He just steps up behind Butters and throws an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a loose, lazy half-hug, his lips brushing close to Butters’ ear as he murmurs something low, something you don’t catch. But whatever it is, it works—Butters’ shoulders slump slightly, his grip on the chair loosening as he exhales shakily, nodding along to whatever Kenny is saying.

You take the moment for what it is—a chance to breathe, to collect yourself, to force your body to calm down. You exhale sharply, pushing the thought away, and move on autopilot. Your fingers smooth out the fabric of your dress, adjusting the hem where it had bunched up slightly, fixing the way the straps had slipped off your shoulders without you even noticing. Your hair is next. You reach up, smoothing your fingers through it, checking for any tangles, for anything that might look out of place. The last thing you need is for Butters to turn around and see something, to somehow know just from looking at you.

You grab your phone off the bed, fingers ghosting over the screen, but instead of unlocking it, you hesitate.

Your thumb drags absently along the edge of the device before you press it lightly against your lips, your stomach twisting when you feel the slight swell, the lingering dampness. They tingle, faint but noticeable, like a reminder that Kenny had just been there, that this wasn’t some hazy, almost happened moment.

You shake the thought away and reach for your bag instead, fingers digging through it until you find your makeup pouch. The zipper slides open with a quiet rasp, and you pull out your lip tint and gloss, checking your reflection in your phone screen as you reapply both with quick, practiced strokes. The tint darkens your lips back to the way they were before, covering the slight redness, making it look like nothing happened. The gloss goes on smooth, sticky, sealing everything back in place like armor.

You click the cap back on, slip both items back into your bag, and inhale deeply through your nose before finally looking up again.

Kenny still has an arm slung around Butters, still murmuring to him in that same low, easy voice, like he’s talking him down from the adrenaline. Butters’ breathing has slowed, his shoulders less tense, his face still a little pale but no longer panicked.

And then, as if sensing you watching, Kenny lifts his gaze, his eyes finding yours across the room. His expression doesn’t change. Not really. But his eyes linger.

You look away and check the time on your phone and your stomach twists when you realize how late it is. Damien is going to pick you up soon. The thought feels distant, almost unreal, like something you planned ages ago rather than something happening tonight.

You exhale sharply, pushing the nerves down, and stand up from the bed. Immediately, your legs feel unsteady, a little too light, like the ground isn’t as solid as it should be. The weed is still affecting you. You blink a few times, steadying yourself before making your way toward Butters and Kenny.

Kenny steps to the side as you approach, moving out of the way like he already knows what you’re about to do. Without hesitation, you wrap your arms around Butters first, pulling him into a warm hug, rubbing his back lightly.

“You good?” you murmur, keeping your voice quiet.

Butters exhales, nodding against your shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, still a little shaky. “I think so.”

You give him another squeeze before pulling back slightly, keeping a hand on his arm. “After my date, I can come back here,” you offer. “We can just hang out or something. You don’t have to be alone.”

Butters blinks at you before smiling, the gesture small but genuine. “Yeah,” he says, voice softer now. “That’d be nice.”

You nod, giving his arm one last reassuring squeeze before finally turning toward Kenny.

He’s already watching you, his expression relaxed but focused. The second you step forward, his lips twitch, his body shifting slightly like he already knows what’s coming. You wrap your arms around him without hesitation, pressing yourself against his chest, hugging him tightly. His arms slide around you with that same casual ease, warm and solid, his grip firm against your back.

You don’t pull away immediately. Instead, you tilt your head up, looking at him, and smile. “Seriously,” you say, your voice quiet but certain. “Thank you.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything right away. His eyes flicker over your face, his grip tightening just slightly, like he’s holding onto something unspoken. Then, after a beat, his smirk returns, slow and lazy.

“Anytime, babe.”

You smile up at him before sticking your tongue out, scrunching your nose in a playful grimace. Kenny huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, his grip on you loosening as you finally step back.

“I’ll text you how it goes, yeah?” you say, adjusting your dress as you glance between him and Butters. “And you better actually reply this time.”

Kenny tilts his head, his smirk deepening. “Oh, so now you want me to text you?” His voice is low and teasing.

You roll your eyes, lightly smacking his arm before stepping back fully. “Yes, asshole. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Kenny chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head like this is all just some casual conversation, like he wasn’t just kissing you not even five minutes ago. “Yeah, yeah, I got you.” He flicks his eyes over you once, slow and assessing, before lazily adding, “Have fun on your little date.”

There’s something in the way he says it, something subtle, but you don’t have time to pick it apart. You shoot him a look but decide not to push, not when your nerves are already creeping back in.

You grab your phone and bag, giving Butters one last reassuring squeeze on the arm before heading toward the door. You should be thinking about Damien, about the date, about whether or not this was all a mistake.

But as you step into the hallway, you feel it again—your lips still tingling, your heartbeat still uneven, the warmth of Kenny’s hands still lingering on your skin.

It’s been a couple of hours since you left, and Kenny shouldn’t still be thinking about you. But he is.

You’d barely been gone ten minutes before he was pulling out his phone, checking for a text that hadn’t even been sent yet. He told himself he was just making sure he didn’t miss it—because obviously, he’d respond if you actually messaged him this time. But when he caught himself doing it again twenty minutes later, he knew he was full of shit.

So, to distract himself (and Butters), he called over Cartman, Stan, and Kyle, because watching some shitty movie at Butters’ dorm was definitely better than sitting around with his own thoughts.

Now, he’s stretched out on Butters’ bed, his parka tossed onto the floor, legs crossed at the ankles while some generic action flick plays on the TV. Cartman is sitting on Butters’ desk chair, hogging the popcorn like a gremlin, Kyle is sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the bed, and Stan is lazily leaning against the edge of Butters’ desk. Butters himself is perched at the foot of the bed, still looking mildly traumatized from earlier, but at least he’s not freaking out anymore.

Kenny should be into this—should be enjoying the mindless explosions, the dumb banter, the way Cartman keeps making fun of the movie while Stan and Kyle bicker about literally nothing. But his head isn’t here. Not really.

Because every few minutes, he glances at his phone. Still nothing.

His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, his teeth sinking into it slightly as his leg bounces against the mattress. He doesn’t check the time again, even though he wants to. It doesn’t fucking matter how late it is. You’re probably still on the date. Probably having a great fucking time. Probably—

“Dude,” Stan says suddenly, snapping Kenny out of his thoughts. “Why the hell do you look so pissed?”

Kenny blinks, realizing he’s been glowering at the TV screen without even realizing it. He exhales sharply, schooling his face back into something neutral before throwing a lazy smirk in Stan’s direction. “Just thinking about how much of a dumbass you are.”

Stan rolls his eyes, flicking a piece of popcorn at him. “Wow. Classic comeback.”

“Yeah, I’m workshopping it,” Kenny says, popping a chip into his mouth, but the momentary distraction isn’t enough to pull him back into the present. His focus drifts again, and before he can stop himself, he’s reaching for his phone.

He checks his messages. Still nothing.

Kenny clicks his tongue, tossing his phone onto the bed beside him like he doesn’t give a shit. But he does. And he fucking hates that he does.

Butters, still sitting at the foot of the bed, swings his legs a little before turning toward Kenny, his expression innocent but curious. “Hey, Ken, you think [Y/N]’s date’s goin’ well?”

The entire room goes quiet. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman all turn to look at him at the same time, like someone just hit pause on the movie. Kenny feels the weight of their stares pressing against him, waiting, and he instantly regrets not leaving the second you did.

Kyle is the first to speak, eyebrows pulling together as he shifts where he’s sitting on the floor. “Wait—she has a date?”

Butters, completely unaware of the way Kenny’s jaw tenses, nods. “Yeah! With Damien.”

Cartman throws his head back and howls. It’s loud, obnoxious, and grating in the way only Cartman can manage, and Kenny immediately wants to deck him.

“Oh, that’s fucking priceless,” Cartman wheezes, wiping at his eyes. “The girl we spent our whole goddamn childhood with—the girl who’s never held hands, never kissed anyone, never even had a fucking crush—finally gets a date, and it’s with Damien fucking Thorn?”

Kyle shakes his head, exhaling through his nose. “Jesus,” he mutters, rubbing at his temple. “Of all people.”

Stan snorts, pushing himself up slightly from the desk. “Is she trying to summon Satan, or—?”

Kenny doesn’t say shit. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t react the way he usually would. Because for the past two fucking hours, he’s been sitting here, waiting for a text, waiting for a reason to stop thinking about your lips, about how fucking soft you were against him, about the way your hands fisted into his shirt like you didn’t want to let go. 

And now, all he can think about is you—with him. You, sitting across from Damien at some dimly lit restaurant, playing with your drink, tucking your hair behind your ear. You, laughing at something he said, eyes bright, that soft smile on your lips. You, nervous but excited, wondering if you’ll kiss him goodnight.

Kenny’s stomach turns, something bitter rising in his throat.

Cartman is still laughing, still rambling about how it’s so fucking weird that you, you, are on a date at all, and it’s pissing Kenny the fuck off.

He exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening, forcing himself to stay neutral, forcing himself to keep his expression lazy, unreadable. He leans back against the bed, grabbing his phone again, spinning it once in his palm.

“Yeah, well,” Kenny finally mutters, voice even, controlled. “Guess she finally got sick of waiting around.” 

Cartman turns to Kenny, still grinning like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. He leans forward in the chair, resting his elbow on Butters’ desk, and points at Kenny with a smirk that already pisses him off. The kind of look Cartman gets when he knows he’s about to dig into something good.

“Dude, come on,” Cartman says, shaking his head with a loud laugh. “I thought you got over your little crush on her. It’s been years, man.”

Kyle sighs through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck as he glances at Kenny. His voice isn’t teasing like Cartman’s, but there’s still that familiar hint of exasperation in it. “Seriously, man? You’ve had, what, like—multiple hookups, a few relationships? You’ve dated both guys and girls, and you’re still stuck on her?” He tilts his head, his expression softer than Cartman’s but still scrutinizing. “It’s not a big deal if you still like her or whatever, but…” He hesitates for a second, like he’s actually trying to be careful with his words. “You don’t think that’s kind of unhealthy?”

Kenny flips his phone in his hand, keeping his face blank, his fingers the only part of him that moves. He could laugh, make a joke, brush it off. Could tell them all to fuck off and mind their own business. But for some reason, he doesn’t say anything.

Stan, still lounging against the desk, tilts his head and smirks. “Dude, you need to get laid.”

Kyle groans, already rubbing his temples. “That’s not even the problem, Stan. He does get laid.”

“Yeah, but apparently, it’s not enough,” Cartman chimes in, his grin widening. “Because if it was, he wouldn’t be sitting here, waiting for his childhood crush to text him back while she’s out with the literal son of Satan.”

Kenny clenches his jaw but doesn’t change his expression. He keeps his posture loose, casual, like none of this is phasing him, like he hasn’t spent the past two hours waiting for his phone to light up, like his stomach hasn’t been twisted in knots since the second you left.

It pisses him off how easy it is for them to pick at him, how it takes barely anything for them to know. He’s never been obvious about it. He’s never acted weird about you. Sure, he’s flirted, but he flirts with everyone. He’s never admitted anything, never made it a thing, never once told you. But it doesn’t matter. Because they all see it. They have for years.

He could play it off, act like they’re just reaching, like he’s only checking in because you’re his best friend and of course he’s going to make sure you’re okay. That would be easy. That’s what he should do.

But instead, he just shrugs, rolling onto his side and stretching out further on the bed, tossing his phone onto the pillow next to him. “Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he mutters, voice flat. “I’m not waiting for anything.”

Cartman snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure, dude.”

Kyle gives him a look but doesn’t push it. “Whatever, man. I just hope she’s having a good time.”

Stan doesn’t say anything for a second, then kicks lightly at the mattress near Kenny’s leg. “You wanna stop being all moody and actually watch the movie?”

Kenny doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t rise to it, doesn’t argue, doesn’t let them see the way his jaw tightens slightly as he shifts against the mattress.

Butters, ever the optimist, glances over at him and brightens up, like he’s trying to steer the conversation into something less tense. He claps his hands together once before pointing at Kenny with a knowing look.

“Don’t worry about it, Ken! I heard Tammy Warner’s gonna be at Tolkien’s party this weekend.”

Kenny exhales through his nose, his lips twitching like he’s debating whether or not to dignify that with a response. He props himself up on one elbow, glancing over at Butters with a lazy smirk. “Oh yeah?”

Butters nods enthusiastically. “Yeah! She broke up with her boyfriend a couple weeks ago, and—well, y’know how she is. She’s probably lookin’ to, uh… ya know…” He trails off, his cheeks going pink, and gestures vaguely with his hands.

Stan snorts. “Hook up with the first guy who gives her a drink?”

Kyle shakes his head. “Jesus, Stan.”

Cartman just grins. “Nah, that is how she operates, though. And Kenny’s always been on her list.”

Kenny chuckles, dragging a hand through his hair. He knows exactly what they’re trying to do—trying to get him to shake this off, trying to remind him that there are others, that there’s no reason for him to be sitting here like some lovesick loser. It’s almost funny, because any other time, he’d be all over it. He’d make some crude joke, lean into it, turn the conversation into something easy, something typical.

But right now, the thought of fucking around with Tammy Warner or anyone else just feels boring. Still, he plays along, because that’s what he does.

“She has been lookin’ at me a lot lately,” Kenny muses, smirking as he stretches his arms over his head. “Guess I wouldn’t mind giving her a little attention.”

Cartman barks out a laugh. “Oh, please. If you show up, she’s gonna throw herself at you the second you walk in.”

Kyle makes a face. “Do you even like her, though?”

Kenny shrugs, rolling onto his back again. “She’s fun. Hot. Knows what she wants.” His tone is casual, dismissive, like he’s already mentally moving on from the subject. “What’s not to like?”

Butters nods quickly, like he’s relieved to see Kenny back to acting like himself. “See? So, no reason to be mopin’ around! You got options, buddy!”

Stan hums in agreement. “And Tolkien’s parties always get wild. Even I have a good time, and I hate parties.”

Kenny just smirks, grabbing his phone off the pillow next to him and spinning it in his fingers again. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there.”

But his eyes flicker to the screen anyway. Still no text.

An hour passes. The movie is ending, the credits rolling over an overdramatic orchestral score that doesn’t fit the half-dead energy in the room. Cartman is slumped in Butters’ desk chair, his arms crossed over his stomach, eyes half-lidded like he’s been in and out of sleep for the past twenty minutes. Kyle sits on the floor, absently scrolling through his phone, barely paying attention to anything. Stan, now stretched across the foot of the bed, lazily reaches for the last of the snacks, finishing off an open bag of chips. Butters, still sitting near Kenny, yawns loudly, rubbing his eyes like he’s about two seconds from passing out himself.

Kenny barely watched the movie. His thoughts have been elsewhere all night, drifting between wanting to stop thinking about you and failing miserably at it. He tells himself it’s not a big deal, that you’re probably still out, that he’s wasting his time even checking. But despite all of that, his gaze keeps flicking to his phone. And then, as if the universe wanted to personally fuck him over, the screen lights up.

His entire body goes still for half a second before he reaches for it, his thumb swiping across the screen. He already knows it’s from you—he doesn’t even have to check. And then he reads it.

you: date went great btw!!! he said i looked rlly good and he was soooo sweet. like literally the nicest guy ever. and guess what?? he kissed me at the end!!!

The words sit there, glowing back at him, far too fucking cheery, far too casual, like they aren’t currently making his stomach twist into a tight, ugly knot. He reads it twice, three times, like maybe it’ll change, like maybe he misread it, like maybe he’s fucking hallucinating. But the words don’t change.

You kissed him. Damien fucking Thorn.

His jaw locks, his fingers tightening around his phone. He tells himself it shouldn’t matter. It’s not a big deal. It was one date. Of course it ended with a kiss. Of course Damien was sweet to you. Of course he complimented you. What kind of guy wouldn’t? Kenny isn’t surprised. But it still pisses him off. It’s not like he’s ever had a claim on you. It’s not like he’s ever done anything about it. He has no right to be pissed off. No right to feel anything about it at all.

So instead of saying what he actually wants to say, he types out the easiest, laziest response he can manage.

kenny: damn, first date and he’s already makin moves? u really are growin up on me 🤧

His thumb hesitates over the send button for a second longer than it should. Then, finally, he taps the screen.

The response comes back almost immediately.

you: shut upppp 😭 it was cute ok

Kenny exhales slowly through his nose, staring at the message before clicking his phone off and tossing it back onto the bed. He doesn’t want to look at it anymore.

Across the room, Kyle  stretches with a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, I’m calling it. I got an early class tomorrow.”

Stan nods, shoving his phone into his pocket as he pushes himself up off the floor. “Yeah, same. You heading out, Cartman?”

Cartman doesn’t even open his eyes. “Five more minutes.”

Kyle rolls his eyes, grabbing a pillow off Butters’ bed and chucking it at him. “Get your fat ass up.”

Kenny barely listens.

His mind is elsewhere, replaying your text over and over again, the words echoing in his head like a dull, relentless pulse. He can still feel the way your body pressed against his earlier, the way your lips moved with his, the way you had looked at him right before you left. And now you’re probably sitting in your dorm, smiling down at your phone, thinking about someone else.

It’s been a few days since you practiced kissing with Kenny, and you’ve been doing your best not to think about it.

Some moments, it’s easy. When you’re in class, when you’re studying, when you’re texting Damien and planning your next date. But then, there are times—like when you catch Kenny watching you across the dining hall, when you reapply lip gloss and your lips still tingle faintly—where it sneaks back into your mind before you can stop it.

Now, though, you’re focused on Damien. You’re walking together toward your next class, the air crisp with the last bite of winter, the sun filtering through the trees overhead. He walks with an effortless kind of confidence, hands tucked into the pockets of his black coat, his silver chain catching in the light when he turns his head. And being around him still makes you nervous. So you talk. Maybe a little too much.

“…And then Cartman had the nerve to say I looked like a Hot Topic employee who got fired for shoplifting,” you say, throwing your hands up. “Like, first of all, rude. Second of all, if anyone’s getting arrested for stealing, it’s him.”

Damien lets out a quiet laugh, lips twitching at the corners. “I mean, I think you could pull off the shoplifter look. Maybe a black beanie. A fuck capitalism pin on your bag.”

You groan, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Not you too.”

“I’m just saying.” He shrugs, his smirk growing. “The vibe is there.”

You roll your eyes but grin anyway, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your sweater as you walk.

It still feels surreal that this is happening. That Damien, who always has people hanging onto his every word in class, is walking with you like this is normal. That he kissed you. That he wants to see you again. Your stomach twists, but you push through it, forcing yourself to act normal.

“So,” you say, shifting the conversation, “are you still coming to Tolkien’s party this weekend?”

Damien hums, tilting his head slightly. “Probably. I don’t really do parties, but I feel like if I don’t go, I’ll have to hear about it for the next three months.”

You laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

He glances at you, his expression relaxed but interested. “Are you going?”

You nod. “Yeah, Kenny and the guys are going, and Butters practically begged me to be his drinking buddy.”

Damien smirks. “Good to know your priorities are in order.”

You laugh again, and for the first time since you started walking together, the nerves ease. The conversation flows easily after that, moving from music to class to whatever dumb shit Cartman sent in the group chat this morning. You don’t even notice how much time has passed until you round the corner of the building, and the topic changes so fast you almost miss it.

“Speaking of Tolkien’s party,” Damien says, his voice casual, “it’s probably gonna be a shitshow. People will be hooking up left and right.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Oh. Yeah, probably.”

Damien smirks, glancing at you with interest. “Ever had a drunken hookup before?”

Your face heats up immediately. “What? No.” You let out an awkward laugh, waving your hands dismissively. “I mean, I don’t really do that kind of thing.”

Damien hums, his smirk never fading. “No judgment. Some people like that whole ‘bad decisions’ thrill.” He studies you for a second, like he’s trying to piece together something in his head. “So, what do you do?”

You blink, caught completely off guard. “Uh.”

Damien stops walking for a moment, turning slightly toward you, one eyebrow raising when you don’t answer right away. “Wait.” His smirk grows a little, teasing but still curious. “You haven’t?”

Your stomach clenches, and you glance away, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. “I—um.” You hesitate before letting out a breath. “I mean. Not really.”

Damien watches your face closely. Then, after a beat, his amusement shifts into something more thoughtful. “Like… at all?”

You wince, laughing a little at how awkward this has become. “Yeah.” You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. “I’m not exactly experienced. Or whatever.”

Damien is quiet for a moment, then he exhales, the smirk on his lips easing into something closer to a smile. His eyes soften slightly, and his voice comes out smooth, calm. “That’s actually kind of cute.”

You stare at him, caught completely off guard. He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t mean anything, like he isn’t making your stomach flip.

Before you can even begin to respond, he continues, his tone light but reassuring. “You don’t need to stress about that kind of thing. It’s not a big deal.” He shrugs, still looking at you with that same relaxed expression. “Everyone starts somewhere.”

You blink up at him, still processing, but the way he says it—the way he doesn’t make it weird or tease you—makes the tension in your chest loosen. You exhale, your grip on your bag finally relaxing.

“Yeah,” you say after a second, your voice softer now. “I guess you’re right.”

Damien grins. “I usually am.”

You roll your eyes, but when you glance at him again, you’re smiling. A real smile, not the small, polite ones you’ve been giving him all day, but a bright, genuine one that takes over your whole face before you even realize it.

Damien looks at you, his expression shifting slightly. His smirk doesn’t quite drop, but the way he watches you changes, like he wasn’t expecting that reaction. Like it threw him off for just a second.

You hesitate for only a moment before smiling again, pushing through the nervous energy buzzing under your skin. “Thanks for walking me,” you say, shifting your weight from foot to foot before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

The second you pull away, heat creeps up your neck, your body reacting before your brain fully processes what you just did. It wasn’t a big deal—just a small, fleeting thing—but the way Damien’s smirk grows makes your stomach twist.

He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “No problem,” he says easily, voice smooth. “I’ll text you later.”

You nod, mumbling a soft “okay” before turning toward the lecture hall doors. You feel his gaze on you as you step inside, but you don’t look back.

The second you sit down, you let out a slow breath, pulling out your phone and unlocking it without thinking. Your fingers move automatically as you tap open your messages and start typing to Kenny.

you: bro i just had the wildest convo w damien on the way to class. i accidentally told him i have no experience and he was like oh that’s cute lol 

You hit send, staring at the screen for a second before typing again.

you: i literally almost died but he was nice abt it

A few moments pass. You glance up at the front of the lecture hall, half-listening as people settle into their seats. Your professor hasn’t arrived yet, so you check your phone again. Kenny’s typing bubble appears, then disappears. Then, finally, his reply pops up.

kenny: yeah? that’s great

You frown slightly at the screen. That’s… not the response you were expecting. Kenny’s usually quick with teasing, always throwing in some dumb joke or a sarcastic remark. But this? This is short. Blunt. Almost dismissive.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

you: ur not gonna roast me for it? damn. personal growth 🫡

This time, his reply is almost immediate.

kenny: nah, just busy

You stare at the screen. He’s never been this short with you before. Even when he was actually busy, he’d still throw in something snarky. Before you can think too much about it, your professor walks in, signaling the start of class. You sigh, slipping your phone back into your bag, but the feeling lingers, nagging at the back of your mind.

It’s the night of Tolkien’s party, and your dorm room is in total chaos. Clothes are piled onto your bed, half your makeup bag is scattered across your desk, and an open energy drink sits precariously close to your curling iron. Red is perched on her bed, legs crossed, lazily sipping from her drink as she watches you sift through outfits with mild amusement. Butters sits cross-legged on the floor, fidgeting with his sweater sleeves, looking between you and Red like he’s trying to decide if he should offer input or keep quiet.

“You’re really committing to this look, huh?” Red teases, tilting her head as she watches you adjust your top in the mirror.

You give her a flat look through the reflection. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She grins, her eyes flicking over you before she takes another sip of her drink. “I mean, I get dressing up for a party, but this is definitely more effort than usual.”

You roll your eyes, turning to Butters for backup. “Do I look that different?”

Butters, who had been nervously picking at a loose thread on his sweater, quickly looks up, blinking at you. “Uh—no! I mean—uh, you always look nice! But, um…” He hesitates, then gestures weakly at your makeup. “You did do, uh, a little more than usual.”

Red smirks knowingly. “She’s dressing up for herself, obviously.”

You groan, throwing a shirt at her. She ducks out of the way, laughing. “You guys are so annoying,” you mutter, smoothing out your skirt.

Once you’re finally finished, you grab your lip gloss, swiping it on before clicking the cap shut. As you toss it back into your bag, you hesitate, fingers trailing over the strap before you turn toward Butters. “Hey, have the guys been acting weird to you?”

Butters blinks, caught off guard. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know,” you say, frowning slightly. “It just feels like they’ve been avoiding something. Or avoiding me, I guess.” You hesitate before adding, “Kenny especially.”

Butters tilts his head in thought. “Now that you mention it… maybe a little? I mean, Stan and Kyle seem normal, but they have been kinda weird in group chat. And Kenny…” He trails off, rubbing his arm. “I dunno. He’s just been quiet. You did say he was acting different after your date, right?”

You exhale, nodding. “Yeah. I texted him about it, and he barely reacted. Then when I tried to bring it up again, he just brushed it off.”

Red shrugs, standing up and stretching. “Maybe he’s just got other shit going on.”

Butters nods, seeming to agree. “Yeah! It could just be school stress or, uh, life stuff.”

You purse your lips, unconvinced. “Maybe.”

Still, the unease lingers. Kenny has never been the kind of guy to keep things to himself. If something was bothering him, he’d either say it outright or joke about it until it wasn’t a big deal anymore. This silence, this distance, isn’t like him.

Red claps her hands together. “Alright, we going or what? If we keep standing around, we’re gonna miss the fun.”

You shake off your thoughts, forcing a smirk as you grab your bag. “Yeah, yeah, let’s go.”

The three of you pile into an Uber, the ride buzzing with Red’s excitement and Butters’ nervous energy. Red is already scrolling through her phone, texting people to see who’s here, while Butters keeps adjusting his sweater sleeves, mumbling something about how he really shouldn’t drink too much tonight. You mostly just stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past, your stomach twisting with a mix of anticipation and unease.

By the time you pull up to Tolkien’s house, the party is already in full swing. Music pulses through the air, the bass heavy enough to rattle the pavement under your feet. Groups of people are scattered across the front lawn, some laughing loudly, others deep in conversation, red solo cups in almost everyone’s hands. The porch is packed, people leaning against the railing, the front door swinging open every few seconds as more people push inside.

Red takes one look at the scene and grins. “Alright, I’m off.”

Before you can even respond, she’s already disappearing into the crowd, slipping effortlessly between people like she’s done this a hundred times before. You barely catch a glimpse of her bright red hair before she’s gone, leaving you and Butters standing at the entrance.

Butters swallows, glancing up at you. “Uh… kitchen?”

You nod. “Kitchen.”

The two of you weave through the crowded hallway, the air thick with the smell of alcohol, weed, and too many different perfumes and colognes mixing together. People are already getting sloppy—someone bumps into your shoulder, laughing loudly, barely glancing at you before stumbling toward the living room. The music is louder in here, some bass-heavy rap song vibrating against the walls.

The kitchen is just as packed, but at least it’s easier to move. Butters heads straight for the counter, eyeing the array of bottles like he’s trying to calculate which one is least likely to kill him. You hover nearby, arms crossed, keeping a close watch. Butters is a lightweight—last time he drank too much, he spent two hours apologizing to everyone at a party before throwing up in Stan’s backyard.

He grabs a bottle of vodka, hesitating before pouring some into his cup. “Uh. Maybe I should mix it with something.”

You grab a random soda from the counter and hand it to him. “Yeah, maybe don’t kill yourself in the first five minutes.”

Butters mumbles a thanks, focusing on making his drink. You take the moment to glance around the kitchen, scanning the crowd. You recognize most of the people here—Tolkien’s parties always bring in a mix of friend groups, but it’s mostly familiar faces. Wendy is leaning against the fridge, deep in conversation with Bebe. Craig and Tweek are off to the side, already looking half-drunk. A couple of freshmen linger near the drinks, clearly out of their element.

But something feels off. Then, you realize why. Kyle, Kenny, Cartman, and Stan aren’t here.

You frown slightly, checking your phone, but there are no new texts from any of them. Kyle said he was coming. Stan always shows up to these things, even if he complains about it. Cartman never misses an opportunity to drink for free. And Kenny? Kenny loves parties. So where the hell are they?

Butters must notice your expression because he looks up from his drink. “Everything okay?”

You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah. Just… surprised the guys aren’t here yet.”

Butters glances around too, frowning. “Huh. That is kinda weird. I thought Kyle said he was coming?”

“He did,” you say, checking your phone again. Still nothing. You glance at the time. “Maybe they’re just late.”

Butters shrugs, taking a sip of his drink. “Maybe.”

You stay by the kitchen counter, still keeping an eye on Butters while making small talk with people who pass by. The party has only gotten louder, the music pulsing through the walls, the crowd swelling as more people arrive. Butters seems to be holding his liquor well enough—his words are still clear, and he’s not swaying yet, but his usual awkwardness has definitely increased. You’re mid-sentence, teasing him about how he always nurses his drinks too carefully, when you hear a familiar voice behind you.

“There you are.”

You turn to see Damien standing at the edge of the kitchen, his sharp gray eyes scanning the room before settling on you. He looks good, as always—dressed in a fitted black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, his silver chain catching the light. His smirk is easy, confident, like he already knows you were waiting for him.

“Butters,” Damien acknowledges, giving him a nod before turning his attention back to you. “I was wondering when I’d run into you.”

Your stomach flips slightly, but you push it down, giving him a smile. “Well, you found me.”

He steps closer, his hands still in his pockets, his eyes flicking over you in a way that feels intentional. “You look good tonight.”

Heat creeps up your neck, but you roll your eyes, playing it off. “Oh, so I don’t usually look good?”

Damien chuckles. “You know what I mean.”

Before you can respond, Butters lets out a quiet, nervous laugh. You glance at him and immediately notice how stiff he looks, gripping his cup like it’s his only lifeline. He’s awkward a lot, but right now, it feels different.

“You okay, dude?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Butters nods way too quickly. “Oh! Yeah! Just—uh—just drinkin’ my drink!” He takes a sip, avoiding eye contact.

You blink at him, confused, but before you can say anything else, movement from the doorway catches your eye. Stan, Kyle, and Cartman finally walk into the kitchen.

Your stomach tenses slightly. It’s not that you weren’t expecting them—it’s that something about the way they enter the room feels… off. They move together, like they were just talking about something before stepping inside. And the second they see you, all three of them hesitate for a split second.

Cartman recovers first. His face stretches into a grin before he barks out a short, amused laugh. “Oh, this is fucking hilarious.”

You barely have a second to process what that means before he’s walking straight toward you. Kyle lets out a long, pointed sigh like he already knows where this is going and wants no part of it. Stan doesn’t even acknowledge it, heading straight for the counter, grabbing a bottle, and pouring himself a drink like he’s bracing himself for whatever bullshit is about to happen.

Before you can move, Cartman slings an arm around your shoulder and squeezes, his grip firm like he’s making a show of how friendly he is.

“Ohhh, look at you,” he drawls, drawing out the words with a smirk. “Little miss hopeless romantic, out here at a party, all dressed up and ready to impress.” He pats your shoulder dramatically. “I’m so proud.”

You groan, shoving at his arm. “Cartman, get off.”

Cartman only tightens his hold for a second before finally letting go, though he doesn’t step back. Instead, his eyes flick to Damien, giving him an exaggerated once-over before tilting his head.

“So,” Cartman says, still smirking, “I take it you two have been spending a lot of time together lately.”

Damien, to his credit, doesn’t react much. He just raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? And?”

Cartman snorts, grabbing a solo cup off the counter. “Nothing. Just interesting.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why do you sound like you have thoughts?”

“I always have thoughts,” Cartman says, smug. He pauses for a beat, then adds, “I just think it’s fucking hilarious.”

Kyle rubs his temples, already done with this conversation. “Cartman, shut up.”

Stan takes a sip of his drink, looking like he kind of wants to see where this is going.

You glare at Cartman, resisting the urge to throw your drink at him. “Why do you even care?”

Cartman grins wider. “Oh, I don’t.” He leans in slightly, voice dropping like he’s telling some huge secret. “I just think it’s funny how fast you’re moving.”

You stare at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Cartman just smirks. “Relax, I’m just making conversation.” He glances toward Damien. “You don’t mind, right?”

Damien exhales through his nose, looking entirely unbothered. If anything, he seems mildly entertained, like he’s watching a show he’s only half-invested in. “You’ve always been an instigator, huh?”

Cartman grins. “It’s a gift.” He reaches for the bottle Stan was using and pours himself a drink, still smirking like he knows something you don’t. “Anyway, don’t mind me. Have fun.”

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply before turning back to Damien. “Sorry about him.”

Damien shrugs, his expression smooth, unconcerned. “I knew what I was getting into.” He glances briefly at Kyle and Stan, then back to you. “You sure you’re good?”

You nod, brushing it off, even though something about Cartman’s tone nags at the back of your mind. “Yeah. Let’s just enjoy the party.”

Cartman snorts loudly, making a dramatic show of taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah, let’s just enjoy the party,” he mimics, shaking his head. “Because we all know how good you are at ignoring shit.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Cartman, I swear to God—”

Butters, ever the neutral party, speaks up before you can get into it with him. “Hey, uh—where’s Kenny?”

Stan barely looks up from his drink. “Probably getting faded or some shit.” He swirls the liquid in his cup lazily before sniggering. “Or squeezing Tammy Warner’s tits.”

Your fingers tighten around your own cup, your brain immediately latching onto that part of the sentence. “Wait. Kenny’s here?”

Stan raises an eyebrow at your reaction. “Yeah? Why wouldn’t he be?”

Your mouth opens, then closes. That’s a good question. You don’t know why you assumed he wasn’t coming, but after the past few days—after the weird, clipped texts, the distance, the silence—it just felt… off. And now, finding out he’s here, somewhere in this house, possibly feeling up Tammy Warner?

“Did he say he was coming?” you ask, forcing your voice to stay casual.

Kyle shrugs. “I mean, yeah? It’s a party. Kenny doesn’t need to confirm he’s showing up, he just does.”

“Yeah,” Cartman adds, still smirking. “And from what I heard, he was real excited about tonight.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cartman grins wider, taking another slow sip of his drink. “I could tell you.” He pauses, dragging it out, clearly enjoying whatever game he’s playing. Then, with a shrug, he adds, “Or, you could just go find him.”

You hate that the idea tempts you. You swallow thickly, forcing the feeling down, and turn to Damien. He’s been quiet, watching the conversation unfold with a neutral expression, his sharp eyes scanning the room like he’s already a step ahead of everyone. He doesn’t look amused or annoyed—just aware.

“Wanna go somewhere else?” you ask, keeping your voice light.

Damien’s gaze flicks back to you, studying your face for a moment. He tilts his head slightly, thoughtful, before letting out a quiet breath. “Yeah,” he says, his tone smooth, steady. “Let’s get out of here.”

Without thinking, you reach for his hand, fingers curling around his as you tug him toward the living room. His grip tightens slightly, letting you lead him through the crowded kitchen, but he doesn’t question it.

As you turn, you hear Kyle say something—too low for you to catch—but whatever it is, it makes Stan, Cartman, and Butters burst out laughing.

You don’t turn back. You don’t want to know what they’re saying. Instead, you tighten your grip on Damien’s hand, weaving through the crowded living room until you find a quieter corner near the far wall. The party is louder here—the bass from the speakers thumping through the floor, conversations blending into an unrecognizable buzz—but it’s easier to focus on him now. Away from Cartman’s bullshit, away from them, away from whatever joke they were making at your expense.

Damien leans against the wall, slipping one hand into his pocket while the other stays loosely in yours for just a second longer before he lets go. His head tilts slightly as he looks at you, his expression calm, unreadable in a way that doesn’t feel unkind—just measured.

“So,” he says, his voice even, smooth beneath the noise. “Are you actually having fun, or are we faking it?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I am having fun.”

Damien raises an eyebrow, unconvinced.

You exhale through your nose, rolling your eyes. “Okay, now I’m having fun. Before? Not so much.”

His lips twitch, like he’s holding back a smirk. “Because of them?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “They’re just… being them.”

Damien hums, eyes flickering past you toward the kitchen. “They’re protective of you.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He looks back at you, tilting his head. “Kyle. Stan. Even Cartman, in his own weird way. They’re watching you.”

You shift your weight, glancing over your shoulder instinctively. Sure enough, even from across the room, you catch Kyle’s eyes flicking in your direction before he quickly looks away. Stan is still talking to someone, but he’s angled toward the kitchen like he’s waiting for something. Cartman is laughing at whatever dumb shit he just said, but you know he’s keeping tabs too.

You turn back to Damien, frowning slightly. “They’re not watching me. They’re just… I don’t know, being annoying.”

Damien doesn’t argue, just studies your face for a second longer before nodding. “If you say so.”

You exhale, shaking off the conversation. “I didn’t pull you over here to talk about them.”

His expression softens slightly, a small nod of agreement. “Then what did you pull me over here for?”

You grin, tilting your head. “Maybe I just wanted to talk to you without Cartman breathing down my neck.”

He chuckles, the sound low but genuine. “That’s fair.”

The conversation shifts after that. The longer you stand there, the easier it is to relax again. The knot in your stomach loosens, your shoulders drop, and soon, you’re laughing with Damien, your voice getting lost in the buzz of the party. People pass by—some friends, some classmates, a few faces you barely recognize. Heidi stops for a second to greet you before heading off with Nichole. Tolkien and Clyde walk by, Clyde already looking a little drunk as he waves dramatically in your direction. One of Damien’s friends calls out to him, making a joke you don’t quite catch, and Damien just shakes his head, amusement flickering across his face.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, just talking, but at some point, you forget about Kenny entirely. At least, until you see him. Across the room, just past a break in the crowd, Kenny stands near the staircase, one arm draped lazily around Tammy Warner’s shoulders, his fingers brushing the strap of her top. She’s pressed close to him, talking into his ear, laughing at something he just said. His expression is relaxed, easy, like he’s not thinking about anything at all.

Then, as if sensing it, Kenny’s head tilts slightly, his gaze drifting, and his eyes find yours. The noise of the party fades into the background.

For a second—just a second—you and Kenny look at each other. You don’t know what’s written all over your face, but whatever it is, it’s enough to make Kenny pause. His fingers still against Tammy’s shoulder, his posture straightens just slightly, and for a moment, his smirk fades. Then, deliberately, his hand slides further down Tammy’s back.

And before you can even process it—before you can even breathe—he turns, leans in, and kisses her.

Heat creeps up your neck so fast it’s suffocating, your fingers gripping your cup so tightly you almost crush it. You feel stupid—so, so stupid—because why does this matter? Why are you reacting like this? This isn’t new. Kenny does this. He hooks up, he flirts, he moves on. You knew that. You know that.

And yet, you’re standing here, watching his lips move against someone else’s, and it feels like your entire body is burning from the inside out.

You whip around, turning to Damien so fast it makes you dizzy. “Did you know flamingos are pink because of their diet?”

Damien barely reacts, just raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You nod way too fast, your words spilling out in an unhinged, desperate rush. “Yeah! It’s because they eat shrimp. Without it, they’d be, like, gray or something. Which is crazy, right?”

Damien blinks at you, unimpressed. “Are you okay?”

“Totally!” you say, too loudly. You force a laugh that sounds completely unnatural. “Just, uh—random fact. Thought you’d like it.”

Damien doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you, expression neutral, before glancing over your shoulder—right toward Kenny.

Your chest tightens, and guilt starts to boil under your skin, heavy and uncomfortable. You feel caught, like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, but you don’t even know what. You shift slightly, fingers gripping the strap of your bag, trying to ground yourself. Your thoughts are moving too fast, spiraling in directions you don’t want them to go.

You force yourself to breathe, shaking your head. “I’m just concerned for Kenny,” you say, clearing your throat. “He hasn’t been acting normally lately.”

Damien tilts his head slightly, his sharp eyes flickering over your face like he’s measuring the weight of your words. He doesn’t react immediately, just takes a slow breath before nodding once. “Why don’t you go talk to him, then?” His voice is smooth, steady, but there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach twist. “I’ll still be around. You can find me later.”

The way he says it feels off. It’s a suggestion, but the way his words land makes it feel more like a decision that’s already been made for you. His tone isn’t upset, not annoyed or demanding, just settled, like he already knows what you’re going to do. You stare at him for a second longer, searching for something in his face, but Damien’s expression doesn’t change. He’s completely at ease, waiting for you to decide what he already expects.

You swallow the strange feeling creeping up your throat and force a weak smile. “Yeah. I’ll do that. Then I’ll come find you.”

Damien watches you for another beat before nodding. Then, without another word, he turns and disappears into the crowd, slipping back into the party effortlessly.

You stand there for a moment, letting out a slow breath before turning toward the staircase. Kenny isn’t there anymore. The uneasy feeling in your stomach tightens. He had been right in front of you, and now he’s just gone. You scan the room, moving your gaze through the party, searching for any sign of him.

The kitchen is packed, but he’s not there. The couch is crowded with people already too drunk to care about anything, and he’s not there either. The music is loud, rattling through the walls, but none of it distracts you from the fact that you’re actively looking for him now. It’s stupid, but your feet are already moving, guiding you through the crowd, brushing past familiar faces, nodding absently when someone greets you.

Finally, you spot him. Kenny is near the bottom of the staircase again, leaning against the railing, one hand in the pocket of his parka. He’s talking to someone, his head tilted slightly, his posture relaxed, but his eyes look distant, unfocused, like he isn’t really invested in the conversation. Tammy is still nearby, lingering close, her body angled toward him, but she’s not the focus of his attention anymore.

Before you can think too hard about it, you walk up to him, brushing your fingers against his arm lightly to get his attention.

“Hey.”

Kenny’s head lifts slightly, and the second his eyes meet yours, something flickers across his face. His expression shifts, like he wasn’t expecting to see you standing there, but he covers it quickly, his lips twitching into a smirk.

“Hey, look who it is,” he says, his voice smooth but carrying something beneath it. “Thought you’d be busy with your boyfriend.”

Your stomach tightens at the way he says it, like the words taste bitter in his mouth. You glance at Tammy briefly, feeling her eyes on you, then turn back to him.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you say, crossing your arms.

Kenny huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t hold any humor. “Sure.”

You shift slightly, the energy between you feeling heavier than you expected. “Can we talk?”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, his smirk not faltering. “We are talking.”

You exhale sharply, already irritated. “Alone.”

For a second, something in his expression hardens, like he’s debating whether or not to go along with this. He doesn’t move immediately, just watches you, his lips parting slightly before he exhales through his nose and turns to Tammy.

“I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

Tammy doesn’t look offended. If anything, she looks mildly entertained, like she already knew Kenny wasn’t fully paying attention to her. She smiles, shrugging. “Sure thing, Ken.”

She disappears into the crowd, and now it’s just you and Kenny, the noise of the party buzzing around you, the air thick with alcohol and the lingering smell of weed. Kenny shifts his weight slightly, his hands back in his pockets as he watches you closely.

“So?” he says, tilting his head slightly. “What’s so important?”

His voice is easy, casual, but there’s an edge to it, something just beneath the surface that makes your stomach tighten. You cross your arms over your chest, feeling suddenly exposed, too aware of the space between you, the way his eyes are fixed on you like he’s waiting to see where you’re going with this. Your thighs press together instinctively, grounding yourself, but it doesn’t help much. You bite your lip, debating in your head, your thoughts running too fast.

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe you are reading too much into things. Maybe Kenny is just being Kenny, and you’re standing here, making a big deal out of nothing.

But if it’s nothing, why does it feel so different?

You blink at him, inhaling slowly before finally speaking, your voice softer than you intended.

“I missed you.” The words slip out before you can second-guess them, and immediately, you see Kenny’s expression shift. His smirk twitches slightly at the corner, like he doesn’t know if he should keep up the act or actually take you seriously. His fingers flex in his pockets, but he doesn’t move.

You exhale, shifting slightly. “Are you okay?” Your voice is sincere, searching. “I just—I don’t know. I feel like you’ve been acting off lately. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.”

Kenny exhales through his nose, tilting his head back slightly like he’s thinking about how to respond. His jaw tenses for a second before he finally looks back at you.

“Missed me, huh?” His voice is lower, quieter, but it’s not teasing.

Your fingers tighten slightly against your arms. “Of course I did.”

Kenny watches you for a long moment, his gaze flickering over your face, scanning. His usual cocky, lazy confidence seems to waver, just for a second, before he exhales and shifts his weight.

“I’m fine,” he says finally, his voice steady but missing that usual bite.

You frown slightly. “Are you?”

Kenny clicks his tongue, his smirk twitching back into place. “Nah, you’re probably just reading too much into it,” he says, throwing your own words back at you. It should feel playful, like he’s messing with you, like normal. But it doesn’t.

You frown slightly, watching him for a moment, but you push it down. Instead, you stand up a little straighter, forcing a weak smile onto your lips. Maybe he’s right. Maybe you are overthinking it. If he says he’s fine, then he’s fine. You don’t want to push him if he doesn’t want to talk, so you just nod.

“Well,” you say, exhaling slowly. “I’m glad nothing’s wrong.”

You reach out before you can second-guess it, tugging lightly on the fabric of his parka, just enough to make him sway a little. It’s familiar, instinctive, the way you’ve always teased him when you wanted his attention.

Kenny glances down at where your fingers pull at his coat before looking back up at you, one eyebrow raising slightly.

You tilt your head, watching him carefully. “So. You and Tammy, huh?”

His smirk twitches, but the way he shifts slightly, the way his fingers flex in his pockets, makes something tighten in your chest. It’s so small, barely noticeable, but you see it.

Kenny scoffs, shaking his head. “You say that like we’re getting married or some shit.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

He shrugs, glancing away for half a second before looking back at you. “I mean, yeah. She’s fun.”

You hum, rocking back on your heels. “Fun, huh?”

Kenny huffs a quiet laugh. “Why? You jealous?”

Your stomach clenches before you can stop it, but you keep your expression neutral. “Why would I be jealous?”

Kenny tilts his head, studying your face. His smirk is still there, but it doesn’t feel as sharp as before.

“I dunno,” he says finally, voice lazy. “Just askin’.”

You exhale, shaking your head. “Well, I’m not. If you like her, then great. I just didn’t think she was your type.”

Kenny’s smirk lingers, but there’s something different behind his eyes now. “Yeah?” His voice is quieter, his head tilting slightly. “And what is my type?”

You pause, caught off guard. “I mean…” You hesitate, thinking. “I don’t know. Just… not her.”

Kenny watches you for a beat before clicking his tongue again, the smirk deepening. “Huh.”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head, but the look on his face makes your stomach flip.

Before you can say anything else, someone calls his name from across the room. Kenny glances over his shoulder, exhaling sharply before looking back at you.

“Guess I should get back to my type,” he says, his smirk curling at the edges.

You blink at him, wide-eyed, something in your chest tightening. He’s turning away, about to disappear back into the party, and for some reason, the thought of that makes panic rise in your throat. You don’t want him to leave. Not yet. Not when it finally feels like you have him back, even just a little, after days of distance and weirdness.

The words come out before you can stop them. “Do you wanna ditch?”

Kenny pauses, glancing back at you, brow arching slightly. His expression flickers with curiosity, the smirk still lingering, but there’s something else there now, like consideration.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. “I mean—like, go for a drive or something? Just us?” You rub your arms, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his gaze. “I don’t know. I kinda just wanna get out of here for a bit.”

For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s weighing his options. The party is still loud around you, people shouting, music pulsing through the walls, laughter breaking through the chaos. Tammy is somewhere in that mess, waiting for him to come back.

Then, Kenny exhales through his nose, his features relaxing. “Yeah,” he says, rolling his shoulders. “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

Relief floods through you so quickly it almost makes you dizzy. You nod, grabbing his wrist lightly, tugging him toward the door before either of you can change your mind. Kenny follows easily, his stride matching yours, his body warm where your fingers wrap around his skin. Neither of you look back.

By the time you push out the front door, the cold night air bites at your skin, sharp and crisp compared to the stuffy heat of the party. The front yard is still packed with people, but the noise is muffled now, distant as you make your way down the driveway.

Kenny reaches into his pocket, pulling out his keys and tossing them into the air before catching them effortlessly. “Alright, princess,” he says, glancing at you as you head toward his truck. “Where to?”

You chew your lip, thinking. “I don’t know. Just drive.”

Kenny huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, alright. Just don’t start bitching if we end up in the middle of nowhere.”

You smile, climbing into the passenger seat. “No promises.”

Kenny smirks, starting the engine. The low rumble of the truck hums beneath you as he pulls out onto the road, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement. The party fades into the distance, swallowed by the night.

For a while, neither of you say anything. The only sounds are the steady purr of the engine, the occasional rustle of the trees as the wind picks up, and the faint hum of the radio playing some old rock song under Kenny’s breath. You watch the road, the way the headlights cut through the darkness, the lines on the pavement stretching endlessly ahead.

You don’t know why you needed to leave.There was no real reason to grab Kenny, to pull him away from the party, to make up an excuse about just wanting to drive. But the second you saw him walking away, something in you panicked. It didn’t feel right to let him go, not when things between you had been so weird lately, not when it finally felt like you had his attention again.

That’s all it is, you tell yourself. You just missed him.

Things had been off, and you hated it. Kenny had been your best friend for years, and you were just trying to fix whatever weird distance had settled between you. That’s all this was.

You glance at him, taking in the way he drives so effortlessly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily against his thigh. He looks relaxed, his posture easy.

You chew your lip before finally speaking. “Sorry if I’m being clingy.”

Kenny’s fingers flex slightly against the steering wheel. He doesn’t glance at you right away, just lets out a short exhale, like he’s thinking about his answer. “You’re not,” he says finally.

You huff a quiet laugh, shifting in your seat. “I kinda am.”

Kenny finally looks at you, just for a second, before turning his attention back to the road. His lips twitch, like he wants to smirk but doesn’t quite get there. “Yeah. Maybe a little.”

You groan, dropping your head back against the seat. “Wow. So reassuring.”

Kenny chuckles, the sound low, amused. “Hey, you said it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now. You fidget with the hem of your skirt, smoothing it out over your thighs before glancing at Kenny. “We can just tell the guys that I wasn’t feeling well,” you say, your voice casual. “And you, being the oh so gracious friend that you are, took me home.”

Kenny lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, yeah. Gracious. That’s me.” He drums his fingers lazily against the wheel. “You really think they’re gonna buy that?”

You shrug. “I mean, it’s not technically a lie.”

Kenny raises an eyebrow, throwing you a sideways glance. “You weren’t feeling well?”

You hesitate, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean…” You chew your lip, exhaling. “Not really.”

Kenny hums, tilting his head slightly. “Because of the party? Or because of him?”

You stiffen, fingers gripping the fabric of your skirt. “Who?”

Kenny huffs a laugh. “Yeah, alright.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. “I just didn’t feel like being there anymore. That’s all.”

Kenny nods slowly, tapping his fingers against the wheel again. “Well, whatever you say, princess.”

You groan, pushing your shoulder against his arm. “Stop calling me that.”

Kenny chuckles but doesn’t respond, just keeps his focus on the road. The quiet settles between you again, but it’s not awkward. It’s comfortable, familiar in a way that makes you feel like you made the right decision in pulling him away from the party. You don’t ask where he’s going. You don’t really care.

yuuji gets so sensitive when he finally gets to be with you. maybe it’s exam week, maybe class has taken up too much of your time towards the end of the semester and you’re too tired to kiss, let alone fuck by the end of the day. so when you finally get a moment alone at the dorms, when you’re finally underneath him again, sweaty and sniffing, nipples brushing against his chest from the brutal force of his hips cantering into yours — he’s cumming too soon cause you hug him so well n bathe him in your slick and cry his name like you’ve gone dumb and it’s the only word you know… it’s so much.

syrupy, hot white that dribbles down your inner thighs and webs around his thick circumference. so much that it helps yuuji slide deeper, he’s got no choice but to fuck it into you, make sure it smears along your velvety walls before he’s cumming when. he throws his jersey off somewhere in the room, everything too temperate and too humid, sex in the air and mingling between every breath you take after every kiss.

and god, his balls can’t stop twitching, shaft won’t stop throbbing with every wave and he shudders wholly above you, words stuck in his throat as it runs dry unlike his balls. so ready to be milked, so ready to fill you up again. all of it all over the sheets, all sticky on your doughy shaky thighs and your soft tummy. he’ll keep cumming until he’s shooting blanks, but every time there’s more than the last because you keep begging for enough to knock you up.

“please yuu? jus’ one more? promise i’ll be so good. missed you… missed you fillin’ me…” you wail, begging for another load despite how full of cum and cock you are. it’s been so long since you went at it like this, the practises and the exams have you aching carnally for each other. you hardly ever beg like this, that’s how he knows. yuuji’s neglected his baby. now you want a baby. you’re too innocent, too pure and you always let him lead but now you’re dazed out of your fucking mind as you plead for yuuji’s dick like your life depends on it. a heap of swollen lips and foggy glasses and salt-licked limbs beneath his stocky, strong frame.

fuck, he knows.

he knows you’re being dangerous. he knows he can’t get you pregnant. not now. not yet. and he knows you’re being so greedy and yuuji will never ever say no. can’t bring himself to pull out when you clench on him just like that and your ankles lock at the base of his spine. keeping his meaty girth plugged in that soaked, spasming hole.

so then pink hair tickles the junction at your neck as his head drops to it, yuuji’s breath shaky and his eyes watery ‘cause even he’s overwhelmed by just how much your perfect pussy drains him. caked in frothy cream, seed oozing over your swollen clit where your heartbeats proud. “but you are, baby,” he heaves, collapsing on top of you with flushed cheeks and a kiss to the side of your head. “you’re so good, feel like a dream. dream come true… but i can’t—”

“but you’d…you’d never say no,” you whimper, all pouty and whiney — clenching again with that warm gush of slick and seed coating the veins on yuuji’s sensitive cock. now you’re playing a sick game itadori didn’t even know you could play. his shy baby, with her cute little glasses sliding down her nose the faster he pumps into her, skirt flipped so his cock can carve a home for itself in her cunt… you’re killing him. manipulating yuuji into pressing his cum into you and keeping there when he really shouldn’t.

his abs contact, muscles twisting tight against your soiled stomach like he’s trying to hold back an orgasm just seconds away from breach. “please please please yuuji. want you to cum again ‘n again. wanna feel you breed me. wanna r’member how you knocked me up.”

what else can he do? is there any point in holding back? you’ve already taken more loads than he can count so he really can’t help it when his body succumbs to cold shakes and warm cunt, ropes of white landing deep within — clinging to every ridge along your ribbed walls. waves of it flow into you, an erotic stream that paints you in his claim. he’s hiccuping now, rendered a weak hunk of muscle on top of you — exhausted in a way not even practice with coach gojo could make him feel.

“can’t talk like that when i’m inside you, baby. d-dunno what i’ll do.”

itadori heaves, though he’s not helping much — grinding into you with long, hard circles… ass taut and clenched as he pushed his release deeper inside. like he’s trying to make it stick. trying to plug you full, because after begging for it, you’re not allowed to waste a single drop.

"Don’t laugh!" you told Mina and Kaminari who's laughing out loud while you're eating, the rest of the squad aint any better. Kirishima and Sero are turning their heads so you won't see the sight of them almost dying because of your failed attempts at flirting. Even the always angry Bakugou keeps on commenting and calling you, an idiot for the 10th time now.

"You probably should give up at the cheesy lines and just confess, I mean, come on it's Todoroki, he can answer difficult math problems but we all know he lacks common sense at some point, flirting and spouting pick up lines that he doesn't get won't give you a chance y'know, " Kaminari suggested as if that was the most casual things you can do.

"There's no way I can confess! The rejection will hunt me forever," you murmur before sipping from the straw of your milkshake.

You hear Bakugou say something like 'coward' or 'just say it' but it all passes on the other side of your ear when a familiar white and red hair appeared in the cafeteria together with a familiar greenette but your eyes only remained on his mismatched hair as he was walking along with his friend.

"This bitch is hopeless"

"Oh come on Bakugou, she's just in love"

"She's just fucked up, oi Dunce face why don't you electrify that loser so she can come back to reality"

"I can’t do that, that's too mean"

"yeah yeah, you're so mean, that's why you'll never be popular Bakugou"

"What did you say?!", all wars were happening on your table while you on the other hand, had your palms on your hands giggling to yourself as you saw him eat the cold soba noodles with his cheeks moving slowly like a chipmunks as he continues to eat.

"He's so adorable,"you said in a soft delusional voice before sighing dreamily, only to be struck with a tray hitting the back of your head.

"aw! what the fuck?! who the hell threw that?!"

"I did! stop ogling that half and half bastard like a creep and just say your shit so you can cry about it when you're done"

"Hah?! that doesn't mean you can just throw a fucking tray at me!"

"I fucking can, so I fucking did"

"oh , do you want some fight that much, you pomeranian?"

"what did you call me, you delusional bitch?!"

And so fight and war ignited in your table with the rest of the table members busy separating the two of you. As you were busy arguing with Bakugou, you didn't notice a familiar bi colored eyes, looking at you.

"They're so lively right?" Midoriya said, pointing out to your table, as he and Todoroki who was slowly slurping his cold soba, watched you going against the infamous hot headed guy of the class.

" Midoriya, I think (name) is a little bit weird", he said.

"huh? why?" Midoriya somehow prayed that you being weird isn’t a bad thing for you, since as your friend too, the said boy would feel bad if Todoroki happened to not like you at all.

"She keeps on telling me weird things like 'did it hurt when I fell from heaven' and stuff", the green head blinks as he knows that was just another pick up line from you but now, does he need to explain it to his friend beside him?

"Um, did that bother you?", Todoroki put down his chopstick, before raising his head to watch you as you continued to argue with Bakugou.

"Not really, I'm just confused why she said that when she's the one who looked like an angel" he just said as if it was the most normal thing of all.

"A-angel?" you're his friend alright and he's not trying to be rude or anything, but really, you…as an angel?

"Why do you think so Todoroki-kun?" he can't help but to ask.

"It's just, when she smiles, I think I'm seeing halo or something, she shines so bright, that's all I can think of"

It was as if lightning struck Midoriya, before he smiled happily as if there was a garden blooming in his background feeling happy for his friend on the other table who just happened to hit Bakugou's head with a tray.

'oh (name) you have a chance!'.

Todoroki Shouto thinks you're weird. Every Morning you always come to his table and say something he doesn't get that much.

"Hello Todoroki-kun! Good morning! Did you have a good sleep?"

"Good morning too, yes I had a proper sleep"

"Hmm, I didn't, I mean you see, you just happen to keep running in my mind all night y'know"

"oh someone please kill that cheesy bitch already", he heard Bakugou said.

He's naive, but there's no way he's stupid. Todoroki feels like you're treating him differently from other people that he can't help but to ask,

"Do you hate me (name)?"

"huh? no-no of course not, I like you, I really like you!"

"oh", he just said.

You feel the whole world stop, even feeling Izuko stopping from putting his things in his bag, Uraraka accidentally making her own bag float, Mina stopped talking, Eijiro stunned and the whole class practically in the still moment.

"I see" huh?

"Oh crap! HAHAHAHAHAHA"

"stop laughing!", doing practice exercises is normal in your course and now, you're having a break—from practice but not from the mouth and mockery of a certain blondie who looks like he's having a time of his life.

"No coz he could've said he don't like you, but he just said 'oh'!", Sero needs to use his tape to fully restraint you from killing the hell of Bakugou, who's still laughing his ass off at you, a rare occurrence but still exists.

Embarrassed and overall still irritated you pounce on him still as he keeps on laughing, pissed off, you unconsciously activated your quirk and about to hit him—

"Oya? You dare to-", he was about to attack too when Aizawa-sensei's voice called both of you, meaning, you're the next two pairs to spar.

"Bakugou and (name) next", hence the whole group watch you and him battle, literally, setting an excellent example on how to use quirk and mouth at the same time.

Quickly as ever, everyone has listen to the sound of blast combined with insults you gave to each other.

"It's your fault for not stopping laughing!"

"It's your fault for being so stupid at confessing but still got no man in your ass!"

"Huh?! Insensitive fucker, it's not like that!", you evaded his blast.

"What is it then delusional bitch?! You're that insecure that he won't like you but also not making an effort to him because your dumb ego would let you flirt but your fiber stubborn shit can't handle rejection!",ah, stunned by his words, you accidentally let him hit your face sending you out of bounds.

'Fuck, you really hate him and the fact that he's an ass and can spout something right too'

You woke up in the nurse office, body all aching and about to get up when you realize you're not alone, a bi-colored stroke of hair strands enters your vision as you look at the man beside you.

"Todoroki-kun...", you began cursing inside your head, fuck, is your hair okay? How about your face?! Fuck, did you droll in your sleep?! How long was he watching?

"Bakugou sent me here, he said it's my fault", you deadpanned.

'its him who blast the hell out of me though'

"Ahaha, it's nothing like that Todoroki-kun, but I wouldn't mind really waking up seeing your face, thanks", you joked but sees that he happens to realize something as he looks at his hands silently, then to yours which is bandaged yet he finds carefully crafted to look perfect, then at your face.

"I... don't know anything. I can't understand it unless you tell me, people have called me out for my inability to comprehend something in certain contexts, even when while you're saying something like a particular line or when you were arguing with Bakugou earlier during the sparring... and I... ", he slowly look at you with firm yet kind gaze, "I want to understand, badly want to understand your point of view"

It's like you've been suddenly cornered.

You gulped, of course, even though you would brush off random pick up lines, it doesn't mean he can't get any of it.

Todoriku Shouto may be oblivious but he's not stupid.

"I like you", you don't know where you got your courage to actually say it but his kind and still gaze gives you less hesitation on how you wanna say something, say your feelings.

"Ever since, I start saying lines that you think has confuses you it was just me taking advantage of it hoping you'll take a hint , childish but-", you look at him in the eyes, "i know it is the only way I could get your attention", then to your surprise he slowly gives you a warm smile which put a surge of feeling back to your side.

'ah, I really like him'

"Thank you. I...", you close your eyes, ready for the possible rejection, yet instead you felt warm hands in your cheeks as you feel your cheeks burning up, before feeling his forehead on yours which he put with a gentle tap, making your hearts flutter as you slowly open your eyes, meeting his closed ones, lips saying something that brought your heart to a certain space of beats.

"I like you too".

You wonder, how come someone with two elements for a quirk can make you feel warm and burning yet the has the cold that also has you yearning as you pull him down to the nursing bed, with him—giving you a surprised yet innocently kind gaze, letting you with whatever you think of.

"I'm sorry Todoroki-kun",he gives you a gentle grin, "don't be"

Just as you're about to lean down,the door of the office to open with your classmates bursting open, stunned at you, and the pinned down Todoroki Shouto beneath you. Assuming the worst.

"You desperate bitch!"

"It's not like that!"

@chartreusevielle

FUCK. SCHOOL IS HELL.

literally. hellfire is supposed to be the one thing that’s fun this week, and here he is, stuck at the table only trying to pay attention. the lunchroom is annoying, trays clattering, people yelling about sports, someone scraping a chair across the floor, the smell of mystery meat hanging in the air. he’s sitting at the hellfire club table, eddie animatedly waving his hands about some totally dumb idea for a campaign, dustin laughing way too loud, lucas trying to explain rules he’s already explained three times, and mike is just… done.

and you’re there. sitting across from him, leaning slightly back like you’re in charge of the cafeteria, hair tied up in that stupid perfect ponytail, laughing. of course laughing. at them. all of them. jason and his friends. the football idiots. you’re friends with them, probably likes them, probably laughs at them all the time. definitely rude. probably judging him too, because of course you would.

it’s annoying. of course it’s annoying. you’re popular, you’re liked, you’re beautiful. you’re probably rude. definitely rude. he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t watching you though, but he’s not watching you. he’s just… noticing. totally innocent noticing, like a scientist observing a specimen. a particularly annoying, perfect, probably-spiteful specimen.

he hates how fast his stomach flips when you glance in his direction, like you actually looked at him for a split second and he’s panicking because obviously he can’t just look back, that would be insane. who does that. you’re way out of his league, socially speaking. plus your friends are all massive assholes, and you’re friends with them, therefore you’re a massive asshole.

he’s supposed to be listening to eddie, who’s describing his rogue’s perfect escape from a trap, but he’s not. can’t. every time you talk or laugh he’s stuck internally rolling his eyes. loud, obnoxious laugh. loud enough to make him want to throw his pencil at your head. okay, not really. but almost.

he keeps rationalizing. you’re probably fake nice. you probably rolls your eyes at people when they’re not looking. probably does. maybe you’re laughing at him. definitely laughing at him. and if you’re not laughing at him, you’re definitely laughing at someone worse than him. and if you’re not laughing at anyone, you’re probably bored and he’s boring, so it balances out. not that he cares. no. he’s focused. very focused. on strategies. and pencils. and why lucas is chewing his pen like that?

he’s noticing everything he shouldn’t notice but refusing to admit it: the way your shoulders tilt when you gesture, how you lean toward the jocks just slightly, like you’re giving them the attention they don’t deserve, how you laugh at their dumb jokes. it’s infuriating. you’re nice, sure. maybe nice. but that doesn’t cancel out rude, and you’re definitely rude. friends with jason. laughing at jason. laughing at all of them. fine. he doesn’t care.

but then you laugh at something jason says and your teeth are ridiculously white and now he’s imagining his face when he accidentally looks at you, and oh no, there it is again, stomach doing flips he didn’t think boys could actually feel, ears warming, heart maybe going a tiny bit faster—definitely normal, it’s probably just because hellfire club is stressful. yes. stressful. focus on eddie’s ridiculous ideas about campaign strategies. focus on the notebook that’s probably crumpled under his fist. you didn’t even notice him staring. no one did.

he refuses to admit that it’s been like this every week since school started. none of that matters. he is oblivious. he is strong. he is rational. except now eddie is talking and he can’t concentrate, pencil tapping slowing, stomach doing something stupid again and —-

“mike, you’re zoning.” eddie says, nudging him.

“uh huh.” mike doesn’t even look. you’re laughing again. maybe at jason, definitely at jason. asshole. and okay, maybe he notices how your uniform is slightly rumpled, like you just walked here and didn’t care, like you can afford to not care, and your sneakers are clean and the socks are just right, and your backpack is sitting perfectly beside your chair like it was placed there by someone who knows exactly how to make an impression, which is obviously annoying, and probably deliberate, and maybe you’re aware he’s noticing, because why else would anyone be that good-looking in the middle of a Tuesday? but he’s not looking. hes paying attention to eddie, duh.

“mike.” lucas hisses from the side, elbow jabbing him like that’s supposed to snap him out of it. “stop staring.”

“i’m not staring.” mike replies immediately, way too fast, like the word itself could be a crime.

eddie looks way too amused, tossing a grape from his tray into his mouth. “you’re staring like a creep, wheeler.”

“i’m not.” mike says, defensive in the way that gives him away immediately.

evil, he thinks. absolutely evil.

because if you weren’t, then he’d have to deal with the fact that this has been happening every week. that he knows where you sit. that he tracks your laugh without meaning to. that his brain goes stupid and loud and defensive whenever you’re near, and that is not happening. he doesn’t like you. he’s rational. he’s in control.

he doesn’t look back for a while. long enough that he convinces himself it didn’t matter, long enough that the noise of the lunchroom starts to blur into something tolerable. long enough that eddie and dustin drift into another conversation. the bell rings. chairs scrape back. trays slide. the room shifts all at once. he looks up again without thinking.

you’re standing now, slinging your backpack over your shoulder, saying something to your friends. still smiling, still unaware. or maybe aware. he doesn’t know. he never knows with people like you. that’s part of why he hates it. you walk past the hellfire table without looking at him, close enough that he catches the scent of your shampoo again. clean. not overpowering. unfair. “come on,” lucas says, standing. “we’re gonna be late.”

he follows them out into the hallway, noise swallowing them immediately, lockers slamming, voices bouncing, sneakers squeaking against tile. the world keeps moving like nothing happened, like lunch wasn’t a whole thing.

cheerleaders have always been like this. always. he learned it early. elementary school early. the girls who got picked first for everything, the girls who were loud without getting in trouble, the girls who smiled at teachers and somehow got away with stuff he would’ve been sent to the principal for. then middle school, when everything split cleanly into groups, and the girls who would eventually become cheerleaders already knew it. already stood together. already laughed together. already looked through people instead of at them.

he doesn’t remember a specific moment where he decided cheerleaders were evil. it was more like a gradual understanding, safe in their little social bubble of doom. mike hates safe. safe people don’t lose their best friend to another dimension. safe people don’t watch monsters crawl out of walls. safe people don’t grow up too fast and then get told to calm down about it. safe people get to laugh in cafeterias and walk through hallways like the world has never once tried to eat them alive.

so yeah. cheerleaders are evil, and you fit. of course you do. popular, liked, friends with jason. laughing at lunch like it’s easy. sitting where you want, saying what you want, carrying yourself like nothing bad ever sticks. annoying. deeply annoying. he tells himself this as they walk: you’re not special. you’re a type. a category. eddie is talking again, voice carrying down the hallway, something sarcastic, something about school being a prison. dustin laughs too loud at it, like always. mike hums in response, noncommittal, present enough to pass.

he’s bored. so bored. bored of school. bored of pretending this is normal, bored of a world that keeps insisting on lockers and lunch bells and cheerleaders after everything that’s happened, like monsters didn’t exist.

he doesn’t like you. he knows exactly what kind of person you are. and if his brain keeps circling back to you anyway—well.

that’s just another thing wrong with the world.

which would be fine. manageable. survivable. if the world would just stay wrong in predictable ways. monsters, sure. portals, whatever. government cover-ups? annoying but at least consistent. but no, instead it does this, lets him get halfway down the hall toward the vending machines after school, brain already shifting gears toward campaign logistics, and then—

you.

of course you’re there. of course you’re alone for once. leaning against the lockers by the science wing, backpack on the floor, kneeling like you dropped something and decided the floor was your enemy now. productive, probably. cheerleaders are always productive. or sad. maybe sad. he can’t tell. your face is tilted down, hair falling forward, hands messing with something—papers, maybe. a clipboard. figures.

mike. don’t.

he slows anyway, not on purpose. momentum just… decreases. great. alone cheerleader. he pretends he’s just heading for the vending machine, which he is. definitely. that’s why he’s here. he puts his hand in his pocket and inserts money into the machine. he doesn’t look at you at first, just presses the button. the soda drops halfway and gets stuck, tilted, mocking him. “of course.” he mutters.

you glance up, just a little. surprise flickers across your face, then something else—recognition, probably. annoyance. or relief. hard to tell. you straighten, brush your hands on your shorts. “um,” you say, hesitant. not rude, which is irritating. “sorry—did i—are you waiting for that?”

“no,” mike says automatically. “i mean. yes. but not—whatever. it’s stuck.”

“oh, yeah. that one always does that.” you know the vending machine patterns. of course you do. “if you hit it on the side,” you add, “sometimes it drops.”

mhm. great. you’re also a vending machine expert.

mike exhales through his nose, like that might dislodge the soda by intimidation alone. it doesn’t work. obviously. nothing ever works the first time. he hits the side of the machine anyway, not where you said, because he’s not taking instructions from you.

nothing.

he hits it again, harder. the machine rattles. the soda wobbles. stays stuck. he feels you watching him. now that’s worse. “you have to hit it lower.” you say, still gentle, still polite, like you’re talking to a skittish animal.

“i know.” he says, too fast, even though he absolutely did not know.

he hits it where you pointed. the soda drops. he freezes for half a second, staring at it like it embarrassed him.

“see?”

“yeah,” he mutters, grabbing it immediately, like if he doesn’t you’ll claim credit. “lucky.”

lucky. sure. that’s what that was.

he twists the cap off, takes a sip he doesn’t want. carbonated regret. he should leave now. he should walk away, turn the corner, let eddie yell at him for being late, sit down at the table and pretend his brain hasn’t been doing this stupid static thing all afternoon.

but you don’t move. instead, you bend back down toward the floor, scooping up the papers you dropped earlier. he registers them without meaning to—flyers. bright colors. handwritten letters. something about a fundraiser. a pep rally? a food drive? some kind of school-sanctioned enthusiasm. “your friends ditch you?” the question slips out before he can stop it. immediately, he wants to shove it back in his mouth.

you pause, just for a second. then you shrug. “guess so.”

“thought cheerleaders did everything in packs.” he says, aiming for neutral, landing somewhere closer to rude.

you huff a laugh, small, tired. “we usually do.” you stack the papers, tap them against your knee to straighten them.

“so why aren’t they helping?” he asks, because apparently today is ask questions mike shouldn’t ask day.

you hesitate and look down at the flyers instead of at him. “we had a fight.”

“about…?”

“me.” you say, simple, like it’s not a big deal. that sets something off in his chest that he absolutely does not want to examine.

“right,” he says. “well. people suck.”

it comes out harsher than he means. or maybe exactly as harsh as he means. hard to tell.

you glance up at him then, really look at him, not judging, not amused, just… curious. “yeah,” you agree quietly. “they kind of do.” you stand, adjusting the strap of your bag. your uniform’s slightly wrinkled, like you’ve been sitting on the floor longer than necessary. he looks away immediately. don’t be weird. don’t be weird. “anyway,” you say, forcing a lighter tone that doesn’t quite stick. “enjoy your soda, mike.”

“mm.” he hums, already halfway turned away. automatic response. the same sound he makes when his mom asks if he’s done his homework and he is technically in the same room as it.

he takes one step.

wait. he stops so abruptly his sneaker squeaks against the floor. stupid. loud. announces him like an idiot. you said his name. just—casually, like it belongs in your mouth. like you didn’t just pull it out of thin air. he turns back, frowning before he can stop himself. “how do you—”

he cuts himself off, because asking questions is dangerous. questions lead to answers. answers lead to thinking. you’re still there, waiting, like you’re used to people freezing up around you and you’ve learned to give them a second. “what?”

“how do you know my name.” he says, sharper than necessary, because his brain has already decided this is suspicious.

“oh. uh.”

uh???

“we’re in the same grade,” you say. “and you sit like… three tables over at lunch. with dustin. and eddie. and lucas.” you gesture vaguely, as if that explains everything. it does not explain anything.

“right,” he says flatly. “so you’ve been… what. keeping tabs?”

your eyebrows knit together. “what? no.”

“because that’d be weird.” he adds, immediately, because apparently he’s committed to being unbearable today.

“i hear people say your name.” you admit. “a lot. eddie kind of shouts it.”

traitor.

“doesn’t mean you should remember it.” mike mumbles.

you blink at him, once, then again, like you’re deciding whether this is worth your energy. “okay,” you reply slowly. “sorry for having ears.”

he bristles immediately. “i’m just saying it’s weird.”

“it’s not,” you say. “it’s… school. people talk.”

“about me?” he asks, skeptical, defensive, already convinced this is some kind of setup.

“trust me mike, no one’s gossiping about you.”

“wow,” he adds dryly. “thanks.”

“you’re welcome.”

he can feel himself locking up, shoulders tight, brain flipping through its usual list of explanations. she’s messing with you. this is a joke. this is what popular people do. they poke and see what reacts. “so,” he continues, sharp, “you just go around memorizing everyone’s name?”

you fold your arms. “no. just the loud ones.” eddie. definitely eddie. “and you,” you add, almost as an afterthought, “sit with them.”

“unfortunately.”

you tilt your head. “you don’t like them?”

“that’s not what i said.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“okay,” he corrects. “i like them. i don’t like… this place.” he gestures vaguely at the hallway. the lockers. the banners taped up crookedly. the stupid school colors everywhere.

“same.”

same? “don’t pretend,” he sounds annoyed. “you’re literally part of it.”

“part of what?”

“the… school,” he says, like it’s a disease. “pep rallies. assemblies. chanting. forced enthusiasm.”

“pep rallies are the worst.”

he wasn’t expecting that.

“they’re loud,” you continue. “and sweaty. and they make us stand there forever smiling like idiots while the principal yells into the mic.”

“…yeah,” mike says, cautious. “and the sound system always squeals.”

“exactly.”

his brain scrambles to patch the hole this just punched in his worldview. “still,” he says, regrouping, “you chose to do it.”

you shrug. “yeah. doesn’t mean i have to like every part.”

actually, yes, yes it does, mike decided for you. you can’t do that. “you don’t get a choice,” he says. “once you’re in that crowd, that’s it. hive mind.”

“wow. dramatic.”

“i’m serious.”

“i know,” you say. “that’s the dramatic part.”

he glares at you. you don’t back down. which is annoying. deeply. “you think we’re all the same,” you add, observational. “don’t you.”

“yes,” he says immediately. “because you are.”

“okay,” you nod. “then you’re all the same too.”

“what does that mean.”

“hellfire club,” you say. “dungeon stuff. dice. arguing about rules. hating everyone else.”

he stiffens. “it’s not dungeon stuff. it’s—”

“dungeons & dragons,” you say, smiling slightly. “i know.”

stop knowing things!

“my cousin plays,” you add quickly, like you see the shutdown coming. “he made me watch once.”

his brain stalls. he clears his throat, deciding not to acknowledge that, because that’s too much for him to unpack right now. “still weird you know my name.”

you roll your eyes. “fine. i’ll call you ‘hey you.’”

“don’t.”

“okay, mike.”

don’t.

his name shouldn’t do that. it’s a name. it’s been his his whole life. teachers say it. his mom says it. eddie yells it, apparently. dustin says it when he wants something. it has never—never—made his chest do that weird skip. this is new. therefore bad. his heart does a stupid little lurch, like when you miss a step on the stairs but don’t fall. that. sickening. nope. don’t do that. you’re not allowed.

“you don’t have to keep saying it.” he says, defensive posture engaged.

you blink, then smile a little, like you’re trying not to laugh. “your name?”

“yeah. it’s excessive.”

it’s not excessive. it’s four letters. you’re just weak. pull it together.

you tilt your head, studying him, like you’re trying to figure out how something works by looking at it too closely. stop that. i’m not a puzzle. i’m a person. a normal person who does not react to cheerleaders saying his name. “you’re really committed to hating me.” you observe.

“i don’t hate you.” he lies immediately.

you raise an eyebrow.

“i just,” he corrects, scrambling, “don’t trust you.”

“why?”

because cheerleaders ruined middle school. because they laughed at kids like him. because popularity is a disease. because if you let one in, they eat you alive.

“because,” he says instead, “people like you don’t usually just… talk to me.”

“but i am talking to you.” you point out.

“yeah, and that’s suspicious.”

“what, you think i have an agenda?”

yes.

“maybe.” he says. you step closer without realizing it. or maybe you do. he doesn’t know. he only knows suddenly you’re right there, close enough that he has to look down at you, and he hates that too. hates the angle. hates that his stupid brain immediately catalogues things: your eyes, your mouth, the crease between your brows like you frown when you concentrate. the way you smell. cheerleader pheromones. definitely a thing. he shifts his grip on the soda. the can is cold. “cheerleaders are basically a cult.” he adds.

“we have jackets, not robes.”

“same difference.”

“and you guys don’t?”

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “we have dice.”

“dangerous.” you say solemnly.

he almost smiles. almost. he catches himself and scowls instead. “dice are serious.”

“i can tell,” you say, nodding gravely. “very intimidating.”

“you’re doing that on purpose.”

“doing what?”

“being… normal,” he gestures vaguely at you. “about it.”

“why wouldn’t i be?”

because you’re a cheerleader. because cheerleaders are supposed to be loud and cruel and dismissive. because middle school taught him that lesson very clearly and he has never, ever revisited it. because if that rule stops working, then a lot of other stuff starts unraveling too. “most people aren’t.” he says instead.

“most people suck.” you counter.

he laughs. you light up just a little when you notice. not exaggerated, not smug, just—pleased. damn it. “see,” you say. “we agree again.”

“don’t get used to it.” he mumbles, frustrated with himself.

“relax,” you say. “i’m not trying to convert you or anything.”

“good.”

“though,” you add, thoughtful, “if i were evil, this would be a great strategy. gain trust. lower defenses.”

“you just admitted it.”

you grin. “or did i?”

oh my god.

he shifts his weight, suddenly very aware of how close you’re standing. closer than earlier. close enough that he has to look down at you, which he hates because it makes him feel like he’s looming. or staring. or both. “why are you still here.” he asks, not unkindly, but not friendly either.

you glance at the hallway. empty now, lockers stretching on forever. “i guess i don’t really want to go home yet.”

that surprises him. it shouldn’t, but it does. “why.”

“long day.”

fair. he nods once. “yeah.”

“so,” you say, breaking the silence before it could settle. are all cheerleaders this talkative?? “what do you actually do in hellfire?”

“campaign planning,” he answers automatically. “and arguing.”

“about?”

“rules. strategy. morality.”

you smile. “morality?”

“yeah,” he says. “like… choices. consequences. who deserves what.”

“that’s kind of cool.”

his ears warm. god. really? that did it? “it’s not,” he says quickly. “it’s nerd stuff.”

“mike,” you smile gently, “i am wearing a uniform with my name stitched into it. we all have our things.”

fuck, you’re a little funny. just sometimes. only sometimes. he won’t admit any more than that. he looks at you again without the automatic defenses fully slamming shut. notices how relaxed you seem now, how your shoulders have dropped. she’s pretty, his brain supplies, unhelpfully. like, actually pretty. not just uniform pretty.

“aren’t you supposed to be at your club?” you add, like you’re checking a fact, not poking fun.

he braces. “yeah.”

you nod. “my brother thinks it’s satanic.”

“your brother’s an idiot.”

you blink, then laugh. actually laugh. quick and surprised. “yeah,” you say. “he is.” you pause. “i should go,” you say, lifting the flyers. “good luck with… your game.”

“campaign.” he corrects, because of course he does.

you smile, just a little. “right. campaign.”

you turn like that’s it, like this was a normal hallway interaction and not—whatever this was. the flyers bend a little in your hands. he watches you take one step, then another. okay. fine. good. solved. back to normal.

except his brain doesn’t move on. it stays right there, snagged on the way you said campaign like you were trying. on the laugh. on the fact that he’s still standing here instead of walking in the opposite direction like a sane person. why did i let this go on this long.

he thinks of middle school—of lockers slammed too hard, of jason-type smiles that meant we see you and we don’t like what we see. you’re almost out of reach when it happens. the thing he doesn’t pre-approve. the thing his mouth does before his brain files the paperwork. “you can—” he starts.

you stop. turn back.

oh no.

he clears his throat, already irritated with himself. “you can come. if you want.”

his heart does something idiotic, like it thinks this matters. “come where?” you ask.

“hellfire,” he says. then, defensive, “not—play. just watch. if you want. you don’t have to.”

abort abort abort.

“you’re inviting me?” you question carefully, rightfully suspicious of the boy who seemed convinced you were evil incarnate five minutes ago.

“i’m not inviting you,” he says immediately. “i’m just—informing you that it’s an option.”

“wow. generous.”

“you’ll hate it,” he adds, grasping for ground. “it’s boring. and eddie yells. and there’s arguing. like, a lot.”

“you already said that,” you point out. “it sounded kind of interesting.”

he scowls at the floor. “you won’t get it.”

“try me.”

that does something. he doesn’t like that it does something. “fine,” he says. “but if you laugh—”

“i won’t.”

“or ask stupid questions—”

“probably will.”

“—then i’m revoking the offer.”

“okay.” you fall into step beside him like this is settled. he’s aware of everything now. the sound of your sneakers. the way your arm brushes his for half a second and then doesn’t again.

he opens the door and steps inside first, awkwardly, like he’s not sure why he’s doing this. lucas is already rolling dice, dustin’s counting something, everyone’s focused on whatever they’re doing—but then you’re there, and it’s like someone hit pause. the air shifts, not because you’re here, because you shouldn’t be, and they don’t know why mike brought you. everyone’s eyes flick up, a pause, questions in the raised eyebrows, the leaning forward of heads. mike doesn’t look at them. he doesn’t answer. he’s too busy pretending this is normal, that having a cheerleader in the hellfire club is totally normal.

you, oblivious, set your bag down, smooth out your skirt, and settle into a chair near the back. the papers you were working on before now stacked neatly in front of you, clipboard balancing carefully on your knees. you start taking it all in, curious, not really judging, just watching. mike’s hands tap a pencil, notebook open, dice still scattered in front of him. he’s too aware of you; he’s too aware of the way you lean slightly, the hair brushing the side of your face, the way your eyes track what’s happening on the table without interrupting.

he hates that he notices. hates that his stomach churns when you scribble something down and hum, like the sound is small enough to be innocent but enough to catch his attention. he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, then pretends to focus on his dice, on his notebook, on the little notes he’s scribbled about character abilities, strategy, alignment. everything except you.

you lean a little forward as dustin explains a roll, and mike notices you nod, like you understand it, like you’re processing the rules in your head. cheerleaders don’t do this. they don’t sit and think about rules. they don’t watch dice. they don’t care about probability or alignment or morality in a dungeon. except somehow, you do. he hates it and doesn’t know why. he’s hyper-aware of every small gesture. somehow, you’re slipping into the group without breaking anything, without disrupting, just existing, watching, listening, and he’s watching you watch them, and he hates that he’s watching you watch them.

time stretches. mike rolls dice again but can’t completely concentrate. he reminds himself cheerleaders are evil. he reminds himself this was a mistake. he reminds himself you’re probably laughing at him. but somehow, the longer you sit, the longer you stay, the easier it gets to forget that he should hate this. not fully, not consciously, not admitting, but there’s something about the way you follow the dice, nod when someone explains a rule, that makes it almost… tolerable.

finally, eddie announces a break. mike exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. you get up first. “going?” he asks. too curt, defensive. too automatic. why do i even care?

“yeah,” you say, gathering your things. “see you at school?”

he nods. don’t say more. mike stands too, automatically, walks with you out of the club, and somehow it doesn’t feel quite as wrong as it did before. maybe it’s just that you exist, that you were polite and attentive, that you fit into his world in a way that makes sense even though it shouldn’t. “you’re… welcome to come by again.” he blurts suddenly. what are you doing? why did you say that?

he immediately regrets the words the second they leave his mouth. he’s never invited anyone to hellfire before. never. he’s never wanted anyone to see this side of him. he’s not allowed to like anyone enough to bring them here. definitely not a cheerleader. definitely not you.

“yeah, maybe.”

you glance at him, just a fraction, like you’re weighing something, not quite sure if you should ask, not quite sure if you should leave it. he notices the pause. long enough to make him uncomfortable, short enough to make him paranoid. “mike…” you finally say, quiet, careful, like you’re testing the waters. he stiffens automatically.

the “yeah?” he gave came out defensive.

you hesitate. “earlier, when you asked me how i knew your name… i lied.”

he blinks. stops walking for a split second, too stunned to notice. lied? she lied? why? evil. plotting. wrong. “what?” he asks, suspicious. dry. why would she lie? this is a trap. of course it’s a trap. she’s evil. she’s a cheerleader. shut down.

“i didn’t just know because of eddie,” you admit, like it’s dangerous to say it out loud. “i’ve .. always known.”

he stops. his brain sputters. always known? what does that even—why are you saying—wait—what? “what do you mean?” he says, voice sharper than intended, heart starting to hammer.

you glance down, cheeks coloring faintly. bashful. hesitant. “i mean i’ve —- kind of… liked you. for a while. i just… didn’t… say anything.”

he freezes, backpack straps digging into his shoulder, soda crinkling in his hand, mouth open like he’s going to explain something, defend himself, insist that this is a misunderstanding—but there’s nothing. he doesn’t have a defensive line ready for this. i—what—you—hello????

“you… what?” he says finally, incredulous, not believing. not sure if he wants to believe. part of him wants to tell you you’re wrong, that you’re lying, that cheerleaders are evil, that he hates this—but another part? another part is ridiculously, embarrassingly glad.

“yeah,” you admit, looking up just enough to meet his eyes. “i’ve always thought you were… cool, i guess.” your voice is soft, almost like you’re worried he’ll push you away.

he swallows. he wants to say something clever, dry, snarky, but none of it comes out. instead, he just stands there, balancing between panic and something else. why do i like that you like me?

he just stands there. too long. long enough that the silence starts to feel loud, like the hallway itself is waiting for him to say something smart or sharp or at least coherent. nothing comes. his brain is buffering. this was not in any possible outcome tree he’d bothered to map out. his heart is going way too fast, like he just ran laps. “i—” he starts, then stops. clears his throat. tries again. “you don’t—” also bad. abort.

you shift your weight, clearly bracing yourself. not dramatic about it, just steady, like you’re ready for him to say something awful and you’ve already decided you’ll survive it if he does. that’s somehow worse than if you were defensive. or sarcastic. or mean. he knows how to handle mean.

“i just wanted you to know,” you clarify. “that’s all. i know you hate me. i know you think i’m… whatever. i just figured i’d rather say it than keep pretending.”

he frowns automatically. “i don’t hate you.”

the words come out before he can stop them. immediate regret, followed by confusion about why he regrets them. he doesn’t hate you. when did that happen? when did that stop being true?

“you don’t?”

“i mean—” he stalls, because now he has to back it up. “i don’t… hate you. i thought i did. probably. i thought you were—” he gestures uselessly. “you know. like that.”

“evil?” you offer, dry but not offended.

he winces. “yeah.”

you giggle, a small little laugh that’s more relief than humor. “fair.”

that makes something in his chest loosen. he watches you while you talk, not in the way he was trying very hard not to earlier, but openly now, because apparently all his defenses are fried. you’re nervous, but not crumbling. you’re honest without apologizing for it. you don’t hedge every sentence. you just… say what you mean, like it’s allowed.

that’s wild to him.

mike wheeler does not say what he means. he deflects. he turns things into arguments so he doesn’t have to name what they actually are. feelings are messy. feelings get you hurt. feelings make you look stupid. feelings are stupid. he has spent years being very careful about that. you just walked up and handed yours over. “you’re brave.” he notices, and immediately cringes at himself for how stupid it sounds.

you tilt your head. “am i?”

“yeah,” he says, more firmly this time. “i wouldn’t do that.”

he doesn’t know why he’s admitting that. maybe because it’s true. maybe because you already admitted something worse. maybe because the world feels slightly off-kilter and honesty is leaking through the cracks. you shrug, a little shy now. “i’ve had practice.”

you’ve done this before. you know how to say things out loud. you know how to survive the answer either way. he admires that more than he wants to. he rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor, then back at you. “i don’t really know what to say.”

“you don’t have to say anything,” you say quickly. “i’m not—this isn’t—” you stop yourself, take a breath. “i’m not asking for anything. i just didn’t want you thinking i only talked to you for some other reason. or because i was bored. or because i’m fake.”

“i did think that.” he admits.

you smile. “i know.”

that’s the thing. you always seem to know. and instead of using it against him, you just… accept it, like it’s part of the deal. “okay,” he says. “thanks. for… telling me.”

you relax a little, like that was the part you were holding your breath for. “yeah,” you say. “you’re welcome.” you start walking again, and he doesn’t hesitate before falling into step beside you. it feels different now, like something has shifted and neither of you knows what to call it yet. he’s still awkward, still stiff, still very much mike wheeler, incapable of a smooth emotional landing. but there’s something there now, an understanding. the knowledge that someone saw him, liked him, said it out loud, and the world didn’t end.

and he doesn’t hate you.

and now he’s thinking: wait. i don’t hate her. he actually doesn’t. like. at all. how long has it been since he’s felt this particular kind of not-hating? too long, really. and then, just like that, his brain decides to start justifying everything, retroactively rewriting history. maybe cheerleaders aren’t evil. maybe your friends aren’t all scheming idiots. maybe your laugh isn’t some weaponized sonic trap aimed at him specifically.

he glances at you enough to see you’re not looking at him, just staring forward, maybe thinking about something else. he likes that. your attention, or lack thereof, or… whatever. you watched him play D&D. you didn’t need to, but you did. more than anyone else. more than dustin explaining the same rule for the fourth time. more than eddie whining about dice. you actually watched mike, and now he’s thinking: okay. that’s… kind of nice. your attention. you. you’re kind of nice.

he notices your hands, how they swing a little when you walk, he notices the tilt of your head, like you’re quietly measuring the hallway, or counting tiles, or just… being you. maybe you’re kind of cool. maybe you’re not evil. maybe your friends are funny sometimes. maybe your hair just always looks better than it should for a tuesday.

and why does he feel good walking next to you? why does he like that you watched him play? do you notice him more than the others? and why the hell does that feel good? his chest feels lighter than it has in days. the panic has gone, replaced by a confusing, pleasant sort of… awareness.

why does it matter that you watched him? that you didn’t get bored, didn’t look around for someone better, didn’t laugh. you watched him, like what he was doing mattered. like he mattered.

the doors loom ahead, glass smeared with fingerprints, afternoon light bleeding through in dull yellow slabs, and suddenly the walk has an end. mike hates that. he hates endpoints. they force decisions. you slow first, of course you do. you’re better at this. at transitions. you stop just short of the doors and turn, half-smiling, like you’re already bracing for the moment to break.

he realizes, distantly, that he’s supposed to go back. hellfire. the campaign. the table. the dice. the version of himself that makes sense there. and you’re supposed to leave. walk out into the parking lot, back into your world. this is how it works.

his chest tightens at the idea.

he clears his throat, shifts his weight, looks anywhere but your face. the floor. the exit sign. why is this so hard? he’s faced demogorgons. literal monsters. this—this is just a person. a girl. a cheerleader. a girl who likes him. apparently.

“so,” he says, and immediately hates how thin it sounds. he coughs and tries again. “uh. i have to—” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, toward the club room. hellfire. destiny or whatever.

“yeah.” you say, understanding. not disappointed.

he nods, swallows, then, before his brain can intervene—before logic can tackle him to the ground— “would you maybe want to… hang out sometime?” it comes out rushed, like he’s tripping over his own words. “not—like—i mean, not a big thing. just—” he grimaces.

you blink, surprised, and then your smile spreads, slow and genuine, like you’re trying not to spook him. “yeah,” you agree. “i’d like that.”

“okay,” he says too quickly. then softer, like he’s testing it out. “okay.”

there’s a pause. the kind that feels like it could stretch if neither of you moves. but the doors are still there. reality still exists. you adjust your bag strap. “good luck with your… campaign.” you say, teasing but kind.

he huffs. “thanks.”

you hesitate, then lift a hand in a small wave. “bye, mike.”

his name again. still hits. still makes his chest do that stupid fluttering thing. “bye,” he says. then, because apparently he’s braver now—or dumber—“you.”

you push the door open and step into the light, and mike stands there for a second longer than necessary, watching the door swing shut behind you. his chest still feels light. his head feels full. when he finally turns back toward hellfire, he knows one thing with absolute, terrifying clarity:

he’s going to think about this the entire campaign.

based off this request !

STARTED 12.20.2025. POSTED 12.21.2025.

  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

©️ latedeparture

You linger near the doorway longer than necessary. Your mom notices first, her face lighting up. “You’re back!”

A few heads turn.

His eyes follow.

Just once.

The smile doesn’t reach them.

“Oh,” he says mildly. “You’re here.”

That’s it.

No question. No relief. No where were you.

Your chest tightens.

You mumble greetings, hugging your siblings, exchanging half-hearted smiles while your thoughts spiral. He continues talking like nothing happened, effortlessly redirecting the conversation, asking about the kids, about work, about plans for next week.

Like you didn’t vanish.

Like he didn’t spend the night not knowing where you were.

You try to catch his eye again.

He doesn’t look.

Dinner preparations begin soon after. The family drifts toward the kitchen, filling the space with noise and warmth. You hover near the counter, heart pounding, rehearsing what you’ll say.

“I should explain-” you start quietly, stepping closer to him.

He doesn’t even turn. Just hands your mom a cutting board.

“She’ll need help with the salad,” he says calmly. “You can assist.”

The dismissal stings.

You obey anyway, fingers shaking as you chop vegetables. The sound of the knife hitting the board feels too loud. He moves around the kitchen like he belongs there. confident, polite, composed.

But you see it.

The tightness in his jaw. The sharpness in his blue/gray eyes. The way his shoulders stay stiff. The way his voice never wavers, but never softens either.

You try again. “My phone died. I swear, I wasn’t ignoring-”

He reaches for the spice jar, passing right by you.

“We’re having chicken tonight,” he says to your sister. “Hope that’s okay.”

Your breath catches.

Later, when everyone sits down to eat, you find yourself seated across from him. A mistake. Every time you glance up, you catch him watching you. not warmly, not softly.

Assessing.

Waiting.

“So,” your brother says, grinning, “how’s married life treating you two?”

Your husband smiles politely. “Busy.”

You choke slightly on your water.

Busy.

Your mom notices your silence. “You’ve been quiet.”

You take a breath. “I was actually going to say-”

He cuts in smoothly. “The food’s getting cold.”

You snap your mouth shut.

Under the table, his foot brushes yours, not gently. A warning.

Later, as plates are cleared and tea is poured, he leans closer, voice low enough that only you hear it.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Not here.”

“Shouto, I need to explain,” you whisper back, panic creeping in.

He exhales slowly through his nose, lips curling into something almost like a smile, but not quite.

“Oh, you will,” he says. “Just not now.”

Then, quieter. Colder.

“And you’re really not going to like how calm I’m being.”

Your heart pounds.

When the family finally starts to disperse, kids yawning, coats being grabbed, he helps clean up, still perfectly polite, still composed. The moment the last of your siblings leave, the house falls into a heavy silence.

He sets the last cup in the sink and gets his jacket bidding goodbye to your parents and heading to the door.

The drive home is quiet.

not tense, loud, but quiet. just still.

his eyes stay on the road, hands steady on the wheel. The streetlights pass in slow rhythm. you want him to say something, anything.

he doesn’t.

When you reach home, he unlocks the door, steps inside, and sets his keys down carefully.

Turns.

“Sit,” he says.

Not harsh. Controlled.

You sit.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed, staring at you like he’s been holding something back for far too long.

“Start talking,” he says.

Words spill out of you all at once. “My friend had an emergency, she was panicking, I didn’t think, I thought I’d be back before anyone noticed and then my phone died and I couldn’t charge it and I didn’t want to worry anyone and-”

“Stop.”

One word.

You freeze.

He straightens slowly, walking closer until he’s standing right in front of you.

“Do you know,” he says quietly, “how many times I called you?”

You swallow. “No.”

“Do you know how many scenarios I ran through my head?” His voice tightens. “Hospitals. Accidents. Villains capturing you. leaving without telling anyone?”

“I would never-”

“You already did.”

The words hit hard.

“I trusted you,” he continues. “I trust you. But you don’t just vanish. Not like that.”

“I was trying to help-”

“And you scared the hell out of me.”

That’s when the anger finally cracks, just enough for the truth to spill through.

His hands rake through his hair. “I didn’t sleep. I finished my missions and came home early just in case you showed up here.”

Your eyes burn. “I’m sorry.”

He studies you for a long moment, then sighs, tension draining out of him all at once.

“Come here,” he says, voice rough.

You stand hesitantly. The second you’re close enough, he pulls you into him, arms tight, unyielding.

“You don’t get to scare me like that,” he murmurs into your hair. “Ever again.”

“I won’t,” you whisper. “I promise.”

He leans back slightly, still holding you. “Next time, you tell someone. You leave a note. You borrow a phone. You don’t disappear.”

You nod, clinging to him.

“And as for your punishment,” he adds quietly, a familiar edge returning, “you’re not leaving this room tonight. You’re talking. You’re staying right here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

He presses his forehead to yours, anger finally giving way to exhaustion and relief.

“I was mad,” he admits. “Really mad.”

“I know.”

“But I’m more relieved than anything,” he says softly.

He kisses your temple, slow, grounding.

“Just don’t ever make me wonder if I’ve lost you again.”

You hold onto him like you never plan to let go.

A/N: Don't be shy to comment or request for more! Likes and reblogs are appreciated as well :)

you weave through the chaos, dodging proud moms and crying first years, clutching the program to your chest. you’re searching for one person, and somehow… you always find him without even looking.

kageyama tobio stands near the gate, diploma in hand, posture tight and unsure like he’s not totally convinced he deserves the moment. his teammates cluster around him while families gather for photos. hinata’s jumping to see over the crowd. tsukishima looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. yamaguchi’s waving at someone.

you hesitate.

you’ve loved him forever — or at least, it feels that way.

since elementary school, since before volleyball became his whole universe, since before either of you understood what it meant to love someone at all. and back then? you were never shy about it. you liked him loudly, proudly, cheerfully.

you brought him snacks when he forgot to eat. you told people he was your crush without shame. you defended him when kids whispered he was too intense, too much, too serious.

you held your crush like a flower — openly, confidently — even when people teased you. even when he turned red and muttered awkward apologies. even when he told you no.

he was always gentle about it, always careful.

“i’m sorry,” he’d say, scratching the back of his neck. “i… don’t really think about that stuff.”

and you’d smile, bright and easy.

“that’s okay! i like you enough for both of us.”

you took every rejection in stride, not because it didn’t hurt, but because you loved him — enough not to make him feel guilty for not loving you back. you loved him enough to laugh through the ache, to stand by him without asking for anything in return.

and now?

today is the day that constancy ends.

you know it. he doesn’t yet.

you spot him stepping away from the crowd, heading toward a quieter path lined with trees. you slip through the stragglers and call his name — softly at first, then louder when he doesn’t hear you.

he freezes.

turns.

his eyes widen when he sees you, and for some reason, the expression twists something deep in your chest. you walk up to him, straightening your uniform one last time.

“kageyama,” you breathe.

“oh. hey.” he scratches his cheek, gaze flicking away before snapping back to you. “uh—did you need something?”

you smile, soft and steady.

“i wanted to talk to you. before everyone leaves.”

he shifts on his feet, uncertain. “did… did something happen?”

you shake your head. “no. nothing bad.”

the wind picks up, stirring petals around your ankles. you inhale once. then again. then one more time. this is it — your last moment to say what you’ve carried all these years.

“i wanted to say thank you,” you begin.

he blinks. “for what?”

“for always being kind to me.”

he looks confused. adorably, painfully confused.

“you know i… liked you,” you say with a laugh that trembles. “everyone knew. i never exactly kept it quiet.”

his ears go slightly red. “yeah. yeah, i remember.”

“and you never made me feel embarrassed about it,” you continue. “you could’ve ignored me, or made fun of me, or pushed me away. but you didn’t. you always treated me gently. like my feelings mattered.”

your voice catches. you force yourself to keep smiling.

“i think that’s why you were my first love.”

kageyama’s eyes widen a fraction — not frightened, not uncomfortable, just… startled.

you look down at your hands.

“and… i’m glad it was you.” you swallow. “i’m glad i chose you, even if nothing ever came of it. you were a constant in my life for so long.”

you lift your head, and your smile is soft but sure.

“but this is probably the last time we’ll see each other. you’re going into volleyball. i’m going to university. our paths are finally splitting, and that’s okay. it’s good, even. we’re both moving forward.”

you exhale, shaky. “so I just wanted to say goodbye properly.”

you bow — polite, formal, final.

when you straighten, you expect him to smile awkwardly, maybe scratch his cheek again, maybe wish you luck.

instead, he just… stares.

his expression has shifted entirely — something searching, something raw, something like a realization clawing its way to the surface.

“so this is it?” he asks quietly.

you blink. “yeah. i think so.”

“you’re… leaving?”

“we graduate today,” you tease lightly. “that’s how it works.”

“no. I mean…” he takes a half-step toward you. “you’re leaving me?”

you freeze.

the breeze stutters to a stop. the world narrows to the space between you — a space suddenly too small for how much is changing.

“kageyama,” you murmur. “i’ve been chasing you since we were kids. i think it’s okay if i finally… stop running after you.”

his throat works.

he’s never been good with emotions — not his own, not anyone else’s. but right now, he’s trying. he’s really, truly trying.

“I didn’t think—you were always there,” he says, voice rough. “i just thought… you’d stay. that we’d stay the same.”

“we’re not kids anymore.”

“i know.” his hands flex uselessly at his sides. “but I didn’t want you to go.”

your heartbeat stumbles.

“kageyama…” you start, but he shakes his head — not to silence you, but to force out the words he’s never been brave enough to consider.

“maybe I…” he swallows. “maybe I liked having you like me. more than I realized.”

your breath catches.

“maybe I liked you more than I knew how to deal with.”

you stare at him — really stare — and it hits you how young he still is. how earnest. how confused. how sincere. how terrified of saying the wrong thing. he steps closer, inch by aching inch.

“i just thought… you’d always be there,” he says softly. “and when you said this is the last time, it—” he stops, jaw tightening. “it felt wrong.”

your chest aches painfully.

“i don’t know what this feeling is,” he admits, voice shaking. “but I know I don’t want to lose you.”

you take a tiny step closer. “tobio,” you whisper.

his breath stutters.

the distance closes.

and for the first time, he really looks at you — not with confusion, or awkwardness, or the gentle rejection he always gave, but with something deeper. something blooming. something that was always there, quiet and unnoticed, waiting for this exact moment to surface.

“don’t go without letting me try,” he murmurs. “whatever this is. whatever I’m feeling now. let me try.”

your eyes burn.

“you’re too late,” you whisper, voice trembling—

and then you reach out and take his hand.

“but… i’m not gone yet.”

his fingers tighten around yours, warm and certain.

his first smile of the day is small, unsure, hopeful.

“before you go,” he whispers, “can we… start over?”

and for once — after years of loving him out loud — it’s finally his turn to reach for you.

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