sleepy head.

📸 Chapter 1— Before the Record

📸 Chapter 2

📸 Chapter 3

📸 Chapter 4

📸 Chapter 5

📸 Chapter 6

📸 Chapter 7

📸 Chapter 8

🌙📸🎶📸🌙

It’s raining. You should borrow an umbrella from a co-worker.

It would be bad if you got sick.

Love you. Come home soon, honey.

Your boyfriend was a busy man. A colonel at a very young age, in the most influential unit in your city: Skyhaven. You’ve lived together for a year now, and have been together for a bit longer. Somehow, you’ve gotten used to him coming home late. And he’s gotten used to you waiting for him ‘til late. You insist upon it. It’s too cold to ever truly be sleeping without him as your body pillow.

Your eyes are drowsy, threatening to close while your feet fold deeper as you curl into a ball in the chill room, covered in your thin blanket– that the door opens. You perk up immediately, despite the grog settling deep into your skin.

There, Caleb slowly closes the door behind him. His hat, finally coming off as he loosens his collar, sighing. You get up, still wrapped in your blanket and meet him by the doorway. He’s halfway into getting his shoes off when you stand in front of him, barefoot with a pout.

“You’re wet. Did you get my text? You’ll get sick, you big dummy.” You try to wipe the droplets of rain from his shoulders, then his cheeks; which were cold. His hands move up to your wrists, holding them gently.

“I didn’t have time to check my phone. Sorry, honey.” He says, voice low, tired. Then he kisses the inside of your wrist. Your hands being the only thing warming him right now.

You sigh, which ends in a small smile. “It’s okay. You’re home now.”

—

You linger with him a moment longer after that, just breathing in the scent of rain and metal that always clings to his uniform. He moves toward the couch while you pad back into the kitchen, the faint buzz of the TV filling the space again. The sound of him setting down his things, the muted hum of the holo-terminal booting– all so ordinary it makes you smile.

“Did you eat?” You call out while you stir something in a small pot, steam fogging the air.

“Not yet,” he answers, voice distant but gentle.

You grab a plate, already imagining the way he’ll loosen up after a meal and shower. Then the terminal tone pierces through the quiet. It isn’t the usual mellow ping of work updates. This one is sharper, coded. Military-grade. You hesitate mid-step, plate still in your hands. 

“Work again?” You ask, half sigh, half tease.

He doesn’t answer immediately. The air feels heavier now. From the couch, you can see him sit rigid before the screen, its pale light painting his face in washed-out blues.

You wipe your hands on the towel and walk closer. “Hey… you okay?”

He blinks and turns, startled as if he forgot you were there. “Yeah,” he murmurs, forcing a small smile. “Just… something from command. Nothing important.”

“So it’s fine, then?”

He nods, but there’s no conviction in the motion. You can see the storm behind his eyes. Whatever he just read isn’t fine at all.

You cross the short distance between you, laying a hand on his arm. “You can tell me, you know.”

His jaw flexes. For a second, you think he might. But then the soldier in him wins over the man you love. He cups your hand gently and presses a kiss to it instead of answering.

“I will,” he says softly, “once things are handled. Don’t worry tonight, okay? You’ve done enough waiting for me.”

Something in that phrasing sinks cold in you. You want to argue, ask what’s really happening, but he’s already looking past you at the rain-slick window, mind somewhere far away.

“Caleb–”

“It’s fine, honey.” He gives you one of those smiles, reassuring. But lurking with trembles he’s barely hiding. “Really. Just protocol stuff.”

You nod, because you’ve learned to choose your battles. You go back to the table and place the food down between you both, pretending not to notice his eyes dart once more toward the flashing terminal.

Dinner ends in fragments: your laughter too soft, his replies just half-finished. And when he finally excuses himself to “take a call,” you stay on the couch. Watching the reflection of the lamp fade across the empty seat beside you.

From the hallway, you can hear him speaking quietly, voice clipped, controlled. Then silence.

His footsteps return, slower this time. You look up, already knowing you won’t like what’s next. And Caleb almost didn’t have the heart to tell you, especially when you looked at him that way. Your eyes sparkled in a way that made his heart clench. Your breathing so obviously controlled. So he sits beside you despite the large space the couch could offer.

Caleb let his elbows rest on his knees. His eyes on the floor.

“...They need me in Linkon,” he says, words measured but heavy. “But it’s short-term, I promise– a few weeks at most.”

The words hang in the room as he finally looks at you, and you exhale, this time, turning your head away from him; taking his words in.

But you manage a small nod. “Tonight?”

He hesitates, then: “Tomorrow morning.” At least. He should at least spend the night with you.

You smile again. “That’s… soon.”

He brushes your hair behind your ear, before cupping your cheek to make you look at him gently. Thumb brushing against your soft skin, as if memorizing the gesture. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“I know,” you whisper, even as something inside you starts to ache. “You always come back.”

—

Days pass. Then weeks. 

You still go to work. Same office. Same blue-gray cubicle walls humming under cheap lights. Your coworkers greet you with practiced smiles and the usual chatter about deadlines and traffic. You smile back, careful not to let the pauses linger — you don’t want anyone asking how you’re doing.  

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. You’re not really the kind of person who clings too much. Caleb’s job is important and dangerous; you knew that from the start. You repeat it like a mantra every time the communicator on your desk stays silent.

During lunch breaks, your colleagues invite you out for noodles or coffee. You always shake your head with a little laugh. “I’ve got errands,” you say. You don’t. You just can’t stand the thought of burdening anyone with the smallness of how much you miss him.

Evenings are harder.  

The apartment still hums with the quiet habits you shared– his cup in the dish rack, his jacket folded on the chair. You keep reheating leftovers and packing them in containers he’ll never open.

You stop sleeping in bed; it feels too big alone. The couch becomes your spot again, TV buzzing faintly with that same sitcom you’ve seen a dozen times. The laugh track becomes mocking, at some point.

Messages sit half-written in your terminal.

Did you eat?

Don’t forget to rest.

The plants miss youuuu.

Coco puff too.

I miss you, Caleb.

You somehow never hit send. You just stare at the blinking cursor until the screen times out.

Sometimes you think about reaching out to friends– to anyone– but every time your hand hovers over the call icon, you stop. You tell yourself it would be rude, intrusive. They have lives; they don’t need to hear you talk about the weather or how quiet your home’s been. 

By the third week, your sleep pattern collapses. You start leaving lights on all over the apartment, afraid of how Skyhaven– this apartment feels without him. At first, the neighbors ask if you’re alright. Then they stop. And you’re alone again.

One evening– like any other– you hear the faint static pop outside the door. A knock follows. You expect Caleb. And you feel energy burst in your veins, your chest tightens, your heart surges– of course he’s come back, he promised!

“Honey!” You smile, already excited just unlocking the door. “I’m glad–”

The door bursts forward. Metal boots flood over the sound of rain. You barely register the shout before the noise swallows you whole.  

You fight, of course you do. Your heel connects with someone’s leg; a grunt, a shout. There are too many hands. Gloved, cold, inhuman. They shove you against the wall, pin your wrists. 

“Where– who, who are you you– let me go!”

One of them laughs, distorted through a voice modulator. “Funny. He didn’t even tell you, did he?”  

You freeze for half a second, breaths sharp. “Tell me what?”  

The laugh deepens. “That we’d come for you. He got our message and still somehow picked the other one.”

You blink hard as the words fracture through your panic. “What– what.. message?”

The leader raises his visor just enough for you to see his eyes– clinical and detached, yet clearly amused. “We will hurt the person you love most. Ring any bells?”

Your stomach drops, colder than fear. He’s lying. He has to be lying. “You mean… MC,” you say, voice small, trembling. “You went for her– not–” not me. These guys must have made a mistake!

“Oh, no. He made sure we couldn’t get to her.” A short laugh. “Guess he thought she mattered more.”

The words punch straight through your chest. For a second everything– the shouting, the rain, the struggling– fades under a single ringing truth. All the nights you spent waiting, the unanswered messages, the silence that stretched too long. 

He didn’t come back for you.  

He didn’t even think to.

Hands grip your jaw, cold metal pressing against skin. You thrash once, twice, but the strength is leaving you; your thoughts scatter like broken glass.  

The last thing you hear before the needle sinks into the side of your neck is that same voice, calm, almost sympathetic. “You were just the leftover piece, sweetheart. Don’t feel too bad. Wrong place, wrong kind of love.”

Pain blooms white-hot, before it vanishes into nothing.

He’ll come back, you think. As the floor tilts beneath you.

He always comes back.  

Then, a void. 

—

Linkon feels different from Skyhaven. Brighter, louder, endlessly awake even during the night.

Caleb spends the first few nights pretending it’s a temporary reassignment, nothing more. Duty. Safety. Logic. All the things he’s supposed to understand better than anyone.  

MC teases him for how restless he looks at the window. “You’ve been circling around like an idiot for an hour,” she says, handing him a mug of coffee. “Whatever’s on your mind, it’s going to give you wrinkles.”  

He huffs a small laugh. “Wrinkles build the man, pipsqueak.”  

“You don’t need more of that.” She leans against the counter, all casual.

But tonight, it only reminds him of what isn’t here.  

MC tilts her head. “Did you at least let your girlfriend know you got here safe?” He freezes for half a beat. “She knows the protocols,” he says finally.

“That’s not an answer.”  

He exhales. Drops his gaze to the liquid spinning in the cup. The rain on the glass matches its color almost perfectly.  “I didn’t want to worry her,” he mutters, almost to himself.  

MC studies him a moment longer, then shrugs. “You always think that’s protecting people. Maybe… sometimes it’s just shutting them out.”  She softens near the end, knowing her brother can be avoidant of his own feelings.

Her words hang in the air longer than they should.  

When the communicator on his wrist buzzes. And for a moment, his stomach drops, remembering the message that started all this.

It plays back in his head, like a faultline cracking through calm: a voice scrambled by automated distortion flattening it into something both human and not.

We will hurt the person you love most. Soon.

He’d stared at those words while she slept peacefully in their bed, the glow of the screen washing her face in pale light. He’d thought of past ambushes, of reports with MC’s name circled in hazard red, of how she’d been surveilled before because of his link as X-02. Those stupid fucking experiments. 

His years of ‘training’ since he was a child spoke first: calculate probability, reduce emotional interference. MC = high-value target. Logical priority. And he’d spent nearly his whole life with his little sister. Protecting her. They had leverage on her all the time. So it must be her… right?

Soon enough, dawn was spilling through his floor to ceiling windows. You stirred, half awake, murmuring… don’t leave. 

It should’ve been enough to make him stay. But Caleb Xia was built from logic, and logic had saved him too many times to abandon it now.

He blinks, coming back to the present. The mug in his hand trembles. His knuckles ache.

MC is saying something. He doesn’t catch it. The communicator crackles again, this time, louder.

The line crackles with interference, distant voices mixing with the sound of water hitting metal. A neighbor from Skyhaven stumbles through panic, the message choked with static:

“Mr. Xia? I– there was a noise from your building. It was horrible. I think there was a woman screaming. And there were just many suspicious men all rushing through your door and–”

He doesn’t hear the rest.

The mug slips, shattering on tile. Coffee streaks brown across the floor like dried blood.

“Caleb?” MC’s voice reaches him faintly. “What’s going on?”

He’s already moving. Coat. Terminal. Gun. Every instinct flares alive but too late.  

“Fuck, fuck—” His voice shakes as he tries to call you repeatedly. Only to be left on voicemail.

MC tries to follow but he’s already at the door. The wind catches as it closes behind him.

—

His car cuts through the midnight streets, engine roaring against silence. Streetlights smear gold over rain slicks as his mind replays the message in bursts— We will hurt the one you love most. Each phrase now blends with her voice in memory, words he never really answered.

He thought it meant MC.

He thought wrong.

And now, every second between the city’s rings feel like punishment.

—

The ride back to Skyhaven feels endless. He’s lucky to have strings to pull, getting on the train even if the last ride ended hours ago. Rain cuts across the window pane as the scenery changes as he moves past cities. Until eventually, he gets to his neighborhood. Each step makes him nervous as he gets closer to his front door. Mind reeling from what would be behind it.

Caleb tells himself you’re fine. That he’ll arrive and find the call to be exaggerated. Somehow. That he’ll open the door and you’ll laugh at how tightly he’s gripping the handle.

But when the door finally slides open, all sound leaves him.

The apartment is spotless. The faint scent of detergent and ozone hands in the air. The lamp by the couch glows exactly how he remembers it.

And you’re there.

Sitting upright, blanket folded neatly beside you. The TV is off. You’re still, hands resting on your lap as though you’ve been waiting.

When you turn your head and smile, the world clicks into place and falls apart at once. “Honey, you’re home.”

The words are right. But somehow… it’s also wrong.

He drops his things, crossing the room in two quick strides as he locks the door in less than a second. “Are you okay? What happened? The neighbors called and–”

Your gaze follows him a second too slow. “I’m fine. You’re drenched.”

He stops. “There were reports of men.. of a break-in.”

Silence. Then, calm. “No one came.”

He looks around. Not a thing out of place. Even the broken picture frame by the door– the one that fell the week before he left– is fixed.

“You cleaned,” he says softly, stunned. “Of course you did.”

You stand, careful, fluid. “You should shower before you catch a cold. I left dinner out for you.”

He moves to the table. Two plates. His served; yours untouched. The food is warm, impossibly so– as if perfectly timed to his arrival. Caleb badly wants to ask how you knew, but his throat’s too tight.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I should’ve been here. I shouldn’t have–”

“It’s alright.” You lean against the wall near the lamp, eyes unfocused in the half-light. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”

He crosses back to you, rests a hand against your cheek. Warm. Steady. No tremor, no tears. He searches for something familiar in your eyes. He’s not entirely sure what, but he only saw his reflection in your irises. His heart clenches. Still, he wraps you tightly in his arms.

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he pleads quietly.

Her lips part just enough for a smile. “Okay, honey.”

He laughs, weakly, relief cracking through his guilt. “You even sound like you’re humoring me. You should be more mad.”

“Why would I be?”

It’s a joke. But you don’t laugh.

When Caleb sists beside you on the couch, the air between them feels heavier somehow, despite his relief. The lamplight hums faintly; the rain outside stopped.

He looks around, the apartment looks exactly like it did the night he left.

But your favorite sitcom wasn’t playing.

Your fingers stay on your lap.

And when he holds your wrist in his bigger hand, your pulse.. beats just a little too slow.

—

At first, he tries to restore normalcy.  

He cooks you breakfast, tells himself the silence between you is comfort, not distance. When you forget to respond to little things– his jokes, the sound of your name– he writes it off as exhaustion. Trauma, maybe. It’s easier that way. Maybe you just missed him too much.

You still call him Honey. Always softly. Always rhythmically timed.

“Good morning, honey.”

“Welcome home, honey.”

“Sleep well, honey.”

The first few days, it still warms him. Then the pattern sets in. Too even, too predictable. Each line lands with the same cadence, the same faint smile that never folds into laughter.

Sometimes he catches you sitting on the couch again. Posture perfectly straight, eyes on nothing. No TV, no sound. Just the glow of the lamp brushing your face like it did that first night. When he calls your name, you turn, apologizing, saying you lost track of time.

He finds you doing it every night. Always at the same hour. Always in the same spot.

A rhythm forms. Morning coffee you don’t really drink, dinner served and cleaned before he can finish, a bed you lie in like a statue. He watches all your movements like a hawk; how your chest rises and falls in precise intervals. 1, 2, 3– breathe. If he didn’t look closely, he’d think you’d been sleeping peacefully.

He clings to that lie.

Because acknowledging the alternative means admitting he left you here to break.

On the seventh night, he comes home early from base. The smell of something faintly sweet hits him as he unlocks the door. For a brief moment, his chest eases– you’re cooking. Moving again.

He follows the smell into the kitchen.

You’re standing by the stove, wooden spoon in hand, stirring something slowly.

“Smells good,” he says, smiling with cautious relief as he comes up behind you and kissing the back of your neck, then hiding his face in the junction of your shoulder breathing you in. “What’re you making?”

“Dinner,” you answer without looking up.

He finally raises his head. The pot is empty. Just reflective metal catching the light in circular motions as the spoon scrapes against it. The sound grates against his nerves. 

“Honey,” he says softly, reaching to still her hand, “it’s empty.”

You blink once, as if waking from a dream. “Dinner’s almost done.” Then you smile, turning back to the pot.

The scrape of metal fills the air again.

He stays the re a moment longer, staring at her profile. The steam that should’ve been rising isn’t there. His throat tightens, words crowding behind it but refusing to come out. 

He backs away slowly, returning to the living room. The rhythm resumes– the scrape, scrape, scrape like a clock ticking a world out of sync.  

That’s when the smaller glitches start appearing. 

Sometimes you repeat yourself mid-conversation, like replaying a moment you forgot to get right. Sometimes you laugh a little too late, or you stop all the sudden, the noise dying in your throat with confusion. 

Once, you burnt your hand on the kettle. The water hisses, but you don’t flinch until he grabs her wrist away.

“(Name), that’s– God, you’re hurt. Let go!” He rushes, getting the kettle off her hand with his gravity Evol, placing it on the counter; before checking your reddening hand.

You look at your skin, then at him, calm as rain. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s fine, honey.” Your tone doesn’t change.

He grips the counter hard enough for his fingers to ache. That phrase– he’s starting to hate how easily it dissolves tension. How easily it can shut him down.

Later that night, lying beside her, he realizes you haven’t called him anything else in weeks. No teasing names. No Caleb. Just one word, one note, replayed in perfect pitch.

And somewhere inside him, the awareness begins to grow.

Whatever came back with him, it isn’t whole.

—

One evening, Caleb brings out an old bottle of wine you’d bought long ago for a night that never happened. He opens it anyway.

The living room feels too quiet without your laughter, so he tries to fill it with stories instead.

“Remember the first time we went to Yuhua Port together?” he starts, voice too light to hide the tremor underneath. “You made friends with that stray cat who kept trying to steal your sandwich.”

You look up from the couch, smiling faintly. “You mean the one near Skyhaven Station?”

He pauses. “No, Yuhua Port. The cat had white patches on its paws, remember? You said they looked like socks.”

You tilt your head, as if searching. “Right. The orange one.”

“It was gray.”

“Was it?” Your laugh is small, uncertain. “I remember orange.”

He laughs too, even though it lands hollow. ““You’ve got the worst memory, you know that?”  

“I guess I do.”  

The pause that follows is heavier than it should be. You still smile, but there’s no flicker of embarrassment, no playfulness– none of the small reactions he knows by heart.  

So he tries another. “Okay, then. What about the place I took you after that? When it rained the whole day.”  

You hum, thinking, but it’s the wrong kind of thinking– measured, deliberate, like piecing something together from a blueprint. “You took me to that café in Linkon.”  

“No,” he says softly. “We stayed in Skyhaven. The little tea place by the docks.”  

“Oh… right.”  

He starts to correct you again, then stops. His throat’s dry, the taste of wine bitter on his tongue. “You’ve just been tired lately. It’s fine.”

“I feel fine.” You reach for his hand, skin against skin, warm and steady. It feels right. The warmth is there, but the pressure is all wrong.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until you tilt your head.  

“What is it?”  

“Nothing.” He squeezes your fingers gently, forces a smile. “Just thinking how lucky I am.”  

You smile back. “You always say that.”  

“I mean it this time.”  

“So did you, the last time.”  

He laughs, because not laughing would mean falling apart. He refills both glasses though you haven’t touched yours.  

Later that night, as he rinses the empty glass in the sink, he notices there’s no trace of wine in yours. The liquid’s still where he poured it.  

Untouched.  

He stands there for a long time, water running over his hands, until the sound drowns out every thought except one:  

You remember everything, except the parts that make you you. And he doesn’t know how to confront what he’s already suspecting.

—

You hear the door click open before you can stand from the couch.  

The lamp hums, the same low glow as always.  

Caleb steps through the doorway, eyes fever‑bright from exhaustion, rain still clinging to his jacket. You open your mouth, gentle as habit.  

“Honey, you’re–”  

He’s already kissing you.  

It’s rough, starved, more apology than desire. His hands move like a man trying to anchor himself somewhere solid. For a few seconds, you respond exactly as he remembers– arms around him, lips soft, rhythm precise. 

But when he deepens the kiss, something’s missing. No hitch in your breath, no tremor, no warmth rising from somewhere real.  

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your mouth, voice shaking. “Say something.”  

You blink up at him, calm. “You’re home.”  

His forehead presses to yours. “Not that. Please not that.”

You touch his cheek. “You’re tired, honey.”  

He flinches like the words burn. “Stop calling me that if you don’t mean it.”  

“I always–” 

“No, you don’t!” His tone breaks; he’s halfway between a sob and a shout. “You don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t–” He laughs once, sharp, bitter. “And god, I just– I keep pretending that you do.”

Your hands rest on his shoulders, perfectly steady. “I’m here.”  

He steps back, chest heaving. “Yeah. You’re here. Everyone keeps saying that– you, the unit reports, the neighbors…”

You tilt your head, almost curious.

“But they said you were screaming. You were attacked, (Name). But I did everything I could, I tried– I tried to get surveillance, I tried, but everything’s clean and I just. It’s like it never happened and I don’t know what to do, but I know something happened to you, AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO!” He bursts out, tears already falling as he ends up screaming the last sentence with no control; pulling at his hair in frustration.

Silence.  

He drags his fingers through his hair, trembling. “They sent me that message. We’ll hurt the one you love most. And I–” The sentence dies, then returns as a whisper: “I thought they meant someone else.”  

You watch him, expression unchanged. “You came back.”  

“Too late.” He laughs again, hysterical now. “Too goddamn late.” He turns away, voice cracking. “I thought I could fix this. That if I just acted like nothing happened, you’d come back to me.”  

“I waited,” you say gently. 

He freezes.  

The words land with unnatural precision. His gaze crawls back to your face, searching for the smallest sign that you understand.  

Your smile doesn’t move. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to wait.”  

Something inside him snaps. He hits the wall with his fist, the sound splintering through the room. “That’s not what I wanted! I wanted you alive!”  

You stay seated, voice soft, almost soothing. “You’re alive. I’m alive. It’s fine.”  

He staggers back toward you, falls to his knees in front of the couch. Tears mix with the leftover rain on his face.  

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve been here. If I could trade places with you–” His words crumble into breathless sobs.  

You reach out, running your fingers through his hair like you’ve done a thousand times. The gesture is flawless, gentle, empty.  

He melts into it anyway. Because there’s nothing else left.  

Your voice drifts down, tender, practiced:”Honey, you’re home.”

He breaks completely, the sound that leaves him more animal than human.  

You keep stroking his hair, repeating the words until they lose meaning, until only their shape remains in the air– warm, wrong, and endless. 

—

Later.

He doesn’t remember when the crying stopped. Only the weight of your hand in his hair and your voice, soft as static: “Honey, you’re home.” 

When he finally pulls away, you’re still smiling. The expression doesn’t reach your eyes. His heart feels like it’s tearing itself in two.

He spends the next nights trying to repair a ghost.

You let him. You cook. You sit beside him when he falls asleep on the couch. You hold him whenever he wakes up shaking. Everything looks right on the surface– too right. That’s what drives him harder to open the classified files. Dig deeper.

Until finally, he successfully gets the incident log from the night of the attack.

There’s nothing there at first– corrupted data, missing footage– but then a suppressed note hidden under medical reports: subject sustained neuro‑somatic trauma; parasitic interference detected; neural override protocol inhibited due to host deterioration.

His stomach drops.

He scrolls again. Parasite responsive to emotional stress; external removal will induce cortical implosion.

The air leaves his lungs. It explains everything. You blanking out, your recent extreme perfectionism, like a doll. He almost thought it was a Toring Chip just like his, but he finds this much, much worse.

Ever’s experiment. X‑02’s counterpart. They made you into surveillance wrapped in skin.

He looks up from the file to where you’re standing at the sink, humming faintly. It’s the same tune you used to hum when cooking breakfast, except now the tempo never changes. He can’t tell if you’re doing it or the thing inside you is.

“Did they–” he starts, voice barely there, “Did they hurt you before they–”

You turn, wiping your hands carefully on a towel. “It doesn’t matter. You’re home.”

He tries again, words breaking apart. “You know what they did to you, don’t you?”

A flicker in your smile– a tiny tremor. “I know you left.”

He almost staggers under it. “No, I–”

“You always leave. And then you come back and say sorry.” Still calm, still gentle. “It’s fine, honey. I’m used to it.”

He can feel the edges of the parasite now, folded through the cadence of your voice– its mimicry feeding on every emotion you never said aloud. Your resentment. Your exhaustion. Your love stretched thin until it snapped and let something else inside.

He wants to fight. He wants to tear the thing out of you, damn the consequences. But the warning screens pulse behind his eyelids: external removal will induce cortical implosion.

If he fights it, it kills you.  

If he leaves it, he loses you.  

So he does the only thing left.  

He takes your hand. It’s warm, steady, steady in that wrong way. He presses his lips to your knuckles and speaks around the tears that won’t stop falling from his eyes.

“I’ll stay. I won’t go anywhere anymore. I promise.”

You tilt your head, that same patient smile returning. “You always say that.”

“I mean it this time.”

“So did you the last time.”  

He almost laughs. Almost. 

Then he lets you pull him down beside you on the couch. The lamp hums faintly; the night settles into the same rhythm it always has.  

Outside, Skyhaven glows. And a faint thunderstorm bellows. Inside, the two of you sit together in perfect stillness, your head on his chest, as he lays you both down on the couch– both knowing, neither saying. 

Because if he does, you die.  

And if he doesn’t, he’s already dead.

—

Another night, he comes home late.

The lamp is on. You’re on the couch, back straight, hands folded. No TV. No sound.

“Honey, you’re home,” you say.

He hesitates only a second now before crossing the room. He sits beside you, rests his head against your shoulder like he used to. He closes his eyes.

what you know of ajax is accrued from two major sources: long, surreptitious glances in the modern teyvat history class you share, and irritatingly brief interactions when you place your order from the other side of the counter behind which he stands, long fingers always poised to punch in your order at the speed of light. sometimes, those encounters get cut even shorter when irate upperclassmen start prattling their orders out before you can even say anything past your own, except even this has its own consolation prize — an apologetic smile at you that seems only for you, although you’re not sure how much of this assumption is true. you’ll just believe it as you feel it. 

and what you’ve learned about ajax has funneled down into two key points for you: first, he is single, a fact you were clued into when a group of his friends came to the coffee shop and sat around the table next to you. you hadn’t been eavesdropping; they’d just been pretty loud, but you’d also perked your ears the moment the one everyone seemed to call “lyn” — you aren’t sure if it’s his full name or a nickname, and you don’t particularly care — had leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper about having a vague master plan to set ajax up with an old high school friend’s younger sister that he was just waiting to spring on said ajax, busy slaving away on their six impossible orders near the espresso machine. 

you don’t really know what became of that plan, nor if anyone had telepathically been on your side to outright call it crazy (someone should have had a better reason than you, anyway) since the next moment, lyn’s voice becomes significantly louder when it orders the one named illuga to collect the completed coffee and snacks waiting for them on the counter. however, you feel safe in the assumption that even if it had happened, no repercussions had followed, seeing as ajax still presently comes and goes from his shifts alone and in no clear hurry to meet any cute girls that are sisters of high school friends of his friends. or, maybe you’re just ignoring what could be truth, but that’s whatever. 

second, you’ve learned that ajax should not actually be your type — at least, in theory. 

saying you’re out of his league would be a bit juvenile, but if you had only so many words to describe the situation, you’d say so under duress. it isn’t so much that he’s beneath you in any way, but your interests and general social circles run different routes. yours tend to be more classically patterned after constantly changing trends, and the people you interact with all seem to have similar goals; you like to call it ‘vibe networking,’ which, from experience, involves connecting with both groups and individuals that are equally aware that they will benefit in some way from any resulting acquaintanceship — whether it be by climbing the social ladder a couple of rungs or being able to call in a quick, off-the-charts favor for something very important and/or very exclusive down the road. you and your friends spend a significant amount of time in a year watching your style and image, something quite a lot of kids in the first couple of years of college tend to do, which means that while you don’t particularly like to spend your time following your grade trajectory, you do have quite a lot of pseudo-friends that all seem to offer something entertaining or helpful to you. 

ajax, on the contrast, prefers to keep his circle very close to his heart, it seems — that which acts as a receptacle for all his interests. you can tell that he likes to be up to date less with trending movies and more with comic books, a separate beast of a world that’s rather unknown to you. more than once, you’ve overheard him chat with his friends about blue lock volume number whatever-it-is or engage in somewhat lively (sometimes rowdy, thanks to the lyn fellow) discussions about some webtoon you’ve come to understand is called soulblazer: fietena, which seems to have to do with monsters and a really badass wrestler chick — two things you know next to nothing about. you’ve also never seen ajax holding anything remotely close to a sports magazine; his hands are always filled with either a freshly opened comic or a beat-up textbook. maybe once or twice, you’ve seen him on his phone, but when you peeked over (surreptitiously, of course) on those occasions, you were met only with brightly colored panels and thick, screen-filling typography.  

in conclusion — you and ajax live very different lives, likely never truly meant to intersect. 

and yet, you want him — not even in a way that speaks only to your curiosity, but in a manner that feels slightly delusional. more than once, you’ve found yourself having to shut your jaw close after realizing you’ve been watching him steam milk with your mouth slightly agape. maybe it’s his side profile, which gives you a great view of the way his jaw tenses every time he puts whipped cream on someone’s frappuccino. maybe it’s his eyes, which always seem to gleam a muted light, like he’s harboring some special secret every time someone in line asks for his recommendation on how to spice their order up. maybe it’s his hands, steady and agile, with just the right showing of veins through the skin to tell you they’ve probably got significant strength to them too. or maybe it’s just his mind — that thing he always manages to show off in class, working faster than lightning even when the rest of you are in your natural eight-in-the-morning stupor.

whatever the reason for your interest, ajax makes sure the liberal arts building’s café lutece has you as a regular customer. 

you’re fully aware that this is the twenty-first century, which is why you could, as ayaka and nilou have so kindly made known, simply ask him out. under normal circumstances, you would have.

unfortunately, in this particular area of your life, separate from all others, you’re something of a traditionalist. 

actually, you just want to know what ajax asking you out would look like. curiosity has fully gotten the better of you — how can it not, with how he breaks eye contact with you the moment it happens by accident in class, or with how pleasantly and shyly he smiles when you say ‘hey’ to him once you’re about to order? you’d like to see, first-hand, as a recipient of the experience itself, what he would look like taking control of a particular situation like that — something someone like him, so mild-mannered and laid-back, never really seemed to do upfront. 

you’d like to think you’ve given him clear signs. there’s a reason you always come in during his shift times, and it’s the same reason for why you have the same damn drink from the menu over and over again despite not even caring too much about coffee in the first place (something he admittedly doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t puzzle out, given how often you’re in that café lutece, anyway). it’s that you want him to remember you.

selfishly, it’s that you want him to think just a little bit more about you every single day. 

but if he does, ajax has never made it very clearly known; apart from taking your order in his genial customer service demeanor or letting a look of brief recognition pass his face over when you cross paths in the hallways, he’s never really shown any heightened inquisitiveness about you. for all your differences, only you seem to actually care.

frankly, that frustrates you, because if you have to think about him unhealthily, it would only be right for him to do that for your sake too. still, you’ll shrug that hit on your pride off for as long as you can get his attention one way or another.

all you really need is for your plan to pan out as well as you think — and hope — it will. 

the thing is, you’re not even that bad at math. 

you’ve never really excelled at it, of course, but you wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re in dire need of help from anyone — the kind of help that feels like babysitting, at least.

however, ajax doesn’t know that, and you’re not compelled to make that fact known to him when you notice that he’s leaning on the counter with his elbows, shoulders rolled forward and head bent down. he’s twirling his ballpoint in hand, wrist hovering over a worksheet, and you’re briefly distracted by the rapidly moving shadow underneath it.

his head snaps up when you gently knock on the counter, and the rest of his body follows suit, straightening as he shoves the paper away, one edge crumpling in on itself as it meets resistance in the form of the pastry display glass.

“hey — hi.” he knows your name, says it easily, and while you’d like to believe it’s because of his unprecedented interest in you, you know that it’s just because you’re always here and always having him write your name on the side of your cup. “can i get you the usual?”

there’s no particular reason you order what you do; maybe it’s just rooted in the fact that when you first asked ajax for a recommendation, he said that the vanilla sweet cream cold brew was pretty good, and you were inclined to believe him (while pointedly ignoring the fact that it was, at the time, a new item all of the baristas were required to push to indecisive, slightly moony-eyed customers such as yourself). whatever the case, you found the drink generally palatable, and you were also able to score the first of many smiles that fed into your two-semester-long infatuation with him, so it was basically a win-win scenario for all. he even got to do his job by getting some rube (see: you) into trying a new product.

“hey, ajax.” you’ve long since given up pretending that you don’t know his name and have to check the tag on his cute blue apron (why is it cute? you don’t know. it’s the same, standard, café lutece royal blue, but ajax makes it look homely and natural, somehow). you’ve been here way too many times over the last academic year for a nonchalant, were you talking to me? approach to work, anyway. “that, plus a conch madeline, if you don’t mind. what’ve you got there?”

his eyes follow the trail of yours over to his wrinkled worksheet. “oh — no, sorry. it’s nothing.”

“is it a secret?” your bottom lip juts out, and you see his adam’s apple bob dangerously, a small telltale sign of minute nervousness before he lets out a short laugh. “didn’t know we kept stuff from each other.”

you don’t know what makes you say that so naturally. the both of you don’t do much beyond exchanging pleasantries. you’re pretty sure he’s thinking about that fact too, because he stares for a little too long before responding.

“we — uh, well, it’s just a worksheet. for professor alkindi’s class. college algebra?”

“i’m in professor naphis’s block. can i have a look? i want to know if you’re suffering just as much as i am.”

he pauses, considering your request for a moment, likely wondering if there’s any harm in it before he smooths the paper out and turns it towards you. his handwriting’s a little messy, but his solutions are extremely neat. you see, like, one erasure, max. you also don’t see anything that interests you — except the name written at the top. still, you can see at a general glance that more than half of his answers are correct; the logic of his organization is way too elegant and his writing’s too sure to be anything else. you whistle low, and his eyebrows shoot up.

“something wrong?”

“pretty much the opposite. how is it that you’re doing this without breaking a sweat?”

“oh, well — it’s not…” he doesn’t even know how to brag. yet another item in the perpetually growing list of things you find cute about ajax. “i mean, anyone can?”

“i must not be anyone then.” you meet his quizzical look with a wry smile. “either you guys are leaps and bounds ahead, or i’m really not going to make it through this semester.”

another silence passes, just for a fraction of a second — short enough to be passable to others, but long enough for you to wonder if your humor code isn’t up to par with the rest of the world’s — before ajax’s chuckling lowly. his large palm comes down, covering a majority of his answers in the process.

“you’re kidding. i’m sure you’re doing just fine.”

“ajax, look at this face.” you gesture to your evidently dumbfounded, blank expression. “does this look like the face of someone that’s doing just fine?”

you’re pleased to hear another laugh from him; you don’t know if he really finds you funny or if he’s just the type to be easily amused. you don’t want to know, anyway; assuming is better than actually finding out.

“that bad, huh?” he slides the worksheet away again, like he’s afraid his correct answers are going to offend you into leaving the cafe. instead, his hands start working on your order, grabbing a cup and scrawling the shorthand of the drink on one of the little boxes. “ever think about getting a tutor, maybe? if you really feel like you’re drowning, that is.”

“a tutor? i guess that depends. are you free on weeknights?”

the marker makes a soft screeching sound as he drags it down with too much force, ruining the penmanship of your name. ajax takes a moment to stare at the mistake on the plastic before he looks at you, pointing the rim of the cup towards himself. “sorry — am i free—?”

“you said i should get a tutor, right?”

“i thought — no, sorry, i was thinking more like one of those department-assigned tutors you can ask the faculty for, or something.”

“oh. are you not one of them?” you sigh, albeit a little over dramatically. thankfully, he doesn’t really cotton onto your acting, too caught up in befuddlement at the turn of the conversation. “that’s a bummer. i was kinda hoping that if i was going to ask for help, i’d get an actual genius. you know — someone like you?”

you can tell by ajax’s expression that he’s torn between denying your compliment again and responding to your actual question; he looks both relieved and miffed when the student behind you clears her throat.

“sorry, but— you know that there’s a line, right?”

you both apologize, ajax’s much more sincere than your own, and you step aside. his gaze follows you for a moment before it snaps back to the next customer, his voice abandoning that bemused uncertainty it had taken up with you. you don’t really mind; as far as you’re concerned, any dent in his barista persona when he talks to you is a step in the right direction.

you hang around the pick-up area, receipt in hand, watching ajax clear the line before moving to the actual stations near the kitchen area. there’s a concentration on his face that you find all the more attractive; he has a habit of chewing on his bottom lip when he’s trying to focus on getting the drizzle just right inside the cup’s cylinder.

he tends to try his best at everything, you figure. not an unattractive quality — not by a long shot.

ajax finishes your drink first; the milk’s still only seeping, cloudy, into the coffee when he brings it over. he doesn’t even have to call your queue number, opting to meet your eye — albeit slightly hesitantly — instead. you reach out to hold the cup, a calculated move that allows you to brush hands against his without him being able to pull back on instinct. he doesn’t, nor does he really seem to want to, but his jaw tightens as a flush creeps along the curve of his ears.

“you really won’t help me?”

your question’s abrupt, almost a little demanding, even if your voice is sweet. you’re not above asking this much, anyway, even if you technically want him to make the first move. the redness sinks down to his earlobes.

“i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t really say anything,” you tease. the cup’s on the counter now, so he can easily relinquish it to you at this point, but he still hesitates, only one hand slipping out from under the heat of your palm. he uses it to rub the back of his neck, chuckling softly, and you take this as a green light. “what time does your shift end?”

“five-thirty. you sure you wouldn’t want someone better?”

you pull your cup slowly to yourself, and his hand, still lightly trapped by your own, follows for a few inches before he’s withdrawing, the counter between the two of you forcing the distance. a smile follows the shaking of your head, and you take a small sip of the drink before you respond simply.

“there’s no one better than you.”

ajax is a prompt kind of person; you learn this when, at five-thirty, he comes over to your table, tugging his apron off over his head. of course, you might attribute that to his overall personality, but the fact that you spend the remaining two hours of his shift casting him glances from the left side of the coffee shop might have also been a contributing factor. the looks you give him aren’t even furtive; they’re deliberately long, so you never miss whenever he looks over to you from time to time.

he doesn’t hold eye contact for very long (he does it well enough when he’s talking to customers, but it’s not like you’re ordering another cold brew from across the room at that point), but you can read snippets of his thoughts through the fleeting gaze exchanges. he’s curious as to why you’re asking for help, now, of all times, when the semester’s more than halfway over. he’s surprised that you asked him, of all people, because he just can’t conceive of a world that isn’t within a television show where this kind of abrupt, overt request makes sense. he’s flattered that you even asked him out of the blue. he’s equal parts anxious and eager to know what’s meant to happen after his shift, once he starts fulfilling your request.

most of all, he’s unsure if he’s reading you right — if what it feels like you’re doing is something he’s attaching too deep a meaning to. if he’s right in reading your signs.

you don’t really mind it; you like knowing that ajax somehow wears his heart on his sleeve, even if he tries to remain neutral for the sake of appearances. you also bask quietly in the fact that he’s looking at you twice as much as he ever has in the time you’ve loosely known each other. still, his bubbling confusion and inquisitiveness seem to be interfering with the rest of his work, especially when you notice that he’s been wiping down the surface of a table two down from where you are for more than seven minutes.

in the hopes of easing whatever tension might be in his heart, you offer him a small smile, but that’s only met with his eyes immediately glazing over and inching a couple of centimeters above your forehead, where the story of café lutece’s origins is drawn out in a faux-manga style. he pretends to find it interesting, as if he hasn’t seen it a million times from coming into this establishment day after day — you know it well enough, and you don’t even have to, considering you don’t work here — and you can’t do anything but hold back your laughter.

a small part of you says you should just give him the affirmative answer to his biggest question, but every other cell in your body says that it’s no fun if he doesn’t ascertain it for himself.

he has his school bag and textbook in tow when he approaches, taking the seat across from you. there’s a steely resolution on his face, like he’s been emotionally preparing himself for such a daunting task, but it eases up the moment you laugh lightly.

“you don’t have to act like i’m going to eat you.”

“i’m still not sure why you’re suddenly asking me to help you,” he admits. he’s also very honest, you note. again, not an unattractive trait. “i’m not complaining. i just didn’t think you even had an opinion of me.”

“why’s that?” you’re genuinely surprised. ajax drums his fingers on the front of his textbook, thoughtful — less for the sake of thinking what to say and more for the sake of considering how to say it. it’s clear he wants to avoid calling attention to the fact that before now, you two have had no reason to run the same track, let alone sit together and talk at a coffee shop, as if you’ve always been the best of friends.

“genuinely just thought i was the guy who gave you your afternoon coffee every day,” he finally settles. your eyes widen, and another laugh escapes you — a little louder this time, enough to call the attention of a couple of jumpy freshmen nearby.

“well, let me put it this way.” you lean over slightly, cupping your chin in your palm. “was i just the girl you made coffee for every day until now?”

there are clear cogs turning in his head; his eyes unfocus slightly as he thinks of the possibilities. his silence suddenly makes you somewhat nervous; your tone had been confident, and you’d only said that to prove a point, to push him in the right direction, but you realize that you hadn’t previously factored in the possibility that he might simply say yes — or, worse, say no just to avoid hurting your feelings.

you watch his lower lip curl in; he uses his tongue to smooth out the skin that’s slightly dried from work fatigue. you would much rather it peeked out, so you could imagine it against your own. his response is mumbled in a lower register, but you catch some key syllables — didn’t… not … stranger — pretty … you?

“sorry?” you ask patiently, but the fact that he turns red and laughs again — something you realize is not only a trademark of his personality but also downright delicious of him to be doing — is all the answer you need to let the apprehension seep from your shoulders. “i didn’t catch that.”

ajax clears his throat. “no, i… didn’t think of you that way. i mean… you’re my classmate.”

“sure,” your tone’s breezy, but the somewhat sloppy confirmation of interest in you makes your heart soar. he just needs more of a push. “and we’re basically friends, right?”

“yeah.” his voice is unsure at first, like he can’t seem to wrap his head around the concept. you can tell that ajax’s notion of friendship is likely based on shared interests, of which you admittedly have none. technically, if you were his friend, you’d spend less time just telling him the exact same order every single day and more time sitting around a table trying to learn how to play genius invokation tcg with him. still, he takes one long look at your grin and suddenly gains confidence in his next words, as if it somehow convinces him that the briefness of your old conversations had been a mutually agreed-upon thing and not the product of social distance between the two of you. “yeah. we’re friends.”

“right. friends help friends, don’t they? i’d definitely feel more comfortable having a friend teach me than some stuffy upperclassman i don’t know.”

you see ajax’s lips move slightly, in such small movements you could have imagined it as breathing if you didn’t care too much (which you do). he mouths, to himself — friends help friends. for some reason, that boosts his conviction even further, and he nods.

“makes sense. well — for as long as you don’t mind me, then.”

“mind? i asked you, so i should be saying that.”

“i’d never mind — i mean, of course i don’t mind.” he’s quick to correct himself, and you have to stop your own hand from reaching out to try to satisfy your curiosity, the desire to know just how hot his cheeks get when he blushes. “more than happy to help, actually.”

“and i’m more than happy to be here.” you beam at him, and he mirrors your smile. you don’t know what it is about the look on his face — the brightness in his eyes, or the slight lift of his eyebrows, maybe — but it gives you the impression that he might be feeling at least a fraction of what you are: the feeling of your heart lifting off a few inches from your rib cage. “since we’re on the same page, i hope — should we get to it?”

from the moment that ajax opens his textbook to a chapter on inverted parabolas, he assumes a personality you feel you haven’t seen from him before. you realize that you really do know him in only two limited capacities — his classroom persona that seems to really only view himself and the material, focused on the board and the professor’s words (even up until the useless anecdotes) to absorb as much information as possible, and his more genial customer service form, always happy to assist in the trained, easygoing way you’ve come to meet so often.

right now, he’s a blend of both, yet somehow neither all at once. he’s quick to catch the parabolas you draw, either wrongly or downright poorly. despite initial hesitation, he always manages to say something; there’s already a pattern to how he does it, from his slightly awkward, “ah, sorry, actually —” to the way his finger traces over what you’ve written, outlining the right curve. you find his interruptions so endearing that you start drawing them wrong purposefully — not enough for him to realize your schemes in their entirety, but enough to cast you a few amused glances, like he can’t imagine why you’d map out such an absurd graph. you get the feeling he wants to actually laugh at how ridiculous you’re acting, but he can’t tell if you’re seriously struggling or not, so he settles for a smile he thinks he does well in keeping to himself, but that you catch anyway. he’s patient, even when you have to rip out pages from the back of his notebook because of your ‘mistakes,’ like he’s still catering to your request for an extra pump of syrup for your coffee on sleepy days.

but there’s also that side to him that comes out when he suddenly remembers the distance between you that, before today, had felt unlikely to be closed. it peaks at odd moments, like when you’re borrowing his pen because yours is currently holding your slowly unraveling bun up, and your fingers brush against his. it surfaces abruptly when you lean in to watch what he’s drawing until he realizes how close you are, arm lightly grazing his, and his pen freezes, ink blotting on the paper for a second. it’s in those times that you can almost hear his brain churning out questions — like he’s wondering if you’re just oblivious or if you’re doing something on purpose that he can’t quite believe. like he wants to ask you what’s on your mind, but he just doesn’t know how.

if he asked, you would reply without missing a beat. the answer, after all, is simple (him). but ajax never raises the question, only does something without fully acknowledging what he’s doing — the adjustment of his glasses on the bridge of his nose, the ruffling of his hair as though to shake off his thoughts, the clearing of his throat to normalize his tone before he explains something you’ve just asked about. there’s always that light tinge of pink to his face that makes him look even more endearing, and it fades and returns every so often for the better part of two hours.

by the time he rubs oncoming fatigue out of his eyes, the sun has already set; there are far fewer people around you at this time, and for as much as you like spending time with him and breathing in the scent of his shirt — always a tinge of fabric conditioner, barely cutting through the much more overpowering scent of espresso and sugar — your back has begun hurting from your front-heavy posture and determination to have your face as close as rationally possible to ajax’s. still, you don’t miss out on the fact that the act of him cracking his neck to relieve tension makes your lips curl inward, trying to stifle an inappropriate noise in reaction to the view.

“i feel like i talked your ear off,” he pipes up, sounding a bit sheepish. “sometimes it’s hard to know when to stop once you’ve gotten started. i’m just hoping i didn’t bore you to death.”

“meanwhile, i’m here hoping you aren’t sick of my questions already.” you smile, closing your notebook and hanging the clip of your pen on the spiral. your arms stretch up first, followed by your back, a light twist to relax your posture into normalcy again. ajax’s breathing falls quiet, like he’d been preparing to say something in response but had let it die in the back of his throat instead. you let your eyes drop, expecting to see him looking at you, as he mostly has been — on and off — since his shift ended, but his eyes are far lower than your line of vision, the telltale redness now growing in evident splotches across his cheeks.

the hem of your shirt has ridden up; while there’s nothing outrageous about it, there’s a short expanse of skin that it reveals, for a brief moment. his eyes are slightly glossy, brow furrowed like he’s trying to find a solution to something he can’t fully understand. you’re not even sure about what he could really be looking at, or if there’s something he’s just thinking of that caught his attention while his eyes focused on a rather unfortunate spot. to test your theory, you suck in your stomach slightly alongside an inhale.

it should be objectively funny to watch ajax blink unevenly, left eye going first before his right tries to catch up, but you manage to stifle your laughter — poorly, though, because you end up coughing a little and breaking him out of his strange trance. you avert your eyes quickly enough for him to look vaguely relieved that you hadn’t caught him looking. so he thinks, at least.

“anyway.” you feel bad that you have to tear his mind away from whatever faraway land it must be trying to burrow a hole in; the dazed expression on his face dims into hastily hidden embarrassment. you don’t want him to feel awkward, so you just busy yourself with packing up, making an unnecessary show of stuffing your notebook back into your bag as if it isn’t half-empty at this point. “i really appreciate you taking the time to help me.”

“any time.” his first attempt is a little raspy, maybe from overuse of his voice today, so he clears his throat and tries again. a slow smile builds on your lips. “any time, really. i’m glad that this is actually helping you; you pick things up surprisingly fast.”

“wait, really?”

“yeah. give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll probably be ready to tackle it on your own again, i’m sure.”

he smiles reassuringly, but all you can think about is how that’s not good. you should pretend to be a little dumber next time, or this will end much too prematurely.

the next five minutes pass in silence; you don’t expect to be knee-deep in conversation anyway since, as much as you try to convince him, you aren’t actually anywhere close to being those kinds of friends yet. there’s an unspoken rule to the give and take of things, where he pauses for you to get an item off the table and push it into your bag before he does the same with his own belongings. neither of you really intersect paths, save for the moment you both grab your phones and stand at the same time.

his jaw falls open like he’s preparing to say something, then shuts as if he’s better decided against it. you decide to take the initiative to say what you’re assuming he wants to. “same time, same table?”

“oh — uh, yeah, for sure.”

you want to ask him to walk out with you. you want to lace your fingers with his, tug him out, and kiss him under the blue and white glow of the sign outside. you want to know if kissing his collarbone means you’ll taste a hint of coffee. you think about doing it all somehow, especially since he’s fighting back a slight smile at the promise of tomorrow.

but it just isn’t the right time.

instead, you place a hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. the slow movement of his throat — yet another hard swallow — isn’t lost on you, and his eyes land on where the two of you connect. with a grateful smile, you bid him a soft goodbye, taking your leave first.

you don’t look back — at least, not until you’re fully in the cover of the darkness outside. on the gravel path, just out of reach of the lamplight, you chance one last glance back into the store. ajax is still rooted to the same spot, his backpack slung over one shoulder, staring at the table like he’s dissociating from what just happened — like he can’t believe the last couple of hours.

your smile grows when you see his own, and his hand comes around to the back of his neck, rubbing it lightly like it gives him small comfort to let him know that it was real.

baby steps, you remind yourself. you’ve already got one foot in the door, after all.

as the days trickle by, you fall into a more comfortable standing with ajax; there’s a routine to your meetings that seems to eliminate the initial and abrupt awkwardness of that first day. you come into café lutece at four, greet ajax, who doesn’t ever have to ask for your order, and spend the next hour and a half slowly sipping on it until the ice has thinned and watered down your drink substantially. in that time, you allow yourself to do whatever you want (as if you’ve ever done otherwise anyway), and what you usually want the most is a good view of him. you therefore use most of the minutes you have on hand to regard him from different angles — from the side when he’s frothing milk, upfront when he turns to leave cups on the pick-up counter, from the back when he’s clearing tables — interspersed with moments of checking your tiktok feed, clearing group chat messages, and sometimes re-curling the ends of your hair with a portable iron from the school’s co-op center, a relatively new purchase you tote around these days. it’s not even like you need it, but it just feels nice to have something to do with your hands, and it also kind of makes you look dexterous, you think. you do essentially anything in between to avoid acting too suspicious while he works.

sometimes, you catch ajax’s eye too; the more your meetings increase in number over the course of a few weeks, the more deliberately he looks over at you, and the longer it lasts. you feel like you’ve made significant progress when your gazes lock and he smiles slightly, albeit a bit unsurely, instead of turning away like he used to. the other day, he’d even passed by while apologizing for how long you always waited for him — not that you ever minded, something you made a point to clarify with him before he walked away, carrying a couple of chairs from the back room with him to replace rickety ones.

that he’s able to transport them easily, as if he’s lugging a bag of apples from the grocery, does not escape your watchful eye.

what you like the most is that you start to learn more about him in a way that isn’t fueled only by your expectations and, therefore, limited by your imagination. you find out that he’s from a close-knit family with a rather cushy background, and this barista job is just for interest funding and experience, in that exact order. most of his earnings are funneled into the things he collects, which apparently isn’t limited to mangas and special edition blu-rays with director’s cut but also a rather stupendous amount of popmart blind box figurines. apparently, he particularly likes the skullpanda series even if he hasn’t completed it yet; your last session together had adjourned thirty minutes earlier than usual so that he could catch a pre-rush hour aquabus to marcotte, where the flagship store was set to open on that day. he’d promised to show you his pulls (as long as they weren’t embarrassing dupes). you learn that he likes to listen to loud music when he studies to stimulate his mind, and he has a playlist that’s just a jumble of songs from punk goes pop volumes that makes him feel empowered for some absurd reason, like he’s going against the grain. you don’t really get it, but you do like that spiced-up rendition of furina de fontaine’s as light rain falls without reason that he let you listen to once.

of course, there are things that you find out not through conversation but through continued, closer observation. you notice that he likes to put on chapstick even if his lips aren’t particularly dry, but he does worry on them often, most especially when he’s thinking hard about something. he has a habit of saying honestly… at the start of every other sentence, as if he’s concerned you won’t take his word on anything, even though he’s just talking about how unnaturally hot it was at noon despite it still being spring. he has long eyelashes that you’re equal parts attracted to and jealous of, and he bites the inside of his cheek whenever he wants to pep himself up after grueling shifts. he plays beats you’re not even sure he knows he’s creating against his knee with his fingers, so enthusiastic and consistent in this habit that you want to offer your thigh instead. his shoulders always go first before he laughs, and he does this thing where he raises his hand to cover his mouth at the start of it, which is a shame, because you’d do anything to keep seeing him smile like that — or, better yet, to be the reason for it.

then there are those things you notice he tries to hide. he always turns his face halfway to the side when he blushes, something he seems to do without fail every time you smile at him. he has to temper the intensity of his grin when you take the time to compliment him on how cool his shirt is, or how nice his hair looks today, or how smart he is, like he doesn’t want you to know how good it makes him feel even if you want him to feel good about it, around you, because of you. sometimes he denies it for the sake of responding, and his voice always lilts on the first syllable in his refusal to accept what you say, even though he knows you won’t take it for an answer.

and after a couple more careful experiments, you notice that ajax, out of the many things he’s interested in, seems to have a particular thing for your stomach.

you don’t know if it has anything to do with him not really seeing much of it in real life in his own time or if he just has his own kind of fixation on it, but you start to cotton on by the fourth time you meet. an hour of being hunched over a table that’s not at the greatest height in relation to your neck and torso has you stiff, and you’d leaned back in your chair, arms pulling to the air, hoping your spine might feel like realigning if you exerted enough tension pressure that way. your shirt hadn’t ridden up this time, considering it had been tucked into your jeans, and it was because of this that you’d caught a flicker of something new in his face that you hadn’t seen before.

you could have sworn it looked like disappointment.

of course, he hides it quickly, as he does with most of his emotional candor, but it’s enough to make you suspicious — enough to make you wonder if ajax is also just keeping something to himself. or maybe you’re just projecting your own presently secretive nature onto him. regardless, you think it’s odd that whenever you stand up or stretch, his eyes almost immediately fall to your midriff, like he wants to challenge your clothing into a staring contest before he thinks better of it.

you don’t mind, anyway. he can look as much as he likes. maybe when the weather’s warmer, you’ll even cater to that interest and wear a crop top. hopefully, that’ll be the push he needs to act on human instinct and ask you out or, like… bend you over. maybe.

you’re often plagued with these kinds of thoughts in between the ones you try to keep as family-friendly as possible — now, more so than ever.

sometimes, it’s easier, especially when you’re caught up in talks with him; despite the fact that he doesn’t seem like much of a conversationalist when it comes to generic matters, when either he or you are enthusiastic about a particular topic, he has a tendency to get carried away. there’s nothing impure about how his eyes light up when you remember to ask him about the movie he saw with his friends over the weekend or the way he hums old cartoon theme songs under his breath whenever he’s looking for a page in the textbook. it’s more of a situation where you’ll observe something and immediately run with it despite it being an objectively normal action.

like right now, as you’re watching him turn his pen between his fingers. now, while he’s shaking his knee in mild impatience, as if he’s trying to will the answer to the worksheets you’ve both been trying to get through for the better part of the day faster. you’d made copies of the problems your professors had assigned and exchanged them under the premise of being able to practice more intensely.

however, whereas ajax is actually focused on solving, you’re just watching him out of the corner of your eye, wondering if he’s ever been told that his fingers are fuck-worthy on a singular, unique level or if it’d feel good for you to ride the thigh he’s currently moving, jeans and all. you consider the feeling of his warm palms on your bare waist as you do it, and you end up wondering if that’s what crosses his mind whenever he sneaks glances at you, too.

you’d know the answer to all those things if he’d fucking ask you out. maybe you could do it after all. maybe you should, instead of relying on slowly increasing the probability over such a long period of time. maybe if you asked nicely, ajax might pull the shades down on the storefront windows and rail you against the glass.

you’re so lost in thought that it genuinely startles you when he plops his textbook over the worksheet, rattling your eraser dangerously close to the edge of the table. you’re still clutching your heart while he rubs his eyes a little too violently.

“can’t,” he groans, and his neck gives into the weight of his head, allowing it to loll backward. “i feel like the numbers are just melting into each other. i swear, i thought i could read words out of them.”

“maybe we were a little too ambitious with the double worksheet agenda,” you admit, even though you’ve barely gotten past half of yours and certainly haven’t touched a single item on his. “should we call it a day for now?”

“yeah,” he agrees, although he still takes the time to encircle his final answers before clapping his palms to his cheeks (an act that has your mind dangerously close to wandering off inappropriately again) to wake himself up. “woah. i didn’t even notice how dark it is already. i’d say time flies when you’re having fun, but i’m not too sure about the ‘fun’ part of it…”

you trace his gaze towards the glass; the moon’s already out, surrounded by a smattering of low-light stars. you hadn’t realized how late it had gotten, probably because your mind had been on r-18 mode for most of the afternoon. also, the days are getting generally shorter, but that fact doesn’t make you feel as embarrassed, at least.

“you got a ride?”

the question once again shocks you out of your small trance, and you turn back to him with wide eyes. “well — no. wait, i didn’t know you had a car. why’d you take the aquabus, then?”

“oh — no, sorry, i… don’t.” he looks suddenly sheepish, eyes dropping to the shiny surface of the table for a moment before they snap back up, as if he’s actually actively reminding himself to look at you. “i was wondering if you wanted me to — actually, more than that, are you going home already? not that you need to stay; it’s not that important, but…”

you try to gloss over the fact that he had just been about to initiate another huge step in the right direction (i.e. offering to walk you home) by beaming at him, maybe a little too widely, if only to mask your disappointment at the sudden shift in conversation. “i have nothing waiting at home for me but a sandwich dinner and reruns of masquerade of the guilty, so hit me with whatever it is.”

“oh, cool.” his lips turn up, and the corners shake, this show of happiness once again tamped down by his own inexplicable desire to maintain a safe distance. how are you supposed to tell him you’re desperate to bridge that gap without using those exact words? “i came from the flagship store yesterday — the one in marcotte that i told you about?” he allows the smile to widen slightly when you nod in genuine understanding. “got the last six boxes of the collection i’ve been trying to finish.”

you whistle appreciatively. “can i ask you for a loan on my next phone bill? you know, once i’ve upgraded to something pricier.”

“nah — just itching to complete the set,” he laughs. you wonder if he’s been doing that more often because he knows its crippling effect on you, though you doubt he’s that sly. again, maybe you’re just projecting too much of your own motivations onto him. “this was probably about two months of saving up combined.”

“no new blue lock issues to look out for, then?” your voice is warm even though it takes on a teasing tone; ajax’s hand rubs the back of his neck, and his expression is a little sheepish, but you’re happy that the times he used to go completely quiet, opting only to blush at your attempts to act more familiar with him are pretty much gone now.

“maybe next month.” you also like that he doesn’t really treat his hobbies as secrets, neither out of shame nor snobbishness. he explains these things to you the same way he does the topics you study — with an air of contentedness, like he’s happy someone listens to him without interrupting. on your end, you have no qualms with listening to his voice for hours, wondering when he’ll stop using it to greet you when you come through the door and when he’ll start saying your name in a way that makes you feel like you’re the only one he sees whenever you’re near. it’s a win-win situation (sort of). “i was actually debating between this collection and a really rare copy of fiete— well, never mind that. i just thought — since you were asking me a bit about blind boxes last time. you know, if you wanted to. with… me.”

as much as he’s become comfortable talking to you about things that don’t involve coffee orders and school, you can’t say that you aren’t doing your fair share of the work in connecting the dots; the demand for your efforts is exponentially higher in moments like this, when you think he’s trying to ask you something but can’t seem to find less-than-eager words to avoid what he thinks might spook you.

luckily, he augments his fragments with action; reaching into his backpack — which you notice seems to be bulkier than usual — he starts extracting small brown boxes, all with the same design; it seems, for lack of better words, aesthetically gothic, and you reach out to pick one up, turning it over and examining the print on each side with vague interest. ajax starts laying them out on top of each other until there’s a small, somewhat unstable pyramid in front of him, then shifts his attention fully to you, just as you’re putting the box in your hand atop all the rest.

“i’d love to.” you beam as he does, and there’s a wondrous relief in his eyes that tells you he’s glad you manage to catch onto his words — or lack, thereof — surprisingly well. “for as long as you don’t blame me for any bad draws.”

“the contents have already been decided by my own hand — sort of,” he chuckles. “point is, i would never do that to you. but i won’t lie; i kind of want to rely on your luck a little more.”

“what makes you think i’d have any of that running through my system?”

“not sure — beginner’s luck, maybe? you just kind of look like one of those kinds of people to me — like… you’re just made of good things.”

you don’t know how to take this compliment; on the one hand, it’s easily one of the sweetest things ajax has ever said to you that doesn’t involve anything with actual sugar content. on the other, you know you’re not as lucky as he makes it sound, considering you’re still striking out on getting past the borderline of friendship with him. all you can do is smile, nodding and making to move closer to him by sliding into the next seat.

it’s hard to ignore the sight of him stiffening; something like surprise mingled with both fear and interest flashes strong across his face, but you don’t do anything to acknowledge the slight change in atmosphere, choosing to settle down comfortably and clap your hands. “so. what are the rules? what can i do, and what can’t i?”

“uh.” his throat constricts at the right moment, the syllable getting caught and causing him to clear his throat. you know that this is the nearest you’ve ever been to him, the sleeve of your shirt tickling his arm. upon closer, albeit brief inspection, you note that he’s also rather veiny. that doesn’t do your impurity any favors. “not… really rules, or anything like that. just — these are the ones i’ve been looking for. not that you can really control it, but in case you were curious about that.”

you squint intently at the scaled-down images he points out. there’s one that looks like a penguin caught in an oil spill; another that seems to be in a polar bear costume, dozing; and — “what’s… halo? halo…bios?”

“it just means marine life,” he answers quickly, like the thought means close to nothing to him to know something that obscure. whoever said that smart is the new sexy wasn’t joking. “like… all things that live in the ocean, that kind of thing.”

“and you know this because?”

he pauses, looking thoughtful. “i’m not sure. i guess i must have just learned it when i was curious about what it meant some time ago. isn’t that how we all learn things?”

you shake your head incredulously, and he smiles a little apologetically. “you never cease to amaze me.” your nail drums against the silhouette of one with a question ajax on it. “what’s this supposed to be? can you draw your own figurine, or something?”

“no.” he’s clearly amused, but his expression’s still patronizing enough for you to not feel too bad about saying something idiotic. “it’s a secret design — a money drainer, basically. i think this one’s called dream eater. you could buy a full set of this and still not get it. some people will open hundreds without any luck, so it’s really rare.”

“you don’t want it?”

“i try not to get too caught up in the secret thing,” he admits. “otherwise…”

“no rare collectibes for the rest of your life, basically?”

he taps his nose, and you both share another laugh. it’s nice, you think, to have come this far — to be someone ajax can share his interests and thoughts with. you may have been stretching the word to its limit when you first punched your way into his social life and called yourself his friend, but it feels more real now, more natural to think about and say. even if he still sometimes seems to be hyperaware of the gap between the both of you, there’s no denying, at least, that it’s been significantly reduced, and this much is a testament to that.

“well, leave it up to me. i’ll let all of this beginner’s luck rub off on you,” you announce with overflowing albeit unfounded confidence.

you both decide to open a box each at the same time; ajax suddenly panics and asks you not to unseal the foil bag right away without looking at the card inside first, earning him one slightly alarmed look followed by a burst of laughter at his pained expression when you pretend to rip open the packaging. comparing pulls, you identify them using the set chart — your luck doesn’t seem to be operating at full capacity yet because you can only offer him the card of one that looks like a floppy pigeon, which he responds to with a slightly apologetic grimace before saying he’s already pulled that thrice in the past. he, on the other hand, is turning the card of the polar bear over in his palm, trying not to make you feel bad for your duplicate pull by slipping it under his textbook when your eyes land on it.

the second round isn’t much better; both of you manage to pull something he’s already added to his collection, and as you’re ripping the seal to your third box, he pauses and watches you. you think it’s because he’s concerned about the obvious shit luck you’ve had thus far and wants to snatch it from you before your negative energy transfigures whatever’s inside into something he doesn’t want, and you’re just about to offer the half-opened package to him before he pushes the one on his end to you.

“no way, ajax.” your eyes are wide, a palm up to reject it. “if that turns out to be another dupe by my hand, i’m literally going to walk into oncoming traffic.”

he has to control his amusement at your words so that it doesn’t completely shake his voice into incoherence. “i picked all of these while i was there, so if anything, you’re only riding off my bad luck. besides, this is your first time doing this. i want you to have fun.”

“but,” your voice is pained. “your money.”

“it’s not a big deal. with how few i need to complete them, i was definitely bound to run into more repeats than new ones.” he taps the front of the textbook — or, at least, the part of it not buried under the figurines and sealing tapes yet. “probability mathematics.”

“i thought we already ended the study part of the day,” you grumble but concede, putting aside the one you half-opened to tear the top of his. you’re careful when you shake out the foil packaging, making sure to place it upright on the table before extracting the card. both of your faces fall — yours more than his — when you see it’s a repeat of the polar bear.

“almost. it would’ve been a pretty lucky pull earlier, so it’s technically not bad,” he tries to reassure you, but you childishly feel like you’ve been the sole source of his disappointment thus far. “try the last one.”

it’s irrational, but you’re suddenly anxious about it. for some reason, you’re worried that this will topple the carefully constructed ladder you’ve propped up against ajax’s tower of social defense. even if he’s being genial about your rotten pulls, you don’t know how much of it is just resignation to dismay on his part.

you say a small prayer, then fully rip off the seal; you don’t even take out the packaged figuring anymore. you just shimmy the card out of the box, turning it over when you notice it’s upside down.

for a moment, your shoulders deflate. it’s closest to this pastel purple figurine in the middle of the line-up, its stupid puckered lips almost taunting you. he hadn’t even mentioned it as something he’s looking for, so you almost feel like this has come to a horrible full circle. but then he grabs the box, checks the list, and looks back at your card again. he looks shell-shocked, and you’re not sure if it’s the strong air conditioning directed towards the two of you or if it’s just his hands, but the image he’s holding is shivering slightly.

you look more closely at it, and something just doesn’t feel right. color palette aside, there are notable differences — different colored lips, a more intricate ear design, and closed eyes. it’s…

“dream eater,” ajax’s voice is hushed, almost reverent, and very, very close to your ear. “it’s the secret one. you’re… incredible.”

“what are you talking about,” your words are just as raspy; you’re not sure if you’re actually choked up with emotion or something — over a figurine, you have to remind yourself. “you picked all of this. i just ripped open the box.”

the hush that falls over the both of you feels very concrete, weighty on your shoulders. his fingers creep towards the foil packet — the only one he actually opens because there’s no way he’s not keeping it. the shiny purple head gleams under the fluorescent, the glitter around the star and moon designs catching the light as he turns it left to right, like he’s worried it’s a fake. you can tell why people want these things so much; there’s a thrill in you that lingers, makes you feel warm and alert. it’s anticipation, despair, excitement, and triumph all in one sitting.

you’re stroking the smooth curve of the design by the ears lightly when ajax speaks up again and says the most outrageous thing.

“i want you to have it.”

“what?” you actually have to pop your ear canal in front of him with your pinky to make sure he knows how ludicrous he sounds. “this is… you said it was crazy rare.”

“yeah. and you pulled it, with your magic. that’s like… unimaginable luck. even more than beginner’s luck.”

“like i said, i literally just opened the box.”

“no — you have like… the golden touch.”

“please,” you hiss, a genuine testiness to your voice. “do not. i was just here for the ride — the experience, and all.”

“seriously, take it.”

“absolutely not—”

it’s a chaotic moment of him trying to hand you the figurine and you outright rejecting it, with both your palms working hard to push it back to him. instead of nudging the plastic back, though, you end up placing the full force of your hands against his fingers.

there’s no actual spark when you touch, but your reactions make it feel like there might as well have been; you even lock eyes in startled unison, like you can’t believe that just happened, before you pull away quickly, ajax drawing the figuring back to his torso while looking away towards the counter, where a lowerclassman is wiping down the stains. you want to scream at your warped reflection in the window. you barely initiate contact with him, but you imagine that if you ever did, you would prefer to not be saying something as abjectly negative as absolutely not while doing so.

your mind flails in an attempt to mitigate the issue and water down the embarrassment, and clearly he’s struggling to figure it out too, because he pipes up before you can piece your thoughts together.

“no, really.” his tone is a lot milder and, consequently, a lot more persuasive this way. “you should take it. i want you to.”

“it’s not mine. this is your thing — your hobby.”

“that’s why i’m giving it to you. i swear — i want you to keep it.”

“why?”

he lapses into silence again, but his face is much redder than earlier. his mouth opens in an attempt to say something, but he just manages to uh his way back into a state of quiet, which gives you a chance to speak instead.

“we can… share it,” you suggest. “shared custody…. or something like that.”

his eyebrow cocks involuntarily, and his jaw falls again, but all he does in actual response is nod — slowly at first, then with more sureness to the act.

“yeah. we can share it. i’d… like that.”

you’re glad that the bulk of the awkwardness has fizzled out fairly easily, and when you think about it, this feels like a pretty good course of action; you like that it’s this little link between the two of you now — something you share that no one else can touch.

ajax, you notice, is smiling as well — more to himself than towards you, it seems. his thumb grazes across the face of the figurine, slow across the lips, and you’re once again falling into a pit of nonsense by wondering when he’d do that to you.

“thanks for staying with me,” he finally says, and your heart jolts and melts all at once. “and for… doing this. for chatting with me. and giving me your luck, and all that. great way to end the day… with you.”

you say no problem, but on your walk home, after ajax packs up his figurines carefully and gives you the box containing dream eater with a serene little smile, you deeply regret when you realize you could have just said it didn’t have to end just yet.

“hello? come back down to earth?”

“shut up,” you sigh at the guy seated across you —kaeya alberich, an upperclassman, your gender studies classmate, and current project partner, waves in front of your face. you shoo his hand away, which only joins his other one as he throws them in defeat above his head. “stop moving. be quiet. don’t talk.”

“that’s the same thing as shut up and be quiet. what’s up with you?” he demands. “fifteen minutes ago, you were full of ideas. now i feel like i’m talking to a wax figure.”

you’d been engrossed in your report for the last hour and a half, and the subject matter is admittedly something you enjoy — the role of gender in twenty-first century fontainian marketing and advertisement, a title kaeya had taken more than ten minutes to type into the google docs header because he was pissed off at how the numbers looked like in the fonts he chose. he’s an enthusiastic classmate and someone you’ve come to be friendly with, not only because he’s genuinely approachable but also because he has fits of nosiness and talkativeness at the strangest moments, so a chunk of your relationship is mostly based on social terrorism on his part. you like him well enough most of the time — save for the last fifteen minutes of this hour.

because ajax had just come in for his shift fifteen minutes ago, and suddenly kaeya is much too noisy for your taste, and his head is honestly way too big to the point that it gets in the way of your opportunities to see ajax behind the counter. you even resent him for choosing a booth instead of your usual table all of a sudden, because your view of the central barista’s area is much more limited from this angle, especially since the huge espresso machine is in the of your field of vision.

you’re also (currently and abruptly) mad at kaeya because you remember that he’s the reason you’ve had to skip out on a couple of sessions with ajax. okay, it technically isn’t his fault that you have a lot of research to do for the literature review section of the paper, nor is it his fault that this is your final requirement that comprises a whopping forty percent of your grade, but like… you’ll blame him anyway. so you’re much more irritable, and you’ve definitely been missing ajax’s presence. in fact, you kind of just want to shove kaeya’s balloon head away and call ajax over to sit with you, but you’re not that much of an animal to actually do that.

probably.

there had been inquisitiveness across ajax’s face when he’d come in; his eyes had trailed to the table at which you usually sat, surprised to find two guys hunched over a single phone there instead of the usual you, waiting for him with your eyes bright and your smile wide. you’d like to think it’s because he’s gotten as used to seeing you as you’re used to waiting to see him — like he just expects you to be there.

you hadn’t really known how to call his attention to where you were, especially since kaeya was prattling very matter-of-factly about the academic journal he’d unearthed yesterday and how he thought it would be useful in reshaping the methodology of your paper (whatever). there was a moment in which you briefly considered ordering another cup of coffee just to get in line to talk to him, but your hands were already shaking from the large cup order you’d had to keep yourself from passing out in front of your partner.

so you’re more than relieved when, half an hour into his shift, ajax finally steps out from behind the huge machine, a mug of water for himself in hand, and turns away from the front of the store to drink it — only for your eyes to lock as he twists his torso in your general direction.

the mug stops just inches from his lips, but you could swear he smiles at you briefly when he recognizes you, so you return the favor. kaeya’s face contorts into abject befuddlement, turning around to see what you’re grinning at.

“oh, you poor sap,” he snorts, finally letting the puzzle pieces fall into place.

“what?” you’re still distracted even if ajax has taken a gulp of water and is now attending to a gaggle of girls still in the throes of discussing what to order.

“what what? you gonna spend the rest of the day eyefucking ajax the barista from over here? at least let me get a different table.”

“shut up,” you repeat sullenly, coming back down to his level and finally — albeit reluctantly — meeting his eye (just because ajax isn’t looking your way). “what were you saying about the sample size?”

“that it’s much too large to be feasible, a point we closed twenty fucking minutes ago,” he says pointedly, lowering the monitor of his laptop with a decisive push. “is it a thing for baristas or a thing for smart guys?”

“it’s a thing for ajax,” you sigh, following kaeya’s suit and shutting your laptop close. you’re at least glad he’s not annoyed that you’re delaying work for a crush, or maybe he’s also just equally lazy at this point. “you ever look at someone and think you would give it all up for a chance to hit that?”

“no, because this isn’t a porn movie, and i’m clearly not the main character in whatever’s going on in there.” he jabs at your forehead; you swat his hand away again.

“well, i would.”

he rolls his eyes. “so do it, dumbass.” he says this so simply, like he can’t imagine why you’d be holding yourself back, which is a valid thing to feel, except it’s not really any of his business.

“can’t.”

“because?”

“because it doesn’t fit into my elegant master plan. also because i want him to ask me out. i just want that victory.”

“oh yeah, there it is.” kaeya leans over, wiggling his fingers at your ears like he’s greeting a next-door neighbor. “hey, delusion. good to see you. do you even understand how crazy it is that you’re taking a gender studies class while waiting for your dick-in-shining-armor like a damsel in distress?”

“asshole,” you grumble, violently opening your laptop monitor again. “get back on google drive.”

thankfully, kaeya complies, and the next two hours pass in relative silence and productivity, with you hammering out a vague references list that he promises to format in your stead so you can ‘spend more time dreaming about ajax between your legs.’ you want to strangle him, but there are far too many people in the cafe for you to get away with it. also, aforementioned ajax would only be a witness to your criminal record, and while you think there’s something romantic about killing for love, or whatever, you’re not sure it’d make the best impression on him.

“next week’s my birthday,” kaeya announces as he stands to tug on his jacket.

“congratulations,” you say wryly, peeking over his bulletin board torso to see ajax tugging off his apron and picking up his school bag. your heart hammers in your chest as he looks over at you briefly, and something like embarrassment passes over his face before he busies himself with neatly folding the fabric. “go away.”

“usually people look uncomfortable for not knowing and then start thinking about what gifts to get the celebrant, but i always felt you were kind of a revolutionary.” he snaps his fingers right in front of your eyes, and you look up at him, a little offended. “i’m having a get-together — and by get-together, i mean it’s gonna be a rager. you should come.”

“when?”

“next thursday.”

“can’t,” you chew on your lip, wondering if ajax is leaving. his movements seem particularly slow, but you wonder if he’s just taking his sweet time because he has nothing better to do. of course, he would have something better to do if kaeya stopped fucking obscuring you from him and vice versa. “busy. school… whatever.” not completely untrue. most of what you do with ajax has to do with school.

“this moony-eyed thing is just not for you, i fear.”

“are you going to be here all day?”

“are you? why don’t you just fucking ask him out, you lunatic?” you can’t imagine why he sounds so exasperated. it’s not like this is his problem — or his business, for that matter. “maybe if you did, you could fuck him and move on with your life and be an actual contributor to society’s development.”

“has anyone ever told you how nosy you are?”

“constantly.” he brings his palms down on the table, the thud shaking you out of another oncoming stupor. “think about it. maybe it’ll make you stop making that stupid face.”

“you’ve got a stupid face,” you mumble, sulking as he pinches your cheek as a goodbye before heading out of the shop.

at least you finally get to see ajax in full, glorious view — and you get to watch him come closer, although his stride is somewhat cautious.

“hey.” even his voice sounds unsure — almost like the way he used to sound earlier in your friendship. “i didn’t want to interrupt you and… your friend?”

“oh. well, you wouldn’t have been interrupting,” you inform him, completely genuine. “he was spouting a lot of nonsense.”

“you guys seemed pretty close.”

“i guess it’s a proximity thing,” you sigh, and ajax raises his eyebrows slightly in question. “we’re partners.”

“oh.” the way he draws out the syllable is slow. “that definitely makes sense.”

the silence stretches out between the two of you again, with ajax checking his shoelaces. you almost grab your head; it hadn’t occurred to you until now how damaging missing meetings with him would be to your friendship. you feel like you’re slowly being dragged back to square one, and you want to give him an explanation.

“he’s actually… i haven’t been able to see you because i’ve been working on something with him.” you offer, trying to answer a question he didn’t even ask. “sorry about that. i swear i’ll be back on track tomorrow.”

“no, no — i completely understand.” he pauses thoughtfully. “thank you… for telling me, though. i— uh, appreciate that.”

“i’d love to see you tomorrow, though.” you try injecting more pep into your voice. “i’ve really been behind on my algebra. i’ve definitely been drowning without you.”

“oh, yeah?” a small smile graces his lips, but you can’t tell if the reluctance behind it is from fatigue or something that looks oddly like sadness. “i’m down for tomorrow. same time, same table, right?”

“yeah, for sure.”

“cool. see you tomorrow, then.”

you watch him turn on his heel, walking to the front door, and something like fear mingled with desperation clutches your heart. fuck the traditional route, you think. you don’t know what it is about how he’s acting now, but it’s making you feel like he’s slipping through your fingers. all that hard work — there’s no way you’re letting him go.

“ajax, wait.”

you’re at his side, fingers curled into the sleeve of his jacket before you can figure out exactly what you want to say. you feel as surprised as he looks at your sudden liveliness in action, and his gaze trails from your clenched fist to your face slowly, like he’s trying to memorize this whole position.

your exhale’s shaky, but even still, you try not to sound overtly self-conscious when you ask, “do you like liyuean food?”

something in the furrowing of his brows tells you he can’t seem to see where this conversation is headed, and that slightly bothers him. “i like it well enough. why?”

“there’s this really good buffet near my mom’s office. we tried it before — the eight treasure duck is to die for.”

“hey, that sounds pretty cool. i love eight treasure duck — especially the bok choy part. i’ll definitely have to check it out then.”

you want to tear your hair out. “how about — you know, checking it out with me? tonight? you know… together. with me.” you already fucking said that.

you’ve never seen ajax blink this rapidly; he looks like he’s trying to crunch large numbers in his head. a small part of you actually worries that he’s malfunctioning, but just when you think he’s going to glitch out completely, he clears his throat. it bothers you how uncomfortable he looks. “tonight? oh man… it’s my cousin’s birthday tonight. i can’t… reschedule. well, obviously. maybe some other… time?”

your ‘oh, yeah’ is small, and so is the ghost of ajax’s smile. you can’t help but feel like he’s pitying you a little, although he doesn’t seem like the type, but the thought of it alone makes you want to puke. he makes no motion to move, and you think he’s extending this awkward moment out on purpose until you realize you’re still hanging onto him and he has no way of telling you to let go nicely.

fingers unfurling from his sleeve, you take a careful step back, but when he walks away, it feels like you’ve gone much, much further away.

the worst part is that you can’t even figure out why.

luckily, the next few times you see ajax, you manage to rebuild a rather shaky bridge back to where you had been. you even manage to strong-arm him into sharing an apple fritter one afternoon, and you know it’s a bit sad to think about it a particular, untrue way, but you can’t help but pattern what you’re doing into some kind of pseudo-date. pathetic isn’t a word you normally associate yourself with, but you’ve been borderline desperate for progress where there seems to be none, so you take small victories where you can get them.

unfortunately, you haven’t been able to revisit your stupid liyuean buffet plan; sometimes, he says he has somewhere important to be, but most of the time, it’s actually your fault. no — it’s kaeya’s fault, because he keeps bothering you to finish the project. you’re aware that he can’t do it himself, but since he’s informed of your current plight, he could at least stand to be more sympathetic.

and you hate the way ajax looks every time you splutter out that you have to take a rain check for that reason; it’s not even disappointment, or something, which would be much more understandable. it’s this mysterious kind of faraway look, where his eyes glaze over a bit and he seems suddenly very lost in thought — or completely dissociated. he never strays away from his normal response of “next time, then,” but that ‘next time’ fades into the weekend and into the start of next week, and you have to spend every other evening with an annoying kaeya fucking alberich on a shitty video call instead of eating crystal shrimp wontons loveshot style with ajax.

thursday night rolls around, and your project partner performs the most irritating stunt yet: blowing up your phone with so many messages that it almost buzzes off the table during your session with ajax. luckily, he seems to have learned a thing or two from his comic books, catching it before it hits the floor.

“you sure you don’t want to answer it?” he asks, gingerly handing the phone to you like he’s afraid it’s going to explode from all the pinging.

“without the shadow of a doubt,” you sigh, flipping the screen downwards. buzz.

“it kind of seems important. or, like… urgent.”

“he’ll live. unfortunately.”

ajax falls silent, fiddling with the page he’s on. he’s neatly highlighted the formulas on the page with blue ink, and his finger keeps scratching at the slightly wet paper. buzz.

“didn’t you say you two were partners?”

“yes. also unfortunately.” kaeya is actually a great person, but you kind of hate how ajax ifs paying more attention to his texts than to you right now. “what did you get for number ten?” buzz.

“a hundred and twe— are you really just going to let it keep ringing like that? what if he’s… i don’t know. in trouble? like, he needs you?”

you smack your phone on its back, hoping that the punishment reaches kaeya because he absolutely is in trouble — only with you. “he’s just making a racket because it’s his birthday and he probably wants a bunch of people to trash his parents’ house, or something.”

“sounds like fun.” the dubious tone in ajax’s voice indicates that his idea of fun definitely isn’t that. buzz.

“not really, but i assume he’ll only pipe down if he manages to get his way.”

“he must really want you there.”

there it is again — that weird, distant expression that makes you feel like he’s trying to free himself from the tethers of the earth. you close your textbook in defeat; it wasn’t even like you got the answer to number ten correct anyway. buzz.

“he just wants everyone there, i bet. but i probably should show up so he shuts up.”

“oh — yeah, okay. we’ll call it a day, then?” he’s avoiding your eye as he starts packing his things, which is actually impressive because you have practically nothing but your book to keep in comparison to his pencils and protractor, so you just stare, willing him to look at you.

you want to know what’s going on in his head. you want to know what’s going on in his heart — what he thinks of you, why he seems warm one second then almost like a stranger the next. you want to know if he knows you like him and if him not doing anything even if he knows is a sign that he doesn’t like you back. you want to know if he’d let you kiss him, if he’d kiss you first, if you can meet not because of sweet cream cold brews or algebra but because you just want to be together.

you just don’t know how to ask. for as much as you like him, for as much as you want him, you haven’t figured out the most basic part of this — if you mean anything more than a two hour talk to him at all.

“ajax.” this feels awfully like the liyuean buffet conversation, only somehow ten times more disastrous. “come with me.”

“sorry?” the appalled look on his face makes you squirm in your seat.

“i don’t really want to go, but maybe if we go together… we can just hang out a bit and leave once it’s boring… i think it’d be fun,” you explain lamely, deciding at the last second to drop the with you that had originally come with your sentiment.

“i don’t think your… partner will like someone uninvited showing up.”

“i’m inviting you.”

“i’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

“you’d be, like, my saving grace or something — my excuse to scram. we’ll say we came right from a study session; we only popped in halfway through for the sake of greeting him a happy birthday. then we can just go. we can say — uh, we’ve got more work to do.” you’re practically begging him at this point, and you don’t even get why. you just don’t want him to leave looking the way he does — confused and a little detached. you want the ajax that had smiled at you while giving you your coffee — the one that had kindly pointed out an arithmetic mistake in the most gentle way possible. you want to open blind boxes with him, whine about your rotten luck, and part ways with his warmth still against your coat sleeve.

you don’t know what comes over you then, but you pluck up the courage and initiative to slip your hand in his. he stiffens a little, but you don’t care; your fingers squeeze his in urging.

something in his expression breaks — cracks first, then falls away, before he’s nodding, still looking vaguely thoughtful.

“if you think it’ll help you, then… okay.”

the bus ride to kaeya’s neighborhood is uneventful because it’s quiet. you stand close to ajax at all times, but you barely touch, save for the times your knuckles accidentally brush his when you lurch forward slightly whenever the vehicle comes to a dangerously abrupt stop. he doesn’t ask anything about the party or the company that’ll populate it, which is just as well, because you don’t have a clue.

you know it’s the right house because the door’s wide open and there’s music coming from inside; you can’t make out much more than the deep bass pumping through the concrete, but you’re pretty sure it’s making your heart jump in your chest even more than it already is. there are quite a few people you vaguely recognize on the lawn, and even more that you absolutely don’t; a good number of them glance at you and ajax as you step through the threshold then look away, probably deciding you’re of no real consequence or harm to their moods.

kaeya’s easily spottable because of his height; he towers over the rest of his guests, and the red plastic cup in his hand calls even more attention because he’s lifted it over everyone else’s heads. you throw ajax an apologetic glance that he responds to with a short nod before you dive into the crowd alone, trying to weave your way to where you’d last seen kaeya.

“bro, finally!” kaeya greets you, pretty much shouting over the music. “where’s the gift? did you leave it on the table?”

“happy birthday, kaeya. do you know how close you were to being blocked?”

“i see you brought mister espresso with you,” he ignores your comment completely, nodding to ajax. when you turn back to see him, you notice he’s squishing his arms closer to his sides, trying to minimize the space he takes up. “so what? y’all get to hook up already?”

“no. i brought him here because we were in the middle of something and someone,” you stop, offering him a pointed look that’s also ignored. “wouldn’t stop texting.”

“cockblock,” the guy next to kaeya, who you now realize has been eavesdropping, singsongs. “oh, sorry. you looked angry when you stomped through the crowd, so i wanted the juicy details. name’s lohen.”

you take the hand he offers you briefly, introducing yourself. when you say your name, realization dawns on his face, and he jabs his forefinger at you.

“oh, dude. you’re that girl — miss lovely lutece.”

“what?”

“that’s what his friends call you.” he scratches his ear, seemingly racking his brain for more information. “i’m with ajax and a couple of his friends — lyney and kinich — in college algebra.”

you completely gloss over the fact that you’ve finally found out the real government identity of the mysterious figure named ‘lyn.’ “they — they talk about me?”

“from time to time. not really. once or twice. lyney only calls you that because ajax apparently keeps blowing them off to hang out with you.”

“how do you know this?”

“i have ears. it’s not hard when they talk like no one’s around.”

you shush kaeya’s exclamation of and you’re saying i’m nosy?, your heart hammering hard in your ears, practically drowning out the music. “what… what else did they talk about?”

“not sure. something about not seeing you that often these days. kinich teasing ajax about getting dropped now that you don’t need his help anymore. lyney piling on and saying you’ve got a boyfriend.”

“what?”

“don’t shoot the messenger.” lohen still inches away from you when your voice rises in pitch and decibel. some people around you start, then move away as well, as if scared you’re going to incinerate them. “they were just teasing him that you probably ditched him after you started dating someone. your partner in some project, or what.”

“oh gross.” the realization hits you like a speeding truck. kaeya’s expression is affronted.

“first of all — rude as hell. second of all, as if i would date someone who didn’t even buy me a gift. or want to come. or who yelled at me after coming. wow — now that i think about it, you’re terrible.”

“oh, shit; that someone was you?” the only person that isn’t tense in this conversation is lohen, who laughs point blank at kaeya’s sour face. “at some point i think they talked about summoning a dark entity to get your ass. sucks for you, man.”

“what a smudge on my good name,” kaeya sighs mournfully. “on my special day, too.”

“i desperately need you two to be quiet for one second. i have to — where’s ajax?”

even when you stand on your tiptoes, you’re not nearly as tall as the two of them; it’s kaeya, with his freakish height, who manages to spot ajax by the bowl of nachos, looking as though he’s trying to decide if they’re safe for consumption. you hardly excuse yourself; actually, all you say is a distracted “later” that dismisses lohen’s cooing that something’s going down and you should clue him into all the mess later as a thank you. your appreciation of his sudden and somewhat short-lived presence in your life is still up in the air.

ajax is busy making a sour face at the sip of punch he’d just taken; he only straightens up when you’re right in front of him, putting his cup down next to the nachos. “hey. did you get to find… um…”

“that’s not important.” your hand bunches the fabric of his jacket in a death grip, something he barely has time to register, let alone question, before you’re tugging him through the throng of people. you want somewhere quiet, somewhere private, and you initially consider the lawn, except you know it’s strewn with cups and has stragglers debating whether to go home or not. you can’t risk any of them being expert eavesdroppers like lohen, so you make a beeline for the stairs instead.

“we’re not leaving yet?” he has to shout over the music, but there’s no resistance in his stride; he follows you up and waits patiently, although a little perplexed, as you check the doors on the second floor. two are locked, one is a bathroom, and the other is a messy, musk aftershave-scented place you can only presume is kaeya’s room. talking in front of a sink and a toilet doesn’t feel like it’ll be very productive, so you just drag ajax into the bedroom, kicking aside the crumpled shirt on the floor — which you could’ve sworn you’d seen kaeya wear for class yesterday. “sorry — what’s going on?”

“ajax,” you burst out, ignoring the fact that his eyes widen slightly at your tone. “what’s your fucking deal?”

you don’t think you’ve ever sworn in front of him before; that much is evident when he continues to gawk silently, unable to find words to respond to your question. or maybe it’s just the volume and force with which you demand an answer. the problem is that you don’t even know what kind of reply you want. a small part of you nags that this is uncalled for, especially at this level, with you practically caging him into an unknown room. in fact, even now, you’re still embarrassed at your behavior, wondering if you’ve gone too far and stepped over a line between you.

but the source of all your frustrations is, in fact, that line — one so strangely drawn, clear at some points and almost invisible at others. sometimes, he seems simply content with the barest minimum of friendship: talking to you, helping you, politely laughing at your (terrible) jokes. but there are also times he blushes too hard for it to not mean anything, times that he makes you feel like you could mean a little something more to him too.

yet, from there, he wavers, stepping back so as not to get entangled in something you don’t understand — like when he grows distant every time you mention kaeya to him. you don’t understand why he would unless he echoed, even just a little, the longing in you. but you also don’t get why he stays and builds more walls around himself, like he’s determined to ignore all the other signs — like he doesn’t want to know if it’s really true and will just accept the assumption that it is. you hate not knowing where you stand with him, and while you could easily ask, you know you don’t want to.

and for a long time, you’ve convinced yourself that it’s because you want to see ajax step out of his comfort zone and initiate something, but the ugly truth is staring at you: it’s simply just that you can’t stand the idea of seeing him come to the conclusion that you can’t be anything more to him than someone he makes a sweet cream cold brew for every so often.

there’s a moment of tense silence between you two, where you’re just staring at each other — him, perplexed, and you, agitated — and the only sound that passes is the faint but unmistakable voice of kaeya going who has the cake cutting knife? from somewhere down below. you try not to get caught up in the fact that ajax still looks cute when he’s dumbfounded.

“sorry?”

“what,” you repeat pointedly. “is your deal? why have you been acting so weirdly around me these days? i thought — i thought we were… getting closer. i thought… we…”

you’ve confirmed it now; you’re the epitome of cowardliness. you can’t even say i thought we liked each other — because you know that you do, but you still can’t honestly, assuredly tell if he does. maybe you just read too deeply into the smallest things — smiles before he asks for your order, glances at you when he thinks you’re not looking, sharing the dream eater figurine — to fuel your own emotions without really checking the depth of his.

“i thought we were cool,” you reroute your words, and they come out flat and lame. “but just when i think you’re warming up to me, you suddenly pull away. like… you’re afraid of me. or you don’t like me. i don’t know.”

“it’s not — i don’t — i’m not afraid of you,” he stumbles over his words, and even in the darkness of this space, you see his face turn bright red, very quickly. his feet shuffle, not because he’s lost his balance but because he seems to want to get rid of a sudden restlessness. “i do like you. we are — we were getting — we’re close. we — we’re friends. you said that, and we are.”

“is it only because i say we are that you agree?”

“what? no, i—” his hand passes over his face, slowing at the curve of his chin. “i really like being friends with you. i like being around you.”

“then why do you act so weird these days? like — you’ll be fine one moment, then you’ll back off, like you suddenly remembered you don’t want to be around me.”

“it’s not like that. i’m — i don’t get…” he takes a deep inhale, recalibrating himself for a moment before his voice comes out again, less strained this time. “i just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around me.”

“how could i?” there’s something more than confusion coloring your voice; there’s hurt, too, and he looks as surprised as you feel at hearing it. “i wanted to be your friend. i was the one that asked you to hang out. i was the one who wanted you to talk to me, to help me, to go to a goddamn three star, pricey as shit liyuean buffet place with me. why would i feel uncomfortable? or are you just using this as some roundabout way to say you feel uncomfortable?”

ajax falls silent, and you don’t know why this speaks volumes all of a sudden. his eyes are trained to the tips of his sneakers, which are rising in soft bumps every few seconds; he’s curling his toes inside them. you feel like you’ve gotten the worst answer possible, and something grows cold in your chest.

“you feel uncomfortable around me.” you rehash, but it’s no longer a question. “you don’t know how to get rid of me.”

“no, it’s not that.”

“you think i’m only using you.”

“no.”

“then what?” your voice breaks, no longer out of anger, but a desperate sadness. the moment your eyes feel hot and prickly, you decide you want to end the conversation. it’s embarrassing, you think, for someone like ajax — whom you like, who only ever sees you as a friend — to see you get choked up at a fucking birthday party at someone else’s house.

a beat later, you’re mumbling a half-hearted forget it, and you detest overdramatics, but you hate the idea of being in a room with someone who’ll never return your feelings even more right now; you push past him, already on the thought of calling a cab home instead of taking the bus so that no half-drunk businessmen coming from their company dinners see you crying.

but something warm wraps around your wrist, then closes over your hand, and you’re unable to move, ajax’s palm pressed against the back of yours. when you look back, you notice he’s still not looking at you, but his ears are practically on fire with how red they are, and you feel his fingers tighten slightly, tremble slightly against yours.

“it’s not that. i didn’t ever want you to think — i heard about you two. that you were dating someone. kaeya alberich.”

“what does that matter?” your words come out a little more bitterly than you expect, and you have to remind yourself to reel it in. “that doesn’t explain your discomfort.”

“i didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he repeats, still evidently careful in choosing his words. “because you wanted to be friends.”

“i don’t understand,” you state bluntly. in the back of your mind, you note that ajax’s grip keeps tightening and loosening, unsure of whether to keep holding on or let go. but there’s something else, too — the soft graze of skin against yours, his thumb gliding over your knuckles.

“that was all you said you wanted to be, right?” he waits for a response, but when you don’t give him one, he lets out a shaky breath and continues. “you kept saying — we were friends. you wanted us to be close like that. i just wanted to respect it, even if…”

“respect what?”

“that you didn’t want… anything else.”

the music downstairs is a bit tamer now; you hear the door opening and closing every so often, signaling guests leaving here and there, but there are still enough footsteps downstairs for you to know that there’s a crowd kaeya hasn’t gotten rid of and therefore has to attend to. that much is good; you’d get slapped with a homicide charge if he came up here all of a sudden.

“you were jealous.”

ajax’s fingers pinch the bridge of his nose for a moment. “i tried to stop. i don’t have a lot of practice with — well, i didn’t know how to approach the situation. i thought i was still acting normally; i didn’t think… i didn’t want you to feel weird and stop hanging out with me just because… i couldn’t fix it.”

“your friends are assholes,” you mumble, and he finally meets your eye, equal parts startled and amused. “we aren’t. weren’t. we never were dating.”

“even without that, i thought… it was a bit embarrassing. liking someone like you — someone as pretty as you, as nice as you — i thought it would make you feel weird. then you’d start avoiding me too. or, worse, you’d keep doing it just because… you… felt bad for me.”

you don’t know what you find more ridiculous — that you hadn’t seen figured it out or that you could have avoided all of this if you’d just been a little more honest with him too. ajax’s hand starts loosening around yours, a little too much, and you turn your palm and grip his hand before he can escape. he stiffens again, just like earlier, but you now understand better why he does.

“i just wanted to keep hanging out with you as much as i could. i thought… it’d be fine, just spending time with you, and i’d be able to like you for a while, on my own, then…” he looks a little pained. “then just let you go. i’m sorry.”

“sorry you couldn’t let go?” you sigh softly, your palm guiding his until they connect, face to face, and you can finally lace your fingers into his. there’s no resistance, but his hand trembles slightly in yours still. “if there’s anything you should be apologizing for, it’s that you ever thought of doing it.”

something clears in the air, lightens in his expression, and he chuckles, albeit a little hesitantly still. “it’s because i never thought someone like you would like someone like me.”

“i like you.” and it feels right to say it now, not at all out of the blue, never in fear of an answer he’s already given. “i like you when you smile at me every time you ask for my order. i like that you never get impatient when i’m getting my answers wrong. i like seeing you excited when you talk about a new series you’re looking forward to — something new you really want to collect. when you blush, when you laugh loudly, when you spin your pen in your hand — i like you in all those times.”

“even when i’m jealous?”

“especially when you are.” your free hand comes up to cup his jaw, and you’re reminded of the fact that you’ve wanted to feel the strength of the angle under your palm for ages now. it’s not at all a disappointment, and your heart flutters irregularly in knowing you could’ve done this a long time ago, but it doesn’t matter because you’re doing it now, and fuck if ajax doesn’t look good this close to you. “so be jealous — because now, you know you can be.”

kissing him is better than you imagined, and you’ve imagined a little too much to be embarrassed at this point; there’s a heat to his lips that matches the one across his face, an upturn to them that makes you smile too. the setting’s not at all an expected one, but you’ll take it, not because it’s dark or because it’s private but because ajax’s in here with you, and you would have kissed him in a brightly lit football field full of people for as long as he’d let you.

you’d like to think he’s flushed for a reason other than shyness when you pull away, even if his laugh is quiet and breathy. in fact, when you murmur not enough, he’s the one that closes the gap this time, offering freely what you ask for with such little eloquence. the natural trepidation in his mouth relaxes, gives way to a curiosity that keeps you locked for so long that you forget you need to breathe, much more intent on finding out if ajax’s tongue tastes as good as you’ve imagined for so long.

it doesn’t; it tastes even better.

it’s still not enough, not by a long shot, but you have to resurface before you pass out like this, and even he looks a little dazed when you pull away — not in a bad way, with a grin on his face that you can only classify as endearingly goofy: slightly lopsided and a little shy, but with an unmistakable air of satisfaction.

“months,” he mumbles, his lips still dangerously close to yours. your eyebrows rise in questioning, and he laughs in that infectious way that makes you want to join in without even knowing what the punchline is. “i’ve been thinking of kissing you for months.”

and you do share the laughter this time, not out of amusement but of a happiness that spills without restraint. “but you’re suddenly holding back now?”

“just letting myself bask in the moment, i guess. letting it sink in so i remember everything.”

the two of you stand there quietly, still trying to fully parse the progression of events, and a small part of your mind registers that ajax’s thumb is still drawing circles on your skin. it’s also not enough — this touch, this closeness. you know now that he’s been thinking of you for months, and it reminds you that you spent that time dreaming of him too. and you remember you’ve always wanted to be even more familiar with him, and suddenly the desire is overwhelming; he’s right here, and you don’t ever want him out of your grasp again.

“where are you going?” he’s only curious for the sake of it; there’s no alarm in the question because you keep your fingers tightly woven in his, tugging him along as you walk past him to the door. he’s still staring in wonder after the lock clicks shut. “what’s… happening now?”

“you waited months to kiss me, right?” he nods in response at your question. “i’ve been waiting just as long to have you too.”

his mouth falls open, but he doesn’t manage to say anything; his jaw tightens just as quickly when he feels your free hand trail down his chest, feather-light and asking for a green light. your index finger stops just above his navel and draws back slowly, but not before you feel the shiver that runs down his torso.

“we don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you murmur, giving his hand a little squeeze. “but i just want you to know — i want to. i want you.”

a thoughtfulness settles on his face, and his eyes graze over yours, trying to read your seriousness. you don’t know how honest you look, but your words hold enough truth in them. a silence stretches over the next minute, but to you, it feels like an eternity, and you lose the test of patience somewhat, smiling softly at him.

“you don’t want to?”

“i—” his tongue peeks out, running over his bottom lip. “i do. it’s not that i don’t want to, but…”

“you seem worried.”

a hesitant nod. “i’ve never — well, no, i have, but not — with someone like you.”

“what’s someone like me?” you laugh airily.

“someone pretty like you — i don’t know. someone who seems to know exactly what they want. someone who seems like… they could do better than me.”

“ajax.” you can’t keep the incredulity out of your voice. “i do know exactly what i want. i want you. the rest — i don’t care about. as long as it’s you, i want it.”

he cracks a smile, half of relief, half of disbelief. you don’t miss his hand coming up to press, warm, against your waist. “for real?”

your fingers curl into the front of his shirt — an anchor to bring you closer, until the tips of your noses are brushing. “for real.”

the third time you kiss is slow, almost careful; there’s lingering worry in the line of his mouth that your lips try to ease until his slightly part under the movements of yours. you feel the tension leave his form in waves — first in his shoulders, then in his arms, until you’re able to press yourself closer and feel the slight give of his frame against your smaller one. he’s radiating an immense amount of body heat that’s pricking your skin and keeping you alert, and you’re hyperaware of the smallest things — the weak tremble in his mouth, the slight roughness of his teeth under your tongue, the ridges of his palate above it.

he tastes nothing like what he smells, you learn. instead of the air of earthy coffee stuck to clean linen, you inhale a combination of spearmint and mild saltiness that’s made slightly sharper by the lingering splash of alcohol from his accidental sip of punch earlier. you decide then and there that this disparity is important to you; it makes you feel like you’re the only one who can have this experience — that everyone else can know his scent, but now, only you can know what ajax tastes like.

you have to keep your wits about you to avoid this addictive stimulation of your senses; you let go of his hand only to lock your fingers around his neck, and there’s a show of trust in how he lets you lead him backwards, until his knees are hitting the edge of the unmade bed. the kiss breaks as he’s forced to settle on the mattress, and he looks up at you in what can only be described as a quiet kind of awe. he doesn’t complain when you place your hands, heavy, on his shoulders, using his sturdy form to keep you stable as you move to straddle his lap.

“i feel like,” his voice is hoarse as he speaks up. “we should have picked a different location. someone… could walk in.”

“i locked the door,” you remind him, a light reassurance in your voice. he doesn’t say anything immediately, but it’s clear there are cogs turning in his head, and you think it’s unfair that he’s thinking way too hard about something else that isn’t you, right now, in this position. in a bid to rectify this, your face presses into the side of his neck, breathing in that familiar scent and leaving a light kiss on his skin right after. your lips mark the moment he swallows hard at the contact. “besides, would you really be that unhappy if someone did?”

his hands tighten against your waist, prompting you to leave another kiss against his collarbone. “what do you mean?”

“you wouldn’t like it if someone — say, kaeya — walked in to see me on your lap like this?”

the silence that follows your words is tense, and you can tell that ajax’s breathing has become shallower. again, you can feel his throat constricting slightly, and you can’t help but laugh breathily as you nip at his skin, just under his adam’s apple. he’s surprisingly easy to tease, you realize — quick to turn speechless and prone to hanging onto your words.

to say that you wouldn’t want to use that to your advantage would be a downright lie.

“tell me,” you urge, your tone deceptively gentle. “you wouldn’t want him to see you kissing me like this? to see me wrapped around you, begging for more, saying your name over and over? you don’t want him to watch you take me — so he knows you’re the only one that can?”

a strangled groan that sounds suspiciously like your name punctuates your words, but it comes from him; his fingers dig hard into your side with barely constructed restraint. “what do you want from me?”

“i want to know if kissing me was the only thing you wanted for months.”

you pull your head away, nudging his chin with the tip of your nose. another groan escapes him, and his head tilts back slightly, almost like he’s praying. but when his gaze comes down to meet yours at your level again, you see a firm resolution in his eyes that stirs your heart — which takes off in flight the moment he shakes his head, slowly but surely.

“then,” you whisper. “what do you want from me?”

he doesn’t say so much as shows; he takes from you your breath, steals another kiss that’s now firmer and more openly demanding. suddenly, his mouth can’t seem to stay still, trapping your lower lip in between his, drawing out your taste until it mixes with his against his teeth. you feel your head growing light again, and you’re pleasantly surprised that it’s suddenly become difficult to keep up with his lips, asking more from you without restraint. a hum of need sounds in the back of his throat, vaguely dissatisfied, and he’s telling you wordlessly that it isn’t enough right before he attaches his lips to the base of your neck, just above your collar. you think he’s just about to return the favor, but a laugh leaves you when you realize he’s taken it a step further, his teeth grazing your skin lightly, soft nips signaling how eager he is to sink his teeth in with only his slowly weakening self-control stopping him from doing it. ajax’s breathing is slightly labored when he pulls his lips away, warm breath fanning over your chest.

“it’s crazy — and stupid,” he croaks out, voice slightly raspy. “but i want it, and i don’t.”

“what do you mean?” your fingers drag into his hair, combing it upward messily from his nape. he leans in for a quick kiss that’s somewhat misplaced, landing on the corner of your mouth instead of squarely atop it.

“i want them — him to see us. to see me with you, kissing you — fucking you, too. i want everyone to know we’re like this.”

you’ve never heard ajax say anything so forwardly before; a sweet, warm flush builds in your face, pleased at how comfortably he manages to say it — pleased that he’s saying it to you. “then what’s the problem?”

“i don’t want him to see you.” there’s a bluntness to his words, but hiding behind them is an undertone of pleading — a serious request. “i don’t want him to see how pretty you look. i don’t want him to see you when you’re bare, or how you look when i’m inside you. i don’t want him to see—”

his voice wavers and dies, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed, but when you read his expression, you see an unyielding longing. a smile tugs at your lips, and your hand comes around to cup his chin, thumb extending upwards to drag his lower lip down.

“you don’t want him to see what’s only yours.”

he swallows hard again, but he doesn’t wait long to nod. understanding passes between the both of you, silently but completely, and ajax presses his face to your throat, feeling the hum resonate as he places another long, firm kiss there.

“you’re mine,” he whispers, in a way that almost feels like he wants to convince himself of something impossible to believe. he doesn’t even wait for your affirmation, prefers to read it in the way you shiver lightly once his lips travel further down. his kisses trail past the collar of your shirt, and his hands are unabashed in how they seek skin, pushing the fabric upward so he can settle the palms of his hands, warm against your waist. oddly, they don’t travel upwards; they only brush against the dip, down slightly over the upward rise of your hips, then upwards again, almost soothingly. it’s almost like he wants his mouth to meet them, but he stops halfway, sidetracked by the curve of your breasts.

he barely pulls away, only does for a moment, enough to meet your eyes.

“you’re only mine,” he repeats, his voice softer now. you realize he’s still waiting for some confirmation, and when you do, you’re quick to give it to him — quick to erase any doubt.

“i’m yours,” you affirm in the same tone, in the same careful volume. “only yours, ajax.”

whatever else he wanted to ask for, he knows you’ve given assent; that much is clear when he buries his face between your tits, inhaling your scent. you briefly wonder if he might feel just as intoxicated around you as you do around him, if your pleasant dizziness in being this close to him, in tasting and smelling him is something he experiences too, but you don’t get much time to dwell on it the moment you feel his lips part, a slight wetness seeping through the fabric. he’s kissing your chest, teeth grazing just above the cup of your bra, nipping without any real objective other than to feel the pad’s slight resistance to his mouth.

you almost miss what he says as he shifts his head, lips brushing over the curve of your breast — another breathless ‘mine’ that isn’t ever punctuated; his lips still stay parted, mouthing at the cloth, like he’s desperate to feel what’s underneath through it. there’s pressure where his tongue presses flush against the shape of your tit, tightness whenever he chooses to nip, attempting to take the flesh and all that’s between you and him between his teeth.

not enough, you think, even when a whimper of need bubbles out of you; you want to be closer, your thighs pressing against the sides of his. you’re close in almost every way, but you still inch yourself further forward, enough to feel the taut hardness in his jeans. your hips settle right there, letting fabric ride against fabric as you center yourself.

no sooner do you press yourself flush against him do you gasp; the light sting sends a jolt up your spine when his teeth close around your nipple through your bra, and when you look down at him, you see the corners of his mouth pulled up in evident satisfaction. he’s quick to atone, his tongue dragging your shirt slightly upwards in his attempt to soothe, and for some reason, the push of fabric and the barely-there feeling of motion leaves you tingling.

“ajax.” your voice comes out in a whine, but in the haze you’re in, you don’t really have a clear idea of what you’re asking for. all you know is that you want more of him, and for as much as he’s already given you in kisses and words, you aren’t even halfway down the list of everything else you wish you could demand from him. you say the only thing that comes to mind — the only thing that really encompasses what you feel. “ajax, i want you. i want more of you.”

his hands on your waist are replaced by the significant tightness of his arms, locked around your torso; you don’t even have the time to take in your awe at the fact that he can easily carry you, turn you over until you’re on your back, until he’s already eased one knee between your legs.

the way he looks down at you is a mixture of hesitation and desire, but the former’s erased when you reach out for him, murmuring another ‘more’ so you can pull him in. with one palm pressed against the mattress, he lets his free hand graze against your side again, bolder in its movements, and his fingers trace a path up to your breast, squeezing the soft flesh through layers. your back arches upwards in response, eager for more contact, for touch that’s almost there but not quite, and he smiles when you make a noise of frustration from his fingers tweaking the soft nub of your nipple.

“ajax, please—”

“would you really let him see you like this?” his thumb’s still idly grazing over your breast, following the rise and fall of its curve. you swallow hard, trying to keep your voice level despite the growing want that threatens to break through it. “would you really let him watch you… get fucked?”

you shake your head, and his brow furrows.

“i’d let him watch you fuck me,” you correct him, and the confusion in his face gives way to pure satisfaction the moment you make this nuance clear. “it has to be only you.”

his grip tightens briefly against your breast again, and he leans down, pressing a surprisingly chaste and brief kiss to your lips.

“then i’ll unlock the door next time and give him a show.”

you don’t know if it’s what he says or what he does after — his hands bunching your shirt upward until the hem’s just below your neckline — that makes your breath hitch, but you decide it doesn’t matter when you realize you’d much rather be focusing on the journey his lips take, slick against your stomach as he presses languid kisses down to your navel. his fingers hook into the waistband of your jeans, the weight naturally pulling them down, and you see his muscles tighten for a moment as he stops himself from tugging them off completely.

ajax’s mouth is unparalleled in its attentiveness, seemingly intent on making sure he’s covered every inch of your stomach in warm kisses, but you only realize he’s somehow stalling when he starts the cycle again, his nails digging into the taut elastic of your jeans as though to remind himself to curb his desire.

you take the initiative instead, raising your hips slightly to signal your want, acutely aware of the fact that you brush lightly against his thigh when you do so. his eyes lift first, followed by the rest of his face, and he’s watching you quietly. you might have thought he was unsure of what to do all of a sudden again, but his knee pressing closer, an unmistakable pressure against you, is enough to tell you that he’s only curious to know what else you’ll do.

the second time you grind against his thigh, his hands catch your hips, keeping them aloft just long enough for him to tug the band of your jeans downward; he peels them off you with surprising ease, returning to the same position between your legs, hands still firm on your waist. with that done, he only has the thin garter of your panties left to curl his fingers into, bunching it into his fists when you roll your hips up one more time. you manage a shaky noise when you feel the stark difference — the roughness of the denim against you, the stick and drag of flimsy cloth. ajax lets out a low but unmistakable hiss.

“i can’t believe—” his idea is cut short by the movement of your hips again, and his grip tightens, knuckles pressing into your skin. “can’t believe you’re here. i can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“what am i supposed to do,” you breathe out, the sound momentarily getting stuck in your throat. “so that you know it’s real?”

his fingers relax their hold, palms now pressed against your thighs; they travel between your hips and your knees, a soothing and thoughtful motion. “god — i don’t know. i just want — i just want you so badly. like… i’m going to go crazy if i don’t have you now.”

you lean up, your weight resting on your elbow, and your other hand reaches out; ajax meets you halfway, bending just a little lower to press his cheek against your palm. there’s something intimate, something so giving about the way he turns his face to your fingers, pressing a fluttering kiss just under your thumb. the tips of your fingers trace the shape of his lips, even when they pucker again under your digits.

“take me,” you murmur quietly. “all of me.”

his exhale is shaky, but his fingers have a sureness to them; they slip under your thighs, cradling the backs of your knees, and lifting until they’re folded over your chest. you don’t even have the time to wonder if you should feel exposed all of a sudden; his breath warms the inside of your thigh as he presses his lips there — not a kiss, just a touch as he speaks.

“i want to taste you,” he mumbles, partly distracted with the act of inhaling the mild scent off of your skin. “every inch of you — i want to know just how sweet you are.”

he lets his hold on your thighs relax, letting them fall apart; he busies his hands with your panties instead, hooking a finger into the strip of cloth just covering you. it’s clear you’re both aware that the fabric sticks light to your skin, poorly masking your wetness, and interest mingled with hunger flashes across his face as he pulls it aside.

“you’re so pretty,” he says, sounding like it’s a comment more for himself than anything else. his gaze flickers to you for a moment before it moves back to your pussy. “the prettiest fucking girl in the world.”

the pressure of his thumb between your folds causes you to forget what you wanted to say, and you know ajax had been nervous, but you realize that it doesn’t mean he’s supremely inexperienced by any means; there’s a quiet, understated confidence in the way he rubs slow, thorough circles, moving upward towards your clit. your face, your neck, your whole torso feels flushed, but you power through the instinct to tilt your head back so that you can keep watching him — the minute changes in his expression, the slowly building strength in his touch.

“i want to taste you,” he repeats, looking up at you. “i want to know what you taste like when you cum against my mouth.”

you’re not sure if you’re gawking because you can hardly believe ajax — your sweet, mild-mannered campus crush — had said all those words strung together into such a lewd sentence, but you’re sure as hell not going to deny him. your hand travels down your torso, and he watches, curious at first, then awestruck when your index and forefinger settle against either side of your folds, pulling them apart in offering.

his eyes end up transfixed on your pussy again, observing how your fingers ease your folds further apart the more he massages his thumb against your slit. his mouth is slightly agape, intent on drinking in the sight, unaware that you’re trying to memorize this view of him too — ajax, touching you, wanting you, eager to take you fully.

“i’ve always wanted to see what it’d look like with your face between my legs,” you say in a hushed tone, but he catches it anyway, briefly looking up at you again. “i’ve always wanted to know what your tongue would feel like against my pussy.”

your index finger bumps against the tip of his thumb, and he stops its motions, allowing you to move his digit down until the pad of it hovers just in front of your tiny hole. you can see one cheek tucked between his teeth, bitten to muffle the groan you wish you’d heard louder.

“won’t you show me?”

you think you hear him rasp out a ‘fuck yes’ before he bends down, pressing his half-open mouth against your pussy. the squeal of delight that leaves you is half-strangled as his thumb curls, hooking into your entrance. it starts a shallow, distracted motion, with his attention funneled much more clearly into keeping his tongue working. flush against your slit, it drags up, and he releases a guttural noise at your taste, lips pursing slightly on the way back down — like he can’t stand not trapping every drop of wetness with his mouth.

the intensity of his tongue, the idle thrusting of his thumb — you’re not sure what you want to focus on more, and the result is you whimpering incoherently at the starkly contrasting combination of the two. ajax moves his mouth like he’s never tasted anything as good in his life; the sounds between your thighs are wet, sloppy — almost embarrassingly so — but you don’t have the presence of mind to dwell on that because ajax is eating you out and that’s really all that you can think of.

the tip of his tongue suddenly flicks upwards; you keen, long and low, when it starts to circle your clit in that same intense, circular movement his thumb had gotten you used to. your sensitivity skyrockets, and you’re completely unable to control the upward bucking of your hips, but ajax stays supremely unperturbed, his free arm winding under your thigh to keep the both of you steady. your noises are growing embarrassingly loud, and you realize just how needy you’ve become when you vaguely notice that there’s a pattern in what you’re saying — his name, over and over again.

“did you do that too?” he asks softly, his words slightly muffled against you. “say my name, i mean — when you thought of me.”

“god, yes.” your voice comes out strained, teetering on the edge of slurring. “so many times — every single fucking time.”

“promise me something.” he lifts his head, and you see a fieriness in his gaze.

you nod — at this rate, whatever he’d ask you to do, you would without question. “anything.”

his thumb presses in deeper, up to his knuckle and you reflexively tighten around his digit, but he keeps it anchored there, pushing down against your walls. he drinks in your gasp, the widening of your eyes, the way you chew on your lip with a singular kind of contentment on his face.

“promise me — from now on, you’ll make sure i’m always there to hear it.”

the only kind of assent you’re able to make is a moan as he dives down again, mouth buried in your warmth, his nose pressed tight against your clit. his tongue moves in strong strokes, broad swipes that push your folds apart further, and his thumb, while not moving, increases in pressure to the point that you feel a heaviness adding to the growing pleasure. your hands fly down, seeking some kind of sense and reason, and you thread your fingers into his hair, grip tightening as your climax builds in stride.

“ajax, i’m—” close, you want to say, embarrassingly so, but the moment he hears his name, his lips attach to your clit, and there’s suddenly so much more pressure as he sucks, almost like he’s desperate to draw out your orgasm. he chooses this of all time to start moving his thumb again, and this time, his movements are anything but slow and idle; they’re filled with the intent to drive you over the edge. “fuck me, oh my god—”

“i want to,” he murmurs, pausing for just a moment to drag the tip of his tongue around the nub. “god, i want to. let me see you cum first; let me taste how sweet you are.”

his thumb stops, buries deep into your pussy, and you’re not sure why this, of all things, is what pushes you beyond control; you’re only half-sure you say his name when your orgasm hits, the rest of your consciousness much too clouded by pleasure. he doesn’t stop, revels in the way you squirm under him as he hums low and keeps his tongue working against your clit. his licks become longer, more thorough as you come down from your high, your cries softening into whimpers as his tongue both attempts to clean you up and makes you messier in the process. his arm is still curled around your thigh, keeping you from inching away from him, even if instinct and stimulation are telling you to.

you’re barely lucid when you sit up, and ajax inches back, somewhat startled; you grab the front of his shirt, and the sight of his mouth, slick and glistening from your wetness, only makes you more curious to know what you taste like on him. you find out how tangy it is, how rich the two of you are together on his lips, and you’re able to fully appreciate the skill of the mouth that kisses you deeply, leaving traces of you against your tongue and teeth.

“please — fuck me.” it’s the only thing you can say at this rate, only half-coherent and still trembling with desire, but ajax doesn’t seem to care that you’re stuttering over such a simple request. his thumb wipes traces of saliva off the corner of your mouth, kisses it clean for good measure, then straightens up, his hands working at his belt. you almost miss the fact that his hands are shaking slightly as he undoes the buckle and tugs it out from the loops.

you want to help — it’s the least you can do, after all, and your fingers push the button of his jeans out through the hole, his hands working in tandem to tug the zipper down. however, your movements falter when you hear a noise from just outside the room — the sound of the doorknob being jangled, the thud of a body gently hitting the door, as though worried it’s stuck. you glance up at ajax, ready to reassure him, but he either hadn’t heard or doesn’t care because he’s too busy stepping out from the pool of denim at his ankles, and you get completely sidetracked by the bulge straining against his boxers.

you almost ignore kaeya’s voice grumbling ‘jesus christ, now of all times?’ from behind the door, but you leverage it instead.

“should we let him in?” you ask, tone innocent despite the evident deviousness in your words. it pays off, though; ajax’s cock twitches unmistakably under thin fabric, and he actually looks like he’s considering it. “you’re just about to fuck me, after all. weren’t we going to — what did you say? put on a show?”

he worries on his bottom lip, like he’s unsure if you’re serious, but in the end, he shakes his head, reaching out to smooth your hair away from your face and ushering you to lay back down. the lips that meet your forehead are gentle, almost apologetic.

“not now,” he murmurs against your skin. “right now, you’re all mine.”

you laugh lightly, nodding, and he chuckles too, but the sound of it slowly dies down when your finger hooks into the garter of his boxers. you can feel his breathing hitch as you tug it down, the elastic catching when it meets the shape of his cock, but you don’t make any move to free it just yet — for some reason, you want to see him do it.

“show me.”

he complies without hesitation, one hand dragging the elastic down over his thighs, the other curling around the base of his length, and your face flushes as satisfaction works through your system at the bare sight of him.

ajax is big — not monstrously so, but enough for you to make a pleased noise as your hand joins his, fingers barely wrapping around his girth. you give his shaft a gentle squeeze, and his exhale stutters, watching you stroke him, long and thorough in your movements. your palm swipes over the tip, leaking precum, allowing it to slick up your hand enough to keep your movements smooth. you’re fixated on the tension in his lips, the throb of his cock against your palm, and the way his gaze never leaves your face, like a small, amazed part of him still can’t believe what you’re doing, even if you’re both half-naked already.

“i want to suck you off,” you plead, grip tightening slightly. he grits his teeth, stifling another groan, but he shakes his head clearly enough for you to slow your movements in mild surprise.

“can’t — not now. i need to be in you so badly.” his breathing’s sharp and heavy, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. “you don’t even know — how long i’ve wanted to feel you.”

your hold relaxes, and you let him maneuver you, his renewed hold on your hips dragging you closer to the edge of the bed. in this position, he can spread your thighs further, and you angle yourself optimally — enough for him to get a full view of your pussy, wet and still aching from your last orgasm.

“you don’t know how badly i’ve wanted to know how tight you are,” he continues, and there’s a faraway look in his eyes that makes you think he might be entrenched in fantasy. “how much i would have killed to see you — have you like this. i’m not gonna be able to wait anymore.”

his fingers dig into your sides, thumbs stroking your stomach in a weak pattern. the underside of his shaft presses against your folds, still half obscured by your panties, in a way that’s heavy enough to make you mewl, your hips reacting before your mind can, and he hisses softly as he feels his length glide along your slit before you relax your stance again.

“i can’t wait,” he reiterates, a breaking in his voice that sounds almost tortured. you don’t want him to either, want to see him buried to the hilt inside you, and you raise your hips again in need. “i want you so much it’s driving me crazy.”

his hand fists his cock a few times, coating the slick of precum along his length before he lines the tip up with your entrance. his other hand’s flush against the inside of your thigh, a light pressure ensuring he always has enough space to fit himself between your legs — enough space to bottom out completely.

ajax’s considerate in his pace — maybe he knows he’s big, or maybe he’s just naturally careful, but he allows you the time to adjust to the stretch. your nails almost puncture holes into the sheets, your grip so tight you wonder if it’s just to brace yourself or to hang onto the last threads of your sanity. he’s only halfway in, but you’re pushing fullness already, and he stops when his cock meets slight resistance, looking up at you in concern.

“you’re not—?”

“it doesn’t hurt,” you reassure him softly, and it’s true; the adjustment brings about slight discomfort, but it’s almost nothing to you — not compared to how much more you want. “give me everything; i want all of you inside me.”

he pauses still, trying to read your expression for any lies, but when he can’t find any, he nods, his jaw tensing as he presses both palms against your thighs, keeping you open as much as possible to accommodate him. he doesn’t even stop when you whimper, feeling a tightening twitch in your pussy that also causes him to groan, until inch by inch, you’ve taken him, his hips flush against yours.

he doesn’t move — not yet, his eyes trained to where you’re connected like he’s once again unable to believe what he’s doing. you hear him mumble something to himself that you want to hear too; you squirm slightly, and he hisses through his teeth, looking up at you and finding the questioning in your face. he offers you a small smile, albeit somewhat strained.

“you’re tighter than i thought.”

“you’re bigger than i thought,” you hum, and neither of you is really to blame; the tight fit, the slight breathlessness it leaves you with, is perfect, you think — just what the both of you need. “did you often think about fucking me?”

“probably just as often as you’re making it sound like you thought about having me fuck you, i think.”

“don’t get cocky,” you warn, but there’s no real heat in your voice.

“i won’t. but it makes me feel good — knowing you wanted me just as bad.”

“i still do.” your gaze is lazy, a little hazy, even if you’re anticipating so much. even just the feeling of ajax, throbbing inside you, is already slowly building the pleasure in your stomach again; you wonder if you could cum like this, given enough time, given enough patience. “i’m still waiting for you to fuck me. god, ajax— please.”

he chuckles good-naturedly, but even that’s drowned out by the long moan that leaves you once he draws his hips back; your body’s mildly shocked into a new adjustment, feeling a sudden emptiness that’s quickly mitigated by him filling you back up again. the pace is slow, almost torturous, although you know he isn’t doing it to get a rise out of you. he wants to ease you into speed, careful to help you adjust fully; his restraint in his movements is all the more evident on his face, in the furrowing of his brow and the determination in his gaze. even with that, he can’t help what he says, so intent on controlling everything else he does that he lets his words spill out over your noises.

“pretty,” he grunts out, and when your walls twitch around him, he accidentally thrusts sharper — just enough for you to whimper a little more loudly, and he has to reel his strength back again. “god, you’re beautiful. i should’ve told you sooner how much i wanted you. all those times i had to imagine you wrapped around me like this, wondering how much tighter you’d get once you came on my cock. all those times you drove me crazy while i was alone, when i could have been in you — i could have found out how good you felt. how pretty you’d look under me. and you’re still even prettier, even better than i ever dreamed.”

there’s an erratic melody of moans under his words, spilling from your mouth, and the fact that he riles himself up enough to increase his speed slightly doesn’t escape you. he’s a little less careful now, seemingly entranced by the view he gets, watching his shaft disappear into you only to come out glistening, and a part of you hates the idea of snapping out of his reverie, but the majority of your thoughts now lean towards wondering how much more you can get him to break free of his own self-imposed restrictions.

“i wanted to ask you so many times.” his eyes snap up at the sound of your voice, coming back into focus as he takes in the sight of you, flushed, hair tousled, gaze darkened. “almost every day — i sat there, thinking about how all i could do was go home and fuck myself, frustrated you weren’t doing it for me. i should have taken you home with me right then and there — should have let you watch me touch myself thinking of you, should have let you touch me into cumming on your fingers.”

his breathing staggers as he leans in, eager to see you clearer, to hear your words, slowly becoming airier as they come out. for a moment, his gaze falls, torn between watching himself move into you and meeting your eyes, but he ultimately chooses the latter once you speak up again, your tone even more hushed than before — like it’s meant to be a secret between just you and him.

“but there were times i wanted you even more than that, to the point that i almost felt like i couldn’t wait.” his eyes widen slightly, a few precious seconds of wondering if he understands what you mean, right before you confirm what he thinks. “i thought about making a move right then — i should have kissed you. i should have asked you.”

“asked me what?” his voice is gruff with the effort to keep himself in check despite the fact that it’s clear to the both of you that it won’t last.

your lazy smile’s illusionary; it hides the triumph swelling in your chest at knowing that he asked exactly what you hoped him to.

“i should have asked you to fuck me in front of everyone there.”

“god,” his eyes squeeze shut, his grip tightening. “please. i can’t—”

“i should have bent over for you there, begged you to stretch me out right after our session,” you continue, bordering on merciless. “ajax, you don’t know — how badly i wanted to be on your lap, your cock in me, with everyone watching. how much i wanted you to fold me over that table, have people watch you pound me, have them listen to how good you make me feel. no one would ever even wonder — everyone would know i’m yours.”

you pause, allowing his eyes to fly open once again, and there’s a pleading in them that’s begging for release. your eyes soften along with your voice, but you’re this far gone; you should at least see it through.

“and everyone would know you’re mine too.”

“fuck,” he growls, and his hips stutter before new resolve fills him, his hips driving into you with the force of a strength you didn’t even know he had in him; your thighs tremble at the intensity, at the renewed impact, and feeling him pump his cock deeper into you has you crying out somewhere between a moan and a sob. “fuck. if i had known you’d thought about me like that — god.”

it’s your turn to shut your eyes for a while, allowing yourself to focus on his movements, breaching your tightness even faster now. you feel his hands skim up your sides again, fingers digging into the fabric of your bra and pulling them down until your bare tits are cupped in his hands. you shiver as his thumbs pass over your nipples, toying them into firm nubs.

“one day,” he hums out, his voice giving way to a slight hoarseness again. “i’ll do it. i’ll fuck you in front of him — in front of kaeya, in front of everyone. i’ll let them wonder how tight you are, how fucking warm you are, and i’ll let them leave knowing no one can know but me.”

it’ll never happen, you both know, but something about agreeing to something so absurd is what has your body almost shaking in longing, and it’s what causes him to press in deeper, folding your legs closer to your torso. your hands do what little they can to help, keeping your thighs apart so as not to obstruct his view. you can tell it’s somehow not enough, not really all of what he wants when his brow furrows, and he shifts his weight, pushing into you at a new angle.

the stark difference has you gasping before you can control it. immediately, ajax stops, and you’re already shaking your head before you even hear him say anything, presuming he’s paused out of concern. but before you can say you’re fine, his hushed voice cuts through the silence.

“do that again.”

“what?”

“do it again,” he mumbles, sounding distant. “breathe in. suck in your stomach.”

you’re not one to complain at such a simple request, albeit a little odd, so you comply, inhaling enough to tighten your torso. you’re surprised when you feel his cock twitch inside you, and you blow out the air alongside your question. “ajax, what are you—”

“i can see it,” he says in a reverent, hushed kind of disbelief. “when you’re like this, i can — i can see my cock inside you. just a bit.”

your eyes follow his gaze, fixed just below your navel. from this angle, without any movement, you can’t see a thing, but you assume he’s not one to abandon fucking you so intently without good reason, so you press your palm against your stomach, just above your pelvis. nothing really feels significantly out of place — up until the point when ajax draws his hips back again, and you feel the backward slide of his cock.

your throat tightens, and you don’t really understand the feeling that spreads in you — a unique kind of arousal, knowing how deep he is inside you and how you’re taking all of him in despite the fit, because of the fit. your hand falls away, allowing ajax’s to take its place, and he exerts just a little more pressure against your stomach in an attempt to get the most out of the experience when he thrusts back in. he groans, feeling the bulge push back up, and he quickly picks up the same pace, renewed in intensity so he can experience the rapid rise and fall he creates under his palm.

the faster he goes, the harder he presses, and you’re not sure if he knows it, but the onslaught of friction is what’s making you whine and squirm even more; you’re trapped, in the best way possible, in his hold, your hands back to clinging to the backs of your knees like a lifeline. pressure from the outside builds on the slowly growing pressure inside, a knot in your pelvis that’s coiling so tightly you feel like you can’t breathe. if ajax notices how close you are, he doesn’t make it known; he’s busy feeling the outline of his cock against your stomach, and when he looks up at you again, his eyes are hazy.

“i would fuck you every single day, every single hour if i could feel this every time,” he whispers in a way that’s almost reverent. “let me — i want to keep seeing you like this. i want to feel how deep i am inside you, too. let me fuck you all the time.”

you nod, and your first attempt to say something is just another choked sob. when you do manage to get something out, it’s broken in tearful stutters. “a-ajax, i’m s— i’m so close… i’m — fuck—”

“do it.” it’s not a harsh command but an urging made on short breath; through your misty vision, you see tension in ajax’s face and shoulders, like he’s bracing himself for something too. you barely register the ping in the back of your mind, too focused on the way he’s pressing his palm harder on your stomach, the way his hips quicken their pace — he’s close too. “let me feel you — want to feel you cum all over my cock.”

you inhale, not to speak but to let out a loud whimper; your teeth dig into your lower lip as you try to stifle the moans that threaten to follow, but in the end, you whine out his name. your thighs threaten to close, trembling as you finally reach your climax, an impossible explosion of pleasure, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut so that you don’t get dizzy from the stars that burst around your vision.

“fuck.” ajax’s voice is strained, his one hand still firm against your stomach, the other sliding against the inside of your thigh. “you get even tighter — you feel even better when you cum.”

“ajax,” you hiccup, unable to do anything but flutter around him as he pistons harder into you. you don’t even know what you’re asking for when you say ‘please,’ but he somehow seems to, and you trust that your body’s saying something you can’t fully detect in this state, with your mind floating in the aftermath of ecstasy.

“i know,” his tone is soothing in contrast to the intensity of his thrusts. “i’ve got you. just a little more — where do you want—?”

you blink slowly, his words sinking in at too leisurely a pace; his hips stutter dangerously before you’re able to respond. you barely even do that, your hand gently brushing over the one against your stomach, but he catches onto the meaning quickly enough.

you’ve never heard your name said in such a beautiful way; hearing him moaning it lowly is enough to make you whine again, and that noise is drawn out when he shifts and slips out of you fully. your brain’s fuzzy, but your senses are at least sharp enough to drink in the perfect sight of him cumming — the way he leans his head back, jaw taut and eyes shut, as he pumps his cock and the heat of his release against your skin, pooling against your stomach once he finally cums. you see a shiver run through him, and then he’s still for a while in this position, the both of you basking in the afterglow of your highs.

you’re still weak and sensitive when ajax finally comes back down, a lucidity you don’t have right now coming back into his gaze. all you can do is smile when he leans in, catching your lips in another kiss — one that’s surprisingly soft and slow in comparison to everything else, but still leaves you breathless when he pulls away.

“let me clean you up,” he murmurs, and you hum in agreement, your body limp as you watch him move off the bed and pull a handful of tissues from a box on the desk on the opposite wall. even his hands are gentle when he scoops you up, shifting you until your head can lean against the pillows. they carry a scent you’re not used to, and your nose scrunches, rejecting the change, but that’s quickly overpowered by ajax’s familiar coffee-and-linen one when he presses next to you, careful as he wipes his cum off your stomach and thoroughly cleans between your thighs. from somewhere down below, you still hear hushed voices, and the front door slams shut again. people are still in the middle of leaving, but you know kaeya will likely run out of guests soon, and this makes you feel like the timing’s suddenly become urgent.

“i want to date you properly,” you start, slightly slurred but unmistakably blunt. ajax’s gaze snaps to yours, slightly amused, as he balls the tissues up in his fist. “you never asked me, so i’m asking you.”

he looks perplexed. “i just never thought you wanted me to, so i didn’t try.”

you reach up, locking your fingers into his hair and using your grip to pull him down. your kiss is a little demanding, with a tinge of excess frustration, and he pulls away laughing lightly.

“do you still think i don’t want you to?”

ajax hums thoughtfully. “i think you made a lot of things clear tonight. on my end, i was happy enough to be near you.” he smiles down at you, and in the faint light, you can see the flush slowly return to his cheeks. “having you like this — dating you… there’s no way i’d say no.”

your shoulders relax, satisfied with his answer, and you beam up at him — an act he easily returns, breathtaking and endearing all at once.

moments later, you feel his arm wind around your waist; he allows you to lean into his side, his other hand crossing over his lap to stroke your thigh. his face turns, pressing a kiss to your hair, and you feel his lips move, hear the quick rush of a whisper. you tilt your head, eyes slightly wide in questioning. “what was that?”

he shakes his head at first, trying to pass it off as nothing. but when it’s clear your curiosity won’t abate, he chuckles softly, his hand gently cupping your chin so that you can only look at him. his thumb strokes your bottom lip gently, as if trying to coax the same words out of your mouth before he murmurs them to you one more time — and this time, he sounds fully convinced of them.

“you’re all mine.”

Passing you in the hall, “Can I stop by your class later?”

“So, Miss, when are you gonna let me paint you, hm?”

Leaning in close to you in one of the faculty offices, whispering, “You look cute today, Miss.”

All of which happened, over and over, long before you finally found yourselves stumbling into his office, ripping each other’s clothes off to explore every single inch of one another’s bodies.

Sat on his desk completely bare with your legs spread, “We r-really shouldn’t be doing t-this—ngh—s-shit.”

“Hm, why cutie?” His lips land on your inner thigh, his index and middle finger slowly pushing into your entrance, “It’s not like you’re my student or I’m yours...”

“Y-yeah, but—” you whine when his fingers are inside you completely, a slight curl upward, “oh m-my god…”

“But, what?” He starts to pump his fingers in and out, delicate and smooth, “Shh, you’re so pretty—being so good for me.”

You gasp, your fingers coiling around the edge of his desk for support, “And i-if we—nngh—get caught?”

He brings his mouth straight to your dripping cunt, hovering directly over your clit while his fingers continue to work you, “We won’t. Promise.”

All of those “little” comments—and lingering, burning gazes—built up over months, with the added coffee or pastry brought to you before your class started, left you here.

***

Why you ever agreed to this was absolutely beyond your comprehension. He was persuasive, very persuasive—to say the least. He promised he wouldn’t actually use it. However, even you weren’t naive to that particular glint in his eyes that you let you know he was lying. That lie excited you—so you agreed.

In recent weeks, you spent way too many mornings rushing out from his house to get to work on time. But this morning… This morning, after he made you cum numerous times, he then got down onto his knees, pushing a small oval-shaped vibrator into your already spent and leaking cunt.

“Raf—h-hurry up—I’m gonna be late—I-I—” He slows his pace, leaving teasing kisses along your slit until the toy is buried inside you completely.

“But…you’re just sooo pretty. Gonna be good for me today, hm? Don’t wanna make me use this—” he picks up the small remote by his side, “do you?”

You bite your bottom lip hard, peering down at him and shaking your head no. After using his other hand to spread your slit with his fingers to get a good look, he looks back up at you, “Oh? No, you’re not gonna be good for me? Or no, you wanna make me use this, hm?”

“No—n-no. I’ll be good, I swear. P-please, don’t use i-it.” Holding your slit spread with his fingers, his tongue grazes over your exposed clit and you whine loudly, still so sensitive from before.

He groans, licking you once more, “God, but you’re just so perfect. It’ll be sooo hard not to. I can see it now…”

You moan, a tremble already returning to your thighs, “R-Raf—”

He practically bats his lashes at you, cooing, “What about right now, hm? Before you go…”

“I c-can’t—we already—I’m g-gonna be—” with a simple click from his thumb on the remote, the toy starts vibrating, your walls immediately twitching and clenching around it at the feel of its subtle vibration, “Nngh!”

“So…pretty…” He drops the remote, both of his hands immediately gripping your thighs and holding you apart so he can suck on your clit.

He was sure to make you cum at least once more before you left—that much, came easy…literally.

Whether the toy was on or not, you were soaked all fucking day, your panties sticking and clinging to you as you squeezed your thighs together, which only prompted you to frequently recollect this morning. The fact that is was there, waiting under the threat of being used, made your cunt clench around it, over…and over. All. Day.

***

Toward the tail end of your last lecture for the day, your face falls mid-sentence at the feeling of a low vibration deep inside your cunt. That. Fucking. Asshole.

After struggling your way through your last few reminders, staying as calm as you are able, “Class— …dismissed!” With only a few brow raises around the room, when your students start shuffling out, you immediately sit down, trying to focus all of your attention on your desktop—hoping and praying there are no end-of-class questions. By the grace of all that is good, you receive none.

Once everyone is gone, Rafayel does a slow clap as he walks in, “Bravo, bravo, cutie.”

You snap your head toward the sound of his voice, your hands gripping the edge of your desk, “Y-you—!”

He tsks, walking closer to you, “Ah, ah. I mean what I said. You did a very good job.” 

With his left hand in his pocket, the closer he gets the vibration only gets stronger, “Mm—ngh—s-stop—holy s-shit—the d-door is still—”

He raises his brows, the pace of the vibration stabilizing—for now, “Open? Mhm. You should stay quiet, then.”

You whine, trying your very hardest to keep your voice down, “Rafayel—!”

He places his free hand on the edge of your desk, smirking down at you in your chair, “That’s Professor to you, Miss.”

You scowl at him, but your face can’t hold the expression long as your lips part and your burrows furrow, “We’re both—gah—mmmph—you asshole—ngh!”

His voice is a coo, drinking in each twitch of your expression, “So gorgeous…” When you let a quiet moan slip, he cocks a brow at you, “Are you gonna cum at your desk, hm?”

“P-please—h-holy fuck—” You tilt back into your chair, trying to squeeze your legs together to no avail.

Leaning in toward you, his right hand on your desk and his left still in his pocket, his look is beyond devious, “So naughty, what if someone were to walk in, huh?”

“Y-you—”

The vibration gets stronger, again, “Shh, be a good girl and keep your voice down.” He grins when your eyes close as you bite your bottom lip, “That’s it…”

Your eyes snap back open, “Raf!” You lean forward and snatch the end of his tie, drawing his face toward yours in desperation.

He tsks again, shaking his head, “Quiet. You can do it, cutie. You did so well while teaching your class. You can handle it, hm?” While staring down at your lips, “Now, the whole room is empty—just us.”

Quickly losing your ability to fight it for much longer, you gaze back at his own lips—his smirk—visualizing the look of him this morning, “F-fuck—nngh—”

His lips inch toward yours, “Mmhm, good gi—”

At the end of the room by the door, a voice breaks the tension and immediately makes you come back down to earth and silences Rafayel, “Miss? Oh—!” You instantly let go of his tie and he stands up straight, cocking his head back and to the side as you both look over.

“U-um—” thankfully, from his hand in his pocket, the device clicks off, “s-sorry, he was—”

He interrupts you, standing up straighter and using his teacherly tone, “Helping her navigate some documents on her desktop. Did you need something?”

“O-oh, um, I was just going to ask Miss when the study guide would be posted.”

“This weekend! Mhm, probably Fri—” he glances at you, his eyes widening slightly—he is taking you out this Friday, “Saturday. On Saturday.”

The student smiles, “Great, thanks! See you next week!”

“Of course, see you then.” You let out the deepest sigh when they turn around to leave.

As soon as the student steps out completely, you snatch his tie and draw him straight back down to your face. After an initial eyebrow raise, he grins, “Go close. That. Fucking. Door.”

“Yes, Miss,” he pulls his tie out from your grasp with his right hand, turning away and walking toward the door, “whatever you say.” From within his pocket once again, the device turns back on.

“Y-you—!” He closes the door all right, but only with him on the other side of it. You eek out a whine, “Raf!”

“Oh my god—” You know he’s staying at least relatively close by, the connection from device to remote not that strong. “That f-fucking—mmmph—nngh!”

You press your forehead down against the edge of your desk, gasping and squirming in your seat. You nearly shriek when you feel the vibration get just one notch stronger from the place it last left off. “O-oh—fuck—I’m gonna kill—nngh!” You squeeze your thighs together and bite your palm, mewling into your hand as you cum violently.

Just as you’re panting, still a hefty tremble in your thighs, your phone vibrates from a text message.

Rafayel: cum see me in my office cutie

“I,” you begin as you lean back to dodge a punch.

“Have,” you continue, twisting into a roundhouse kick that catches Hyena’s jaw.

“A… date!” you conclude.

Panting for air, you look down at the unconscious foe, tapping your toes against the bipedal killer. Sirens are approaching quickly, so you have to leave behind the villain you thought was from a time when you were lacking both common sense and spider sense. Now you have one of those. Most days.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” you murmur, aiming your extended fingers toward the looming roof of the New York skyline. “Or bothering Firestorm?”

Swinging high above the crowded city streets, you shoot a web with your left hand as you unlock your phone with your right. Someone once told you texting and swinging was a bad idea, but you assured him you’d never crash into a building (like some people have). You’re very late, you find, as expected.

“Please don’t hate me,” you whisper as the dial tone trills in your ear.

“Hey,” Tim greets. He yawns, then asks, “What’s up?”

“I’m so sorry,” you begin, pulling yourself up to sit on a rooftop. “I got caught up at work and traffic heading out of the city is awful. I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

“No worries,” Tim replies. “Reschedule for, uh, Saturday?”

Dropping your head back, you close your eyes against the setting sun and think. There’s a fight in Hell’s Kitchen late Friday night, and a new ride is opening at Coney Island Sunday.

“Saturday works,” you answer. “I’m really sorry, Tim.”

“Hey, I get it,” he assures you. “I love you.”

You pinch your eyes closed tighter, guilt weighing down your chest. “I love you.”

“Oh, I found something cool to show you. I’ll come to you Saturday?”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Timmy.”

Tim pulls his phone from his ear and squints at the video that resumes playing. The spider vigilante stealing the hearts of New Yorkers has gained a lot of popularity on social media. Jason even stumbled upon a fanfiction someone wrote about the Spider beating Batman in a fight — he’ll never admit he read it, but if he did, Tim might have found it entertaining. He saves the video to show you the comments your neighbors are making, then turns his comms back on.

“Yo, Red Robin!” Jason barks. “Stop flirting and give B some backup!”

“What makes you think I was flirting?” Tim questions as he stows his phone in his belt.

“Because we warned you against a long-distance relationship,” Dick answers. “And now every free moment you have is spent on your phone.”

“Your girlfriend is from a different planet,” Tim deadpans. “Hypocrite.”

“New York City is not long distance, Grayson,” Damian scoffs. “One can hire a civilian driver, pay a meager fee, and be in the city in less than two hours.”

“How do you know that?” Batman rasps.

“Uh… Raven informed me of the details,” Damian mutters. “Perhaps I should give my attention to Killer Croc.”

“Perhaps,” Bruce agrees. “And if you choose to take a trip to New York, don’t Uber.”

“Steal a car,” Jason agrees.

Bruce’s sigh seems to shake the very foundation of Gotham before he utters, “No.”

“I’m going to New York Saturday,” Tim offers. “We were supposed to meet tonight, but she got stuck in the city.”

“Again?” Dick, Jason, and Barbara, safe in the watchtower, ask.

“I’m not going to fault her for cancelling dates at the last minute when I’ve missed just as many because of this,” Tim counters.

“No, just…” Jason exhales heavily, then asks, “Don’t you wonder if there’s something she isn’t telling you?”

“I love her,” Tim defends.

“That’s not an answer, Tim,” Barbara points out softly. “It’s okay to want answers.”

“I always tell her it’s fine,” Tim replies. After a breath, he admits, “But, yeah, I’m getting suspicious.”

“She’s not the type to cheat on you,” Dick adds. “And as someone who has had my fair share of relationships while hiding part of my own life from them, I’d suggest you have a mature conversation before it’s too late.”

“Suspicious how?” Barbara inquires.

“I can’t justify asking her questions when she doesn’t know I’m Red Robin,” Tim decides, putting an end to the conversation. “When there’s something to talk about, we’ll talk about it.”

“Well, if you’re back on the clock, maybe you could come help me get out of Pammy’s vines,” Jason suggests.

“Call Harley,” Barbara jokes.

Jason’s voice is so soft it’s nearly inaudible when he says, “She sent me to voicemail.”

Surprisingly, the Friday night fight didn’t end in the bloodshed you expected. When the former mayor’s Fisk Shipping company was announced as one of the event’s sponsors, you expected the worse. But Hell’s Kitchen was quiet… as quiet as it gets, at least.

So, you stumble into your apartment just after 1 a.m., eager to get some sleep but excited to see Tim tomorrow. It’s been nearly three weeks since your last date. You had several scheduled in that time, but you were late to the first and he’d already left for a family emergency, then you cancelled the next two. The simple fact of living in a different city than Tim does complicates things, but the suit you don, and the powers and responsibilities you have make it even more difficult to maintain a secure relationship. Yet Tim has never been anything but understanding. That doesn’t make it any easier to sneak around and lie when you love him.

You’ve just pulled your mask off when a blue light flashes in the bedroom entry behind you.

“Shock it!” a familiar voice exclaims before the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the floor thuds.

“Hi, Miggy,” you greet without turning.

“It’s Miguel, kid,” he grumbles, pushing up to his feet. “Year?”

“Same as last time.”

“Any reason I should be here?”

Shaking your head, you move to face him. His mask is off, the gloves of his suit torn. The left side reveals a simple gold band on his ring finger.

“Actually,” you decide, putting on your best friendly smile.

“No,” he interrupts. “I don’t like when you do that.”

“You don’t like anything,” you argue. “It’s not going to put anyone in danger.”

“You saying that scares me.”

“I need some advice,” you confess. “I… I’ve been seeing someone, and I love him. I do. But I also really love helping people.”

Miguel drags a hand down his face, then asks, “This guy seem bothered by the constant excuses?”

“How do you know I give him excuses?”

Miguel simply looks at you, because he knows exactly what you’re dealing with. Even when he’s been around other spiders, there have been things he couldn’t — or simply wouldn’t — share.

“He’s really busy too, so I think he understands and it works out. So far, he hasn’t acted suspicious… not to my face at least.”

“There’s this novel idea where you meet in the middle,” Miguel says. “You tell him what he needs to know and ask the same in return.”

“What if… What if he doesn’t like what I tell him?” you whisper.

“Then you dodged a bullet.” Miguel shrugs and counters, “Maybe you won’t like what he tells you. But you won’t know until you stop letting your situation control you.”

“Right. Well, he’s coming here later today, so I guess I could consider your advice. Wait, why are you here?”

“No clue.” He points over his shoulder but doesn’t have to ask.

“Couch is all yours,” you answer. “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge or the Thai place around the corner is still open. Thank you, Miggy.”

“Whatever, kid,” he grumbles, rolling his shoulders as he walks out of your room.

You decide to take Miguel’s advice under consideration for a while longer. When you open your door to see Tim holding a bag of food and a box from your favourite store, you decide you would rather have the mature conversation in Gotham. That way, Tim doesn’t have to find his way home knowing that you have been lying to him for the entirety of your relationship.

“Are you free Friday?” you check after the door is closed and everything he was carrying is stowed on your counter.

Tim checks his phone quickly, then nods.

“Can I come to Gotham? I’ve been wanting to go to that diner again.”

“Sure,” Tim agrees. “They just added a new dessert menu.”

“I should move,” you sigh dreamily.

“Then who would give me excuses to buy overpriced chocolate on 7th Avenue?”

Wrapping your arms around his waist, you kiss his shoulder and whisper, “You could still do that for me.”

“How kind of you.”

Nearly a week after Tim had to cut your evening in New York short because his brother called, you make your way to Gotham. You’re three hours early, but it seems like a nice buffer to actually ensure you make your date this time. It’s getting late, but the heavy clouds above you blot out the sun, making it seem closer to dusk than it is.

Walking through Newtown, which separates one of the most crime-ridden areas of Gotham from the bridges, you look at the businesses lining the streets. It seems as if someone is trying to make this side of the city more welcoming than it once was. You pass by a glass blowing shop, then stop and incline your head toward the alley on the other side of the street. A familiar tingle buzzes at the base of your skull as your heart rate increases.

Carefully, you cross the street, as if you’re interested in the seasonal menu of a mom-and-pop ice cream parlor.

“No, no, please,” someone pleads in the alley.

“Just hand it over!” another voice demands.

A single glance around the corner confirms that you sensed something. Three large men have a defenseless girl who looks to be several years your junior pinned in the alley. She’s clutching her bag to her chest as tears streak down her cheek.

“Let’s do this one more time,” you murmur to yourself before slipping into the shadows.

When you emerge in the alley, you’re in your suit and looking to make this fight as short as possible. Without making yourself known, you shoot a web toward the man who appears the be the leader. It wraps around his ankles and allows you to pull his legs out from under his. His face collides with the damp asphalt, which muffles his pained groan.

“Who is that?!” the other man demands, turning and revealing a knife in his grasp.

The third man inches forward then, becoming visible to you. Riddler, you recognize from all the posters around Gotham. He narrows his eyes at you and spins the small cane by his side.

“I spin a silky web so neat, to catch the bugs I like to eat, with eight long legs I creep with pride, in dark corners I like to hide,” he calls. “What am I?”

The man you knocked down clambers to his feet and pulls a heavy crowbar from the wall behind him. Maybe, you realize, this isn’t a fight I shouldn’t have picked on my own.

“You are a crazed lunatic,” you answer. “I am a spider.”

The next web you shoot connects Riddler’s co-conspirators by the shoulders, temporarily rendering them incapable of fighting.

“Get out of here!” you tell the girl as you move toward Riddler.

She obeys your command and runs out of the alley. The odds of her sending someone to help you seem slim.

“You should go too,” you tell Riddler. “While you still can.”

“It is worldwide, but once only a spider could weave one,” he says. “Gotham is no place for spiders.”

The others separate themselves, and you rock your weight back onto your heels. Of all the times for Miguel to not show up unannounced.

The sun set hours ago, and Tim needs to get ready to meet you at the diner for your date. But Jason needed ‘a minute,’ so Tim is covering Newtown briefly. He leaps from one rooftop to another, slowing when he sees something in the alley beneath him. Tim drops to one knee and realizes that the lump he saw is a person.

He lands soundlessly in the alley and approaches the individual cautiously. When he’s close enough to make out details, he stops.

“What are you doing in Gotham?” Red Robin mutters, lifting New York’s spider vigilante’s arm, which falls uselessly back to her side.

He’s seen enough videos and read enough stories about the spider to know that, by all accounts, she’s good. But that doesn’t explain why someone who can carry their own against New York’s biggest and baddest is lying unconscious in a Gotham alley.

“That’s not good,” Tim muses softly when he sees blood darkening a sleeve of Spidey’s suit. “B, I’ve got a situation in Newtown.”

“I left for five minutes!” Jason groans.

“The spider from New York?” Tim begins. “She’s here.”

“Doing?” Bruce inquires.

“Nothing. She’s hurt, unconscious.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Me too,” Jason offers. “You need someone who doesn’t trust anyone about anything if this girl wakes up.”

“She needs to get patched up, not be interrogated,” Tim argues, pressing his thumb to the side of Spidey’s neck to check her pulse.

“If I’m lucky, there’ll be time for both.”

Your mask is firmly in place when you wake, but someone is prodding at your arm and the damp concrete that you landed on has been replaced by a dry sheet beneath you. You jerk upright, ready to fight Riddler and the two goons he had with him. They won’t get the jump on you again, and you know to protect yourself from whatever it was Riddler used against you. Though you remain unsure why he had a weapon that powerful and chose to mug an unarmed girl.

“Oh,” you mutter when you realize you are face-to-face with Batman and Red Robin. Glancing toward your now-bandaged arm, you see that Red Hood is lurking in the corner with his arms crossed.

“What are you doing in Gotham?” Batman demands.

Red Robin steps forward and lays one hand on your shoulder while the other circles your wrist. He directs your arm up, then toward your chest.

“Who are you?” Red Robin inquires.

You look at your wrist where he’d touched you, convinced you’ve felt his touch before.

“Um, most people call me Spider,” you offer, dropping your voice. “It was supposed to be Spider-Girl or something, but the whole thing never stuck.”

“What are you doing in Gotham?” Batman asks again. “Who brought you here?”

Red Robin moves behind you, rubbing the blade of his palm down your neck and to the base of your spine. You had no idea the bats had medical training. The idea of Batman sitting in a lecture hall makes you smile beneath your mask, but then Red Robin spreads his hand against your shoulder.

Suddenly, you’re no longer in Gotham being interrogated. You’re in New York, looking up at billboards in Times Square with Tim Drake lingering at your side and whispering comments in your ear. Red Robin’s touch seemed familiar because it is.

You glance at Red Robin, searching his face. What’s visible certainly looks like Tim Drake.

“You come into our city announced, pick a fight, and find yourself unprotected and vulnerable,” Batman says. “Justify that.”

“I didn’t pick a fight,” you defend. “I saved someone. It’s what I do.”

“It’s what you do in New York,” Red Hood interjects. “Why are you here?”

Glancing up, you realize that you’re in a real cave. There’s got to be a way out because there’s a way in.

Pretending to stretch your shoulder, you aim your hand toward the rafters and murmur, “Maybe I was never here.”

Just as a spider disappears from its web in a breath, you leave Batman, Red Robin, and Red Hood alone, with no idea as to where you are. They search the expanse of the cave, shine a spotlight along the rafters, but find no trace of you.

“Well, I doubt she’ll be back,” Jason decides. “Now that she knows we’re here and we want answers.”

“But why was she here at all?” Bruce wonders, removing his cowl. “Who took her down in that alley?”

“It’s suspicious,” Tim agrees. “Gotham isn’t exactly a destination, so I doubt it was a convenience thing.”

“She said she saved someone,” Jason remembers. “Any reports of crimes in that alley tonight?”

Bruce falls into his chair at the Batcomputer to check, leaving Jason and Tim behind him to speculate.

Tim’s phone chimes, and he reads the text from you quickly, then locks his phone. Then, when he truly realizes what you said, he opens it again.

“What?” Jason asks.

“My girlfriend cancelled our date,” Tim mumbles.

“The date that’s supposed to start in… seven minutes?” Jason sighs, then checks, “You suspicious enough to talk about it yet?”

“She’s been acting weird,” Tim says, moreso to himself than to Jason. “She’s been late or cancelling dates the whole time we’ve been dating. I never really thought about it, because I’d call them off last-minute too when Batman stuff came up.”

“Okay,” Jason drawls. “And?”

“But I’m pretty sure someone had slept on her couch before I visited her in New York last weekend and she didn’t say anything. And… and there’s something about the Spider.”

“Found it,” Bruce announces. “Store at the end of the alley has surveillance.”

He presses play on the video, showing Riddler and two unfamiliar men cornering a young girl.

“When did Riddler get a team?” Jason wonders.

“After Joker taunted him for working alone,” Bruce answers flatly.

The video shows the moment Spider steps out into the dim light in the alley and pulls the first man off his feet.

“Ooh,” Jason murmurs. “That hurt.”

“She saved the girl,” Tim muses when she runs out of the alley. “So, she wasn’t lying about that.”

They quiet as the video continues. When Riddler lunges toward Spider, she reaches both hands out and grasps his upper arm, flipping him over her shoulder. He pulls something out of his blazer pocket, slams it against her arm, and then Spider collapses. Riddler ushers the men out of the alley, though they clearly want to take advantage of her unconscious state.

“Wait, whoa,” Tim interrupts, slapping the back of Bruce’s chair lightly. “Go back?”

“Wondering when Riddler took up purse snatching?” Jason jokes.

Bruce drags the mouse until Tim tells him to stop. In slow-motion, they watch Spider grasp Riddler’s arm, then how she staggers back as she tries to fight off whatever he did to her.

“It’s a variant of the Joker toxin with traces of Scarecrow gas,” Oracle says through the comms system. “Other than that, her bloodwork looks fine.”

“He injected it?” Jason questions.

“He’s prepping for something big,” Oracle suggests.

“I know who Spider is,” Tim admits, staring at the paused video. Spider’s hands are on Riddler’s arm, one hooked beneath his tricep and the other manipulating his forearm. Tim has been in the same hold on more than one occasion, but he’s never actually been tossed like Riddler was. He had no idea before now that it was a possibility.

“What?” Jason exclaims. “Who?”

“I have to go,” Tim murmurs, moving toward the staircase that leads to the manor.

“Where?” Jason calls. “To do what?”

“Watch videos of Spider fighting that green guy in New York!”

Bruce turns and watches Tim go, then asks Jason, “Do you know who she is?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you should consider updating his world’s okay-est detective trophy.”

“Sure,” Jason deadpans, “I’ll get right on that. Maybe I’ll be the demon spawn a new sword, too.”

Tim spends the next twenty hours watching every video of Spider he can find online. Running on adrenaline and caffeine, he’s more convinced that he’s right about her true identity. So, he travels to New York and stakes out on the roof of a building that Spider seems to frequent.

Less than an hour later, you lands on the edge of a roof and straightens when you see you aren’t alone.

“Uh, hello,” you greet, waving awkwardly at Red Robin, who you’re pretty sure is also your boyfriend. “Look, if this is about last night—"

Red Robin interrupts you and says your name. Not Spidey. Your actual name. Tonight, he’s speaking like himself, not using that raspy tone you assume he learned from Batman. He sounds like Tim Drake, and your stomach twists at the idea this will be the last time you hear him say your name.

With a heavy sigh, you pull your mask off. “Tim, I’m sorry,” you begin.

“Don’t bother,” he interrupts, causing your heart to drop to your stomach. He pushes his cowl back and smiles, calming the building storm inside you. “Call it even?”

“You’re not breaking up with me?” you check, clutching your mask in your hands.

“Are you kidding!? The Spider and Red Robin are unbreakable.”

“The Spider and Red Robin just met.”

“I’m not breaking up with you,” Tim promises, taking your hand. “And I have an idea for how you can beat that Goblin guy.”

You open your mouth to ask how he knows about the villain and your fights but then remember you’re talking to Tim Drake. What little he doesn’t know he can find quickly.

“It’d be nice to have someone in my corner,” you reply. “Teach me how to fight Gotham rogues, too?”

“Sure. Then we can switch cities and freak everybody out,” Tim suggests.

You laugh, then lean forward and kiss Tim’s cheek before you put your mask back in place.

“Who are we fighting tonight?” Tim inquires.

“It’s been pretty quiet so far,” you say. “Oh, if you could figure out how to keep Miggy from spawning in my bedroom when he time travels, that’d be great.”

Tim nods, following you toward a fire escape, then catches your wrist to stop you and yells, “Time travel?!?”

How the fuck did Vanessa cheat on this man?

You’d known Dick ever since he and Vanessa were in the early stages of dating around two years ago, and you hated to admit it, but he was one objectively sexy man. Who was sat there with a cappuccino in a local Blüdhaven coffee shop, looking the most tortured you’d ever seen him, over a girl who cheated, nonetheless.

You sipped your latte. “You look like shit, Dick.” Your voice was softer than intended. Maybe a portion of you felt bad. “What’re you thinking?”

He scrubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean to drag you out here to sit in silence, I’m just… confused. How could she— did I do something?”

You sat forward in your seat, raising an eyebrow, sighing. “Really?” You clicked your tongue noncommittally. “You’re gonna blame yourself for this? Dick, you got her expensive jewellery to ask her to be your girlfriend, you were pretty fucking perfect.” He’d done the research. Seen what colour jewellery she wore, if she preferred gold or silver, her birthstone, what cut, how long, and got it custom made. If he did anything wrong, you’d be surprised. “It’s her fault.”

He looked sceptical. He even let out a disbelieving scoff, like you were talking bullshit. “You don’t seem heartbroken. Like, at all.”

You shrugged, stirring your latte with a wooden stick. “If she can take him, she can have him. Carter couldn’t do anything without his mother’s approval anyway.”

His nose wrinkled. “Yikes. That sounds rough.”

"Why'd you offer to buy me coffee anyway?" His text had come out of nowhere, but he probably had his reasons. One or two at least.

His sigh was of defeat as he rubbed a sugar packet between his fingers, rubbing the back of his neck with another hand. “I just— you got caught up in my ex-girlfriend’s shit, and it felt unfair.”

You gestured to him. “You got caught up in my ex best friend and my ex-boyfriend’s shit, so arguably, I should be paying for this.”

“But I already paid.”

“So let’s go out for a drink sometime.” You shrugged. “I wanted to get wasted and forget about this anyway, might as well take you with me.”

His grin was blinding, the kind of thing Vanessa used to giggle about when she first met him. “A little too soon to go out for drinks, huh?”

“It’s a proposition.” You laughed, shrugging. “Drinks on me. Let’s go tomorrow.”

Dick had been used to fancy hotel bars, at least whenever Bruce had thrown parties with bars included. The ones where the bartenders wore suits and ties with top shelf liqueurs.

He felt a sort of thrill when you dragged him into a bar on the corner of 6th, one with dim, flickering warm lights that clashed with blue and purple ones. The bartender wore plaid, spoke in a thick Boston accent, had an unkempt five-o’clock shadow. The bar top was wooden and chipped, and on the makeshift dance floor were plenty of drunk people grinding on each other.

“Oh, this is amazing,” He couldn’t help but smile widely, turning to you. “There are places like this in Gotham?”

“Yes, Mr Trust Fund— Scott!” You flagged down the bartender. “Can we get a round of shot roulette?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” Scott flashed you a smile, wiping down a glass before heading to set up the shot roulette.

Dick turned to you, leaning on the bar slightly, tracing the wood grain with his finger. “So, you come here often?”

You perched yourself on a barstool, prompting him to do the same. Something that sounded like 50 Cent was playing on the speakers in the corners, bass thrumming in the back of your mind. “Oh, all the time. Best place in Gotham.” The shots were slid in front of you, and you both grabbed the glass and chucked it back, both of you humming. “Huh.”

“Kind of… fruity.” He mused, staring at the shot glass, putting it down. He glanced at you through his stupidly long and pretty lashes, clearing his throat. “How did you find out that… never mind.”

You chased the alcohol down with water. “I got a photo of a girl fucking Carter.” You scoffed lightly. “I saw a tattoo on her upper thigh that I’d paid for when we were in college.”

He ran a hand through his hair, huffing. “Fuck, shit, I’m so sorry— she just came clean to me. Maybe after you found out.”

“It’s not your fault.” You said lightly, waving your hand. “It’s theirs. They couldn’t keep it in their pants, Vanessa had a great, hot guy and she lost him, so…”

He couldn’t help his soft smile. “You’re gorgeous too, you know. Carter doesn’t know what he lost.” His eyes flicked down, to your lips, then to a barely working lightbulb like a moth would. But you caught it.

Your teeth snagged your bottom lip.

Vanessa made a huge mistake.

Dick’s hand was firmly on your jaw, leaned over the centre console of his Bentley so his lips could slot easily against yours. Your hand was carding into the floppy strands of his hair, swallowing each other’s heavy breaths. His cologne was deliciously clouding your senses, the hand not on your jaw reaching behind you to grab at your ass, squeezing, teasing your bottom lip with his warm tongue. His mouth separated from yours to burn down your neck, laving your pulse, pressure on your jaw gone in favour of tugging your shirt down over one shoulder to palm your tits over your bra.

“Your apartment is,” You paused to moan quietly, tugging his hair as a keep going, “literally right there. We can — fuck — get comfy.”

He nodded into your neck, brushing your skin with his lips one more time before looking you in the eye. “Good idea.”

You couldn’t remember how you actually got into his apartment, but you did remember stripping him of his clothes and pushing him down onto his bed, unclasping your bra. He hummed, biting his lip. “I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.” You breathed, your breathing stuttering as you ground your panties-covered pussy over his boxers-covered cock.

His hand slid over the back of your neck, encouraging you closer. “Let’s send them a photo,” He murmured, pecking your lips, his nose rubbing against yours. “You know. Revenge.”

Your hand was already scrambling for your phone, switching to selfie mode just as he smashed his lips to yours, your thumb hitting the circular button and taking the photo. “Good?”

“Yeah, fuck, that’s hot,” He nodded, tugging you so he could kiss you, middle finger reaching down to rub at your entrance over your panties. “You’re soaked, shit, sweetheart,” He reached up and tugged, sliding down the lace covering your pussy with his pointer until they slipped off, lazily chucking your panties into the corner of his room. “C’mere.” He grabbed your hips and pulled you till your pussy was right above his mouth.

Wait what— fuck.

His mouth wrapped around your clit as two fingers pushed into your cunt, practically sucking his fingers in, dear God. Your head fell back, mouth dropping open as a surprised moan left you, hand shooting to grip his hair. He groaned, deep in his throat, other hand pressing on the small of your back to encourage you to grind your clit on his tongue that was circling and pressing on your clit.

“O—Oh, Dick—”

“Yeah, that’s right, give it to me, baby.” He moaned, yanking his fingers out, and just before you could protest at the loss of anything filling your aching pussy, he thrusted his tongue into you, flicking at your clit with his thumb, his nose bumping occasionally against you. The taste of you on his tongue made him want to sing your praises, but it came out muffled, the vibrations making your hips twitch and eyes roll back.

Repeated cries of “yes” punctuated by your broken moans fuelled his ego and his already painfully hard dick. With your walls fluttering around his tongue fucking into you, he’d say you were fairly close.

A lot of things were going through your head. Like how this was a stellar pussy eating. How Carter refused to let any part of his face touch your vagina. How Dick was so willing and drinking your arousal up like it was the gods’ nectar.

You were coming on his tongue soon enough, pulling at his hair to make him moan and lap at your cunt faster, slicking his lips and chin.

A minute later, he was still kitten licking you clean, and as much as the stimulation made you stroke his hair and whisper praise, you needed to get a move on. So you pulled yourself away from his mouth, pulling down his boxers while he whined and pawed at your hips to try and bring you back.

“M’ not done— fuuuuck,” His head dropped back into the pillows, giving way for the weight, as you sank down onto his waiting cock. Your warm walls wrapping around him, making his head spin before he snapped into reality. His hands took hold of your hips again, helping you move on him, thumbs kneading your skin as you dragged up and down his dick.

He hadn’t felt like this before. Your lips were on his neck, leaving kiss prints on his skin, from his chest to his jaw and around his lips. Raising your phone and clicking a photo of his fucked-out grin as you rode him, thumb hovering over send to Vanessa.

“You ok with this?” Your voice was uncharacteristically soft, circumstantially breathy, your nails raking down his abs and making him shiver.

He grabbed the phone, pressed send himself, propping himself up so he could take one of your tits into his mouth, sucking to stifle his shamelessly loud moans. Wasn’t working. “Mhm— ride my fucking dick, gorgeous,” He gasped between switching to your other tit, laving over your skin with his tongue. “Just like that, so perfect, honey.”

His mouth running away with him told you he was close, his thumb reaching to rub circles on your clit propelled you that much further, but you refused to come twice before he had even once, so you pulled his head away from your tits, bit his earlobe and sucked a mark behind his ear.

He shuddered and groaned your name, hot come spilling into you — morning after pill, here we come — and the twitch of his cock sent you straight after him, his mouth slamming sloppy into yours, gripping the back of his neck while his tongue slid over your lower lip and his lips following straight after.

You milked him for all he had, until you were both panting and he was staring up at you through his lashes like he wanted to fuck you on all fours. “Wanna go again?”

“We’ve got time.”

carter -> you carter : c'mon, baby, let's talk about it you know i love you she didn't mean anything i swear i can't live without you sweets you : she's busy. carter : doing what???? who is this ??? you : fucking me. it's dick, btw ;) carter : vanessa's ex? you piece of shit give the phone back to her [ blocked ]

vanessa -> dick vanessa : you're really gonna throw years away for that bitch ?you're mine i want you back let's talk about this i miss you so bad we can go to couples counselling, work on our problems together you weren't really fulfilling my needs, i had to look out for myself dick : for a guy who wasn't 'fulfilling your needs' nessie he sure was fulfilling mine vanessa : youre such a bitch to think you were my best friend fucking my EX ??? could you go any lower ?? dick : *you're vanessa : UGH

Then she murmurs, "I'm just trying to cheer you up."

You thaw at that, only now noticing the way she's been giving you simple tasks to distract you from your sadness. Working a little extra to pull you out of the hole you'd resigned yourself to for the day.

Shoulders melting, and heart unhardening, you give her an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, you're right..."

She turns to you, brightens almost immediately, and clasps your hands together.

Your husband is busy, and so are you, and maybe it is the heat that's been seeping through your pores and making your blood boil more than it should in your veins. But Tara is here, actively trying to turn that around. "Let's check out the food trucks."

The plaza is filled with yellow-and-orange-roofed activity stalls and pop-up stores to welcome the summer heat. Arranged meticulously in a circle, facing inwards towards the center, and then fringed by the food trucks beyond. A mosaic of the sun.

Children run past your legs, some gawk at the pair of you in your hunter uniforms, and some ask to see your cool weapons (with safety on, of course). You are delightfully reminded of your children, and how they would be among the ones buzzing by your feet if they were here... maybe especially so if you were Xavier.

Some parents offer you both a drink, reporting of a newly arrived truck that sells slushies and fruit drinks over ice. Perfect for two hard-working heroes on such a scorching day. Your fingers are wrapped around a little girl's palm, and Tara is also towed towards the benches shadowed by the umbrellas while their parents kindly offer themselves to fall in line to buy the drinks.

Curious little things, they ask you both questions about being a hunter. You're in the middle of answering when you hear a customer sputter out their drink and start complaining.

"Excuse me, is this a joke?" the young woman asks, face twisted into a disgusted expression, like she'd just swallowed an insect. You stand immediately, preparing to step in as she escalates the dissatisfaction with, "What, did a three-year-old make this?"

And despite the heat, you freeze at the laughter that responds. Familiar and mischievous, you'd know it from the first breath; the millisecond it takes for him to wind it up and expose his tax bracket with the pristine statement of a chuckle and the delighted gasp as its period.

"My apologies," says your husband, now just meeting your eye from your position in the back of the gathering crowd. He turns his face, projects his voice to the back of the truck and calls, "Kieran!"

And oh how your heart melts at the little, "I comin'!" that takes his brothers' place.

Your son is delivered by the armpits and placed atop the counter in his blue sleeveless shirt, layered with a tiny apron that wraps around his belly.

Kieran shakes his head immediately at the sight of Sylus's warning glare and points to the little one. "I swear it was him."

"Make joos!" cheers Lucian proudly.

The crowd coos, aww!

Sylus chuckles and turns to the customer, bowing his head low. "Apologies, my son wanted to help. He must have added too much of something."

"'coop!"

"He likes to scoop." Sylus bows his head lower— no, he would never do that to anyone else but when he crosses you. This, this was Skye.

Lucian realizes his mistake at the sight of his father apologizing, and goes to mimic a bow (that turns to a squat) too. "Joos bad?"

The crowd boos, awww...

His dejected tone is enough for you to glare at the woman he wronged. Though she had the right to complain about her purchased drink, a cord is struck in you at how rudely she drew attention to the error and even insulted your family. Your hand rests at your belt, ready to step in. Brimming with a bubbling anger that depends on her next move.

But she's resolved to it now, charmed immensely by the squatting-actual-three (well, two and a half)- year-old that made her drink. And shes shaking her head furiously and taking it all back. "It's okay! No, it's good! Just a little... salty. But it's good!"

She bows as well, just as apologetic to the boy and his father, and leaves a kind tip in Lucian's hand.

"Pay!" Lucian cheers, waving the small valued bill in his hand like a victory flag.

It takes a while for you to make it to the front of the line.

Lucian's little show is attracting all the customers. Word spreads quickly that food truck sixteen has one cute baby mixing drinks and another cute baby twin handing out fruit pops, while their handsome, also twin older brothers supervised.

You also catch whispers of the dad being hot too.

When you reach the front of the line, Sylus is already grinning at you.

"You said you were busy at work."

"I am," he tells you, already ringing up your order on the cash register, knowing exactly which one you'd want without you even having to say it. "Lots of customers today. We're short staffed too."

"Hey, Skye!" Tara greets, head popping up from behind your shoulder. Sylus waves at her briefly before turning back to you. "Your drinks will be out in a minute."

You roll your eyes at him and shake your head. Stubborn as a mule, you barrel your way to the back door and let yourself in. You hear a few customers complaining about why you get to go in and see the babies and they don't, but you don't care.

"Mama!" Kyros cheers at the sight of you, his laughter muffled in the fabric of your uniform as you pull him into an embrace. His hair is peppered with kisses, his warm cheeks are squished between your palms.

"You shouldn't be working, you're not old enough yet!" you joke between smooches.

"Fafa says soop-ise!" he giggles through gently puckered lips. "Soo-pise, mama!"

"What else?"

"Woosian and me eat—eat much's we want." he smiles at you when you pull away, just now realizing his reddened lips from his? you don't know how many-eth fruity ice pop. You can't bring yourself to care too much so you kiss his nose. "Not too much, okay?"

"'Kay!" he breathes, but then snickers with Luke when you leave him to find his twin.

"Lucian, angel, what are you doing?" you tease, tickling his sides to surprise him from his task— shaking a drink in a tin shaker.

"A'mama! I'shakin'!" He squeals when you pick him up and kiss him too. "Lookie!"

He does his little shake-shake, to the left and right, the ice inside ksh-ksh-ksh-ing ever so slightly at his little movements. His knees do all the work when he hops along to the sounds. When he's done, he hands it back to Kieran who shakes it a few more times and pours it into a plastic cup.

You clap your hands and praise him with a delightful, "Well done!"

"I put shoo-gur, not salt nee'more." he tells you in a whisper, cupping his hands around your ear so you hear it properly. "Cus'mers no like salt."

You laugh at his new burst of enlightenment and brush his hair back. "No, they don't."

He teaches you a few more things in his little fruit kitchen. He confuses the dragon fruits with the kiwis a few times, but otherwise, he's actually really impressive.

So you leave him to it, walking back front to disrupt Sylus's order taking with an unhurried kiss to his mouth. Not caring for the scandalized gasps from his very pretty customers, or the hysterical laughter of Tara waiting for your drinks to the side.

You pull away and brush your thumb over his bottom lip for him, knowing his habits as well as he knows your go-to drinks and how you feel about surprises.

"Call me when you get off work," you tell him, whipping around to take your leave. But he grabs your wrist and pulls you back for a brief peck.

"Will do."

He's the guy who deserves to be popular. Ever ready to help by holding open doors, sifting through papers during office hours, spreading awareness with his influence about campaigns running in the social committee, gives back to the community. He knows many by their names, never letting them feel insignificant.

Admirers were a given. His sunset eyes, dawn brown hair that made him blend in with the late afternoons and early mornings were easy to marvel over. His smiles were generous and his boyish laughter contagious. The way his hair falls over his eyes looks like the wind stirred it but it's almost intentional with how it brings out his dark brows and those gentle, earnest, puppy dog eyes. They're deceptively sweet like a fruity popsicle on a hot day.

Deceptive because if you catch him at the right moment, you'll see the shift. A tilt of his head, a tugging grin and a flash of mischief in his gaze tells you everything you need to know. He knows the effect he has on people and uses it well. He's akin to a golden retriever with how he could stir trouble but one coy, doe-eyed look and you're forgiving him without consequence.

That kind of dangerous combination had girls and guys tripping over themselves to chase after him, hands outstretched to reach for him, confessions of their love spewing from their lips.

So when you come into the picture, he's thrown a curve ball.

Caleb who knows he fucked up by getting his childhood best friend, Emcee, to pose as his fake girlfriend to steer away girls on campus when he sets his sights on you. The attention was overwhelming at times even for a guy like him so the white lie served as repellent to them. Well, the ones who had a good set of morals to not chase after a taken man, of course.

You were one of them.

Not that you showed any interest in him.

He's used to girls getting all shy around him, batting their lashes and touching his arm or even straight up trying to get in his pants.

Wedding bells ring in his ears when he first hears your laughter across the quad, hand over your mouth as more giggles tumble out of you. He was envious of how the sun kissed your face, cheeks glowing with unabashed joy, head inclined fondly as you cast those pretty, intent eyes at your friend who spoke animatedly.

God, he wanted you to look at him like that.

You had some classes together, the ones that were for minimum credits and didn't affect your entrance for exams if you skipped the majority of them. He usually did that but knowing you'd be there had his attendance skyrocketing.

He wouldn't talk to you much, just a greeting in passing. You never attempted to make conversation either but he'd hear snippets of yours with your friends, talking about your weekend, the shows they're hooked on, celebrity they're fawning over and when your next hangout should be.

Even so, he'd fill in Gideon and his other friends about his brief encounters with you like they were stretched out for hours rather than the few seconds they actually were. He'd recount it all, your face, your voice, your gaze on him like a poet would write a sonnet.

“Just talk to her already,” was the response he'd receive time and time again from his frustrated, trusted teammates who swore they wouldn't tell anyone.

Captivating as you were, Caleb found you quite intimidating. Success wasn't based on luck for him, it was a habit. And you were the one person that made him feel like it'd be a feat to win you over.

Just like him, you were untouchable. You had the presence that had people fixing their posture and clothes to mirror yours when you walked in the room. Academically, you were at the top of your class. Students and professors alike strive for even a fraction of your discipline, focus and resilience.

As welcoming as your presence was with your kind smiles, willingness to block out time to tutor peers and giving emotionally intelligent advice, you had clear cut boundaries. Polite as you were, if something was too much for you like an administrator's unending list of extracurriculars or an overconfident suitor who wouldn't take a hint, you made them aware of your limits with grace and poise.

In class, you see Caleb as nothing but another student, not a golden boy. While others try to flirt or strike up conversation with him, hoping to climb the social hierarchy, your interactions are brief with quick smiles and unimportant chatter.

And maybe that's what unsettles the all-rounder, keeping him away from your orbit but still hovering around the edge of it. Everyone else is taken with him to some degree or another and while you see that he's a good person, not undeserving of the applause he receives, you maintain a deliberate distance.

Boy, does that drive him crazy, having him toss and turn restlessly at night, staring at the airplane figurine hanging from his ceiling like it had the answer to his problems. Or maybe it was your delicate scent that was always a head-turner. It clung to his jacket for weeks now and like a creep, he'd sniff it, taking greedy gulps of the heady aroma as he reminisced about the day it clung to his clothes.

One of your friends had been absent so the spot that usually separated him from you was empty. Someone wanted to take a seat causing him to scoot until he was shoulder to shoulder with you. He'd apologised for the lack of space but you shook your head, assuring him it was fine. His shoulder tingles at the memory of yours warming him and he wonders if you felt how his body was burning up from the contact.

Pathetic, that's what he was. If he just spoke to you like a proper human being, he could stop fantasizing and start acting.

Determined as ever, he gets Gideon to personally invite you and your friends to the party this Friday night. It wasn't a regular rager but rather a birthday bash for one of the brothers in the fraternity.

“Not my 21st rodeo” was the theme and the dress code was cowboys.

As many clothes as he had, Caleb did not own a cowboy hat. But Gideon had him covered, even made his life easier by getting him a graphic t-shirt too. He just has to pair it with jeans and boots then he'd be good to go.

The illustration and words at the back of it had him chuckling to himself. He did love a lame pickup line.

Yet his amusement dampened a bit when you took him in that night.

Clad in a cropped button-up shirt that hugs your waist, top buttons undone to show your distracting bust and a strip of your midriff, you look him up and down. The brown belt with a chunky buckle that holds up your bootleg jeans catches the strobe lights of the lively living room, a popular song thumping through the speakers. But all Caleb sees is you and that cowboy hat that hid your pretty face when you glance down at his shoes.

Playful, he does a spin for you so you can see that the seemingly plain white tee that stretched across his defined chest was actually on theme.

“Got any cowboy in ya’? Want some?” You read the writing in a bored voice while your friends giggle.

“Glad to see the frat is matching, I guess,” you comment as a lot of the guys here have obnoxious phrases on their t-shirts too.

Your lack of amusement has Caleb's face burning, ears red as he turns back around with a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck, his bicep bulging as he does.

How were you okay with the guy dressed as a cow hybrid but not his silly little tee?

“Just playin' m'part, Miss,” he tells you in a Southern drawl, tipping his hat.

That has your eyebrow arching, dry amusement on your face that has his heart kicking.

An hour or so later, when the party is in full swing and all your friends are dispersed to do their own things, you duck into the kitchen to find something other than cheap beer or strong shots.

“Moonshine” as the label reads is what you find in a crystal bowl and the pink punch with slices of fruit looks enticing so you grab a cup from the stack and pick up the ladle.

“I'd stay away from that if I were you,” that smooth voice from earlier says from behind you. “It's loaded with spirits and whatever other shit the guys tossed in earlier for their challenge.”

Curiosity killed, you dropped the ladle onto the counter with a clang. Frat boys were a funky breed so you weren't trying your luck with that. You set down your empty cup, facing him.

The kitchen lighting halos the hat on his head. His eyes look darker beneath it but they're still the epitome of boy-next-door as he gives you a slight smile.

“What you're lookin’ for is in there,” he informs you with a nod to the fridge.

With a nod, you walk over, hips swishing in that strut you do. His eyes are drawn to the satisfying sway of them. It was like watching a panther on the prowl and all you were missing was the curling tail in tow.

Opening the top door only to see that it's a freezer, you bend to browse the contents of the fridge at the bottom. And Caleb traitorously tracks the skin of your lower back that peeks out at him, a dip in your spine that directs his gaze lower to the curve of your rear.

Lightly slapping himself out of his stupor, he brings a hand up to make sure the saliva that gathered in his mouth didn't trickle out and sighs quietly in relief when he finds nothing.

He needs to start talking before he starts imagining unbecoming things.

“So, haven't seen you ‘round these parts.” He kicks himself mentally for that lame accent.

You hum, taking your sweet time to decide like you're oblivious to his conundrum.

“Not really my idea of an ideal Friday night but I wanted to try something new.”

That gets his attention, accent falling away.

“Yeah? What do you prefer to do then?”

You nod your head side to side as you think about it.

“Stay at home and read or watch a movie. Maybe go out for dinner with my friends and walk around the city,” you answer.

He perks up at that, “No way, me too!”

You find that hard to believe since he hosts a lot of these parties.

“Really?” You draw out the word lazily.

If Caleb catches your disinterest, he doesn't show it, sounding even more cheery than usual as he nods.

“Mhm, I know a lot of good spots around Skyhaven so if you get stuck wondering where to go, just ask,” he tells you, glancing everywhere but your bowed form. How could you stand like that for so long?

Your expression that was mildly bored turns frosty as you stand up straight. Forgetting your search for a decent drink, you shut the fridge.

“Why are you—”

Jenna comes bounding into the kitchen just then, grabbing you by the shoulders and ushering you into the living room, saying something about this being her favorite song and wanting you to dance with her.

The coolness on your face melts as you laugh at her excitement and join her, leaving Caleb all alone in the empty kitchen that feels much bigger without you.

No worries though. You came for your friends so naturally you're bound to spend the night with them. He'll talk to you another time.

Meanwhile, in the living room, among the partygoers, you move your body to the beat of the song playing.

Jenna gives you that wide-eyed, slightly panicked, slightly strict look she does whenever you tell her about a bad decision you made and your brows twitch in confusion.

“Steer clear of XYZ,” she tells you, lips close to your ear so you hear her over the loud music.

You pull back, checking to see if she's high. “The alphabet?”

Throwing her head back with a groan, she brings her gaze back to you once more. “Caleb aka Xia Yizhou.”

Mouth forming an “o” you nod in understanding. She could've just said that the first time.

Nodding with you, she hums, “Yeah, him. Stay away from that one, he has a girlfriend in Linkon. They're doing long distance.”

That stumps you. The guy back there who was definitely eyeing your bent over form when you were scanning the fridge is in a relationship with someone?

If his talkativeness hadn't deterred you already, this new information certainly did. Who comes to parties and entertains the advances of single women when he's got a partner a few hours away?

Men are disgusting. They liked having their cake and eating it too.

In a way, it pleases a dark part of you to know he wasn't as perfect as everyone painted him out to be. They were really overselling it like they do with most men, probably because the decent ones were far and few between whereas women surpass them all the time.

And you definitely weren't buying into it now. Infidelity was one of the things that instantly tainted someone's clean reputation in your mind, putting them on the “do not interact” list in your head.

So when he approaches you again on your way to class the following week, you can hardly contain your revulsion even while he's cluelessly yapping away.

“Are you free this Friday? I was thinking maybe you and I could grab a bite to eat together or something. Take a late night drive?” The words rush out of him, pushed from his lungs by the hope that fills them.

Finally, he worked up the courage to ask you out. Something that felt harder than any match, exam or interview he's ever had. He's soaring on the pride it gives him.

Then falls right back down to the ground when your lip curls in disgust. He takes a step back like he took a blow to the chest, deflating.

“Unbelievable,” you breathe. “Don't you have a girlfriend? Cheating prick,” you spit as you shove past him, his heart jumping at your roughness, something he hadn't expected you were capable of.

Girlfriend? He thinks, befuddled as he watches your retreating figure marching away, all wound up and irritated. The fact that he's the cause makes him feel sick.

Running a hand through his hair, he paces, racking his brain to understand where the hell that came from. Sure, you never looked at him sweetly but neither did you glare as harsh as you did just now.

As he's connecting the dots like a detective on a cold case, his phone buzzes. Pulling it out and looking at the text in the pop-up, it all clicks.

It's her.

Shit, he was so caught up in all the fluffy, pink feelings inside him that tasted like cotton candy melting on his tongue that it completely slipped his mind that he had been boasting about having a “girlfriend back home” to everyone who'd listen.

He's at Emcee's door hours later, begging her to stage a breakup. The word spreads on campus the very next day, carried by the big mouths of the gossips, elated by the news.

The entire female population has their eyes on him now, ready to play the role of his caregiver to comfort him through these hard times. Faking heartbreak is easier than Caleb thought, especially because he was nursing your stinging rejection.

His ametrine eyes framed by those mahogany lashes and thick brows make him look like a sulking puppy, as Emcee and Zayne always pointed out. Girls would coo and melt at the sight of them.

You're immune to them, it seems.

“Good for her,” you'd cruelly told him when he informed you of his breakup firsthand.

“Excuse me?” His eyes squinted like he couldn't quite comprehend your lack of sympathy.

Shrugging, you took the straw of your drink into your mouth, sucking the breath from Caleb's lungs as you pulled.

“No girl wants a guy who can't keep his eyes from wandering. If that were me, I would've gouged them out.”

With a flick of your hair, you whirled around and left him standing there, speechless and honestly a bit hard.

A girl told you that while she was at the club, she saw him there and decided to shoot her shot at him. Nervous, she had rambled and he'd nodded attentively, a light smile on his face. It was only when she asked him her last question when he blinked and ducked to listen to what she said. She realised with embarrassment that he had just been bobbing his head to the beat of the song playing, not a thought behind his vacant eyes.

If only he'd responded to girls that way when he was dating, you thought with an eyeroll.

“Don't you think it's too much of a coincidence that she broke up with him right after you rejected him?” Simone asks, legs kicking behind her as she lays on Jenna's bed while the three of you lounge in her dorm.

Scoffing in disagreement, you flip through a magazine, “No, she must've finally caught wind of what a player he is.”

Your friends hum, unconvinced but say nothing more about the man or his ex-girlfriend, knowing you'll just deny it all. And you genuinely believe that there was no correlation of those two events.

For a bit.

Then the courting commenced and you saw how the two of them hid their smiles and pressed their lips together to stop the I-told-you-so's from being voiced.

Caleb doesn't need grand gestures. His presence was loud enough.

It starts small. Bringing you coffee during the morning class you shared, knowing your order better than you did. The grateful look he shot Simone told you she was the culprit who gave it to him. She avoided your gaze.

Your scowls, glares and bored looks did nothing to keep him away. He'd just raise a brow, smile and even chuckle, completely and utterly undeterred.

He'd walk you to class even if you took the longer routes to avoid him. He'd sit across from you in the library, help you with questions you were struggling with when he caught the telltale sign of your pen tapping your lips. Your favorite snacks would be on the desk you often sat at in the private study room and the flavors of the candies you didn't like would be missing.

And gosh, did he try to talk to you. Some days you'd offer a few, noncommitted hums and curt words and others, when you weren't in the mood, you'd say nothing at all. He didn't seem to mind, filling in the awkward silence for you.

Jenna and Simone were of no help. You often wondered if they were really your friends with how they'd side with him, feed into his antics by delivering information about you like top secret agents meeting in an alley to exchange an envelope.

“Come on, it's cute! Not many can say they had a guy like Caleb chasing after them during their college days,” Jenna reasons.

You're currently staring at the official Bratz merch that was sent to your apartment. All the pretty dolls, early 2000s tees and cute keychains were dulled when you remember who got them for you.

All because Simone opened her mouth and told him that you collected these figurines.

“Not many want a cheater after them either,” you counter with a grumble.

Still, you couldn't possibly turn down these gifts. They were your weakness and man, did they get his hopes up when he saw the chibi doll dressed in a onesie dangling from the zipper of your book bag.

That egged him on even more.

Caleb began showing up like your very own cheerleader. It's quiet at first—defending you in rooms you weren't in, remembering the little things and making you feel seen on your gloomy days.

And then, you question why he's a basketball player when he should be on the cheer squad. The man is writing you little motivational quotes and self-care reminders on sticky notes during test week, messages you songs that he thinks you'd like (he got your number during a group discussion), and offering to be your chauffeur to conferences when your car is in the shop.

The pompoms and t-shirt with your face and name plastered on it are all that's missing when he attends the debates and presentations you participate in, clapping louder than everyone else like he's someone proud who's known you your entire life when you win and even when you don't.

Does it get on your nerves? Absolutely. But you find it hard to tell him no. He doesn't push or look at you expectantly like you owe him for all of his efforts and just takes what you give.

Which is honestly kind of sad.

If only he'd shown you he was a good boyfriend, you might have given him a chance.

For now, you'd string him along like a dog on a leash. It was the least you could do after he was disloyal to his ex.

As for Caleb, he adjusted the collar to make sure it wouldn't come loose, tail wagging. If you took it off, he wouldn't run away for freedom like others would and instead sit and look at you with his head cocked in confusion.

Don't let him find out what you find physically attractive in a man's appearance because he is crazy enough to change his.

Then again, perhaps you're being egotistical and delusional from how he's spoiled you but you had to say that it was pretty odd that he grew his hair out and got a mullet along with a couple of piercings after you mentioned that you liked them.

“My ex back in high school had a few,” you had said when Gideon brought up body modifications at a kickback. “I'd treat it like a fidget toy for my mouth. Used to tug at his lip ring all the time when we made out. He was sick of me,” you chuckled.

“I doubt it,” Caleb chimed in, eyes meeting yours across the room. And of course, you rolled yours because you know he wouldn't mind.

Simone and Jenna had a nasty habit of leaving you alone with him, giggling to themselves and smiling all too wide. Gideon and his teammates were none the better, nudging him when you were passing by and calling you “Caleb's special friend.”

It was hard not to tease you both, especially him, when his attempts to impress you were so endearing to onlookers.

But he was beyond distracted.

Thrown completely off when he spots you on the bleachers during practice, chatting with Gideon who was benched and Jenna, your legs crossed.

An ugly feeling snatches his gut, bile rising in his throat when a guy he doesn't know but you clearly do comes up to you. You're more than willing to give him a hug too, arms wrapping around his neck—as opposed to around his waist like you do with others—rising to your tip toes as he engulfs you, hands dangerously close to the patch of skin revealed when the hem of your top lifts.

He can't think straight even after the guy leaves.

Easy shots are missed, his reactions are delayed, reflexes and training failing him like he never had them in the first place. It's like his limbs are jelly with how free throws miss him. Hell, he gets benched for the first time in ages after snapping at a newbie who tries to show off for you by stealing all his passes.

Not that he was any better but he digresses.

A part of him grows impatient, wanting to prove himself to you.

That's why he calls out to you, smiling when your head turns to find him like you'd kept track of him the entire time.

“If I get this ball in, how about one date?” He announces, holding up his index figure for emphasis.

Everyone's watching now, looking at you to see your reaction.

Your eyes narrow ever so slightly at him for putting you on the spot like this but you shrug.

“Sure.”

Oooh's and aaah's sound from his teammates and the students present.

A smarmy look takes over his face as he holds your gaze, back toward the basketball net. You arch a brow, watching to see how he does this.

Spinning the ball on his index finger, he stops and cups it in his palm. Then, eyes locked on yours, he launches the ball over his shoulder. He doesn't bother to look at it as it sails through the air, creating an arc.

There's a collision and then Gideon is sliding off the bench, clutching his stomach in uncontrollable, boisterous laughter.

Caleb turns then and sees everyone's cringing, sympathetic expressions. He knows what they mean. He'd missed the damn basket and hit the frame instead.

When he looks back at the bleachers, you're not there, already walking away after gathering your things, shaking your head.

His stomach churns. He doesn't need to see your face to know you're disappointed and probably experiencing secondhand embarrassment.

The supposed star athlete's aim isn't off when he hits Gideon in the stomach with the ball. His friend groans, rolling onto his side as his body shakes with his poorly suppressed laughter.

Weeks later, he's cutting you off on your way to the parking lot. “Can I have a do-over?”

Confusion creases your face. “What do you mean?”

He grimaces. “The whole “if I win, I can take you on a date” thing.”

Scoffing, you cross your arms. He's noticed how you're always so closed off with him, body facing away when he's in front of you, ensuring yours never grazes him like he's got a contagious disease or something.

Honestly, with how weird his behaviour gets around you, he thinks he does have a sickness. It's just that you're the cause and cure.

Inclining your head, your hair cascades to the side like silk. “Do you really want a repeat of the other day?”

Shaking his head vigorously, his expression is serious.

“That won't happen again,” at least not with how hard he's been practicing lately after that disaster.

With a sigh, you mull over the bet. “What do I get if you lose?”

He exhales, “Whatever you want.”

Your gaze turns cold. “Alright then. If you lose, you're going to leave me alone for good.”

That strikes him in the chest, a sharp pain disrupting his heartbeat. “You're serious.”

A nod is the only response he gets before you're rounding him and walking away.

The ultimatum tasted bitter in your mouth but you were tired of his constant advances. You didn't like watching him lose, it felt like when you'd get an unsatisfactory score on a test. Like it was a personal failing. That very realisation shocked you to your core. You were starting to care for him and if you weren't careful, you'd fall flat on your face.

So this game would make or break whatever you were toeing the line of. Whether you'd give him a proper chance or wash him off your hands.

In some twisted way, Caleb thinks this drastic condition was just the motivation he needed to give it his all. He already planned to, of course but now he had a prize he could not let go of.

Tummy turning, you feel like you're the one about to compete in a college basketball game. It didn't help that you felt overdressed in your dress with the matching shorts underneath which you thought was a clever idea to wear with your platform heels. You'd dressed it down with your oversized university sweater though and put your hair in a half up-do, a ribbon to accessorize it.

A low roar spills into your ears as you step into the arena, the scent of warm pretzels and freshly made popcorn wafting into your nose. Parents and students alike take up the blue seats on either side of the court, donning the colours of the team they're supporting.

Ticket in hand, you shuffle down the steps after spotting Jenna and Simone, going to join them in the middle row as they said that was the best view of the game. You apologise as you brush past people, legs touching theirs even as you try to avoid it. The chair squeaks under your weight as you greet your friends.

The bright lights allow you to take a good look of the empty court and score board, names of the teams playing already on them as a clock ticks away above the basket. Just then, the lights dim, crowd standing to welcome the teams as the announcers introduce them.

Bursting out of the tunnel first in the opposing team, acknowledging the crowd with nods and waves, faces tight with focus. Their supporters cheer and you clap along with them.

Next, your school's team comes out and the audience grows louder, noises swelling. They get deafening when Caleb steps out, handsome as ever in his team jersey. It's mostly feminine screams so you're not that surprised.

He smiles, taking it all in, eyes searching the arena until they land on you and brighten. You feel like you got caught so you quickly move your gaze to Gideon beside him.

“Get ‘em, Gideon!” You shout in encouragement.

One man's chest puffs out in pride while the other's smile wavers just a bit.

You can probably tell which is which.

He doesn’t pout. No sulking. Takes your rebuff in stride. But if he had dog ears, you think they'd lower and draw back.

There's no time to feel bad about how you reacted as the ball is raised, air thrumming with anticipation before the buzzer cuts through and the game starts. The squeaking of sneakers against the polished maple floorboards are a bit annoying.

Confidence you had in winning the bet wanes as the match continues. Caleb's performance is a far cry from the clumsy, bumbling mess it was that day you watched his practice.

Now, he's commanding the court with clean, confident and calculating moves. Your stomach sinks each time he dunks the ball in the basket, shot after shot like he's the only one playing. Contracts, his reputation and future in the sport are mentioned by the commentators as scouts discuss his play.

You've never paid much attention to sports but the incomprehensible shots he scores within the last seconds, fast breaks and clutch assists—or whatever they're called—have you on the edge of your seat. The team moves as an unstoppable unit with Caleb as their leader, each pass so smooth, you can only imagine how much hard work they put in to make it look like child's play.

Gideon is a little shit. He toys with his opponents, faking passes and bucking them only to catch them off guard at the last moment by passing the ball to the star player.

The XYZ alias suits him well. What with how he dominates the final quarter like it was always going to be his, closing the nail-bitting game with a shot that feels inevitable.

Exploding with cheers, the crowd claps and hoots for them, sharp whistles and yells from the commentators giving you an ear ache. Simone shakes you by the shoulders in excitement and you laugh with her and Jenna. Caleb's eyes are on you once more, sweaty and breathless, when yours finds him, teammates bombarding him with hugs and pats on the back.

The nod of approval from you feels like he won the big leagues.

When the cheers die down and the teams retreat to the locker rooms to shower and change, you're faced with the reality that you have to let Caleb take you out. You don't get the chance to chicken out when Gideon and a few other guys come to talk to you and your friends.

You congratulate them with hugs and handshakes while Jenna interrogates one of the guys about the maneuvers he did that she'd like to learn.

Gideon smiles at you, basking in the afterglow of the victory he played a major part in. “Wanna come to the after party?”

Lighting up at that, your bounce on your heels and are about to agree when a hand lands on your shoulder. Mood dampening slightly, you already know who it belongs to as he slots himself into the space between Gideon and you.

“Uh, oh, you're not backing out of our deal, are you?” Caleb's voice is almost a sing-song, triumphant and self-satisfied.

His spider bite and labret piercings glint in the lights outside the arena, cool breeze dancing with his damp hair. You can't decide if his toothy grin or twinkling eyes are brighter. Either way, you look away, not that happy to see how proud he is.

“I'm not a sore loser,” that feels like a lie with how you face is unsmiling, “The after party sounds fun.”

Gideon nods in agreement. “Yeah, you're coming aren't you, Cap?” he asks the man who's still staring at you as he shakes his head.

“Sorry, boys, but I've got a date,” he boasts and the guys hum teasingly. Your friends join in on the taunting too, like you're two kids in school. They're moments away from starting to sing about you two sitting in a tree and kissing.

“We don't have to do that tonight,” you assure Caleb. “I'm sure everyone will be bummed if the man of the hour isn't there.”

He scrunches up one side of his face, eye closing as he shakes his head, the earrings lining his ear swaying with his unwillingness to take the bait.

“Parties happen all the time, they won't miss me much,” he reassures you both, the implication that a date with you is a once-off affair left unsaid but you catch on.

Like he anticipated that he'd win or maybe he prepared to manifest his success, Caleb's sporting a denim fit, jeans and jacket the same shade of blue with a black crew neck underneath, his dog tag popping against the dark fabric, white sneakers completing the ensemble.

You hate how it complements your outfit.

“Aw, man. We'll toast and celebrate in your honor. Enjoy your date!” Jenna says, not sounding upset in the slightest as they group waves and depart so you're alone with him.

Caleb rocks on the balls of his feet, hands in his pocket.

“Don't look so down, that dress of yours is too pretty to be wasted at a stuffy rager.”

“You don't even know what it looks like,” you point out because your sweater is still on.

He smiles, gentle and sincere. “If it's on you, it's always good looking.”

Blush warms your face at that even as you frown at him. He chuckles at your disapproval and nods towards his car.

“You like this don't you?” he asks as you make your way to his ride.

“You're gonna have to be more specific.”

“That smart mouth,” he mutters to himself. “Me chasing you, you keeping me on a leash, leading me on.”

“A little.”

He grins at that. “Only a little? Why are you smiling then?”

“Happy our school won.” You shrug.

“I bet. Now, does the star player get a congratulatory kiss from his pretty little date?”

“That depends.”

“On what?” His eyes are round like he's willing to get on his knees and bark for you.

“His good behavior.”

Groaning, he playfully pouts, “I've been so good, baby.”

“Have you?”

“You're always rolling those gorgeous eyes at me but you never chase me away, do you? Like the attention or something?”

“This isn't about me,” you remind him that you are discussing him.

“Everything is about you,” he corrects, not in an accusing way as if you're self-centered but rather that his world revolves around you.

“That won't last long once you get what you want.”

“What do I want?” he challenges, backing you up against the side of his car but not touching you.

“Your fill of me then you'll forget me and move on or worse, keep me around and entertain others.”

“That what you think?” he questions as he opens the car door for you.

“It's what I've heard.”

“From me?”

“Around.”

“All these months of me courting you and you can't see I'm not that person?” There's a flicker of hurt in his eyes.

“Guys tend to be on their best behaviour until they're comfortable enough to shed their pretenses,” you say despite the twinge in your chest.

Shutting the door once you get in, he nods, “Guess you'll just have to stick around and find out if I'm one of them.”

Unfortunately for you, the date goes well. The conversation flows easily, he gets a few laughs from you with his corny jokes. Your attempts to dissuade him fall flat as he has a counter for every made up excuse or flaw you throw his way.

Can't cook? He's great at it! Suck at chores? He's a clean freak. Don't like being told what to do? He'll handle it! Want to be a stay-at-home girlfriend? He's got you covered!

The glass of wine you drank sloshes in your belly as he drives you home, the ghost of a smile on his face displaying his contentment. Perhaps it's the liquor or another effort to ward him off but the truthful words spill from you before you can think them over.

“I'm also hard to please in bed. Overly dominant men piss me off.”

Caleb slides you a glance for a beat then returns his focus to the road.

“Hard to please, hmm?”

“Yeah, especially if you're like the sorry excuse of a man I slept with last and aren't open to advice.”

He nods slowly. “What did he do?”

“Not make me come, that's for sure,” you scoff bitterly at the memory.

While you didn't like thinking about it, it was at the forefront of your thoughts and the reason you'd felt so easily warm between your thighs tonight. You'd been put off by that encounter for a while.

“The idiot had me on my back, humping away between my legs all excitedly while I counted the ceiling lights,” you grumble, cursing the guy mentally.

Caleb stifles a chuckle. “Sounds horrible. Was it his skill or size?”

You tilt your head as you give it thought. “Skill for sure. He was like six inches which is what I usually prefer. At least I can feel it and not worry about being split in half.”

Shoulders slumping, you practically see Caleb deflate. “That's your preference?”

“Yeah.” You cast him a wary, sideways glance. “Why?”

Tittering nervously, his face is crinkled in what you're assuming is shame.

“I'm a bit bigger than that.”

And those, ladies and gentlemen, were the six words that didn't let you make it home that night. Not after he admitted it like he was embarrassed and that itched the right part of your brain.

Calling it a bit bigger when he had several inches on the guy was either him trying to be humble or purposely piquing your curiosity.

You're palming the bulge in his boxers, precum dampening and darkening the material as you kiss him, tugging at his lip ring with your teeth after bruisingly making out with him from his front door all the way to his bedroom. When he can't take the teasing anymore, he pushes you down and crawls between your thighs, clothes thrown to the floor.

Shit, he can't believe this is real and not one of his lucid dreams.

Holding you open for him by the back of your knees, Caleb shudders as he sinks his cock into your dizzingly warm cunt, eliciting a panting exhale from him and a long, drawn-out moan from you. He was so thick that the fit was snug and paralyzing. His necklace dangles between you like a pendulum, cool metal gently tapping your overheated face and it'd be annoying if you weren't occupied.

“Fuck, baby, you're so soft,” his voice cracks, the sound high-pitched and breathless like he's already taken you rather than just eased in. It's difficult to differentiate the pounding of your pussy from the throbbing of his cock.

Glassy eyes like the dusky sky peer into yours, reverent and ardent. They're hypnotic as they capture your stare and your heartbeat picks up. Stomach twisting, you avert your gaze to the rest of his body, amused to find that his lightly tanned skin is inked with a few tattoos here and there, muscles chiseled and neatly trimmed hair below his bellybutton trailing down to his cock.

His nipples are pierced too and you roll them between your thumb and index finger instinctively, the smooth metal bead twisting slightly with your ministrations. A noise you doubt he thought he was capable of rips from his throat, broken and whiny as he keels involuntarily, weight crushing you.

“Shit, are you okay?” you ask worriedly, letting go to cup his face, raising it to see if he fainted out of nowhere.

Shaking with a breath you barely call a laugh, he looks up at you, eyes drinking you in and committing you to memory, taking note of the little spots and beauty marks he couldn't see before. He's never been so lucky to be this close to you.

“Yeah, uh…no one's ever pinched them before. Caught me off guard,” he chuckles as he braces his palms on the mattress once more, slipping out of you a bit from the distance and you almost complain about it.

Brows raising, your eyes widen a little. “Really? Did you not like it?”

Fiddling with his lip ring, he dips his head bashfully then meets your eyes again. “On the contrary, I think I enjoyed it too much.” He swears he would have come then and there if you pressed any harder and tugged more.

His bedroom is quiet for a moment, your breaths, the muted sounds of the city and the tick of his alarm clock the only noise in the room. You hardly hear any of it when he's looking at you like he can't fathom how and where you've hidden from him all his life.

Your eyes wander his room, wanting to find other things to stare at like the airplane figurine suspended from his ceiling, the models on his shelf, the band posters on his wall. But they land on the girly blind boxes and cute Lego flower bouquet that's half-assembled on his desk which you know are for you with how you enjoy collecting those.

It's way too sweet and intimate for you coming from a guy you're trying to pity-fuck in hopes that he'll finally leave you the fuck alone when this is over. So you push at his chest, confusing him as he sits back on his calves.

“What's wrong? Did I do something to upset you?” He ducks his head to follow your eyes that are actively trying not to clash with his.

Swallowing, you nod, expression growing stubborn defensively, nose in the air as you sit up, sheets rustling beneath you.

“Yes, actually. Be a good boy and take me from behind. Your face is putting me off,” you half-lied. If you had to look into those perpetually sad eyes again, you were going to be riddled with guilt for wanting to hit and quit him.

Twisting around so you didn't have to face him barely blocked out the slight hurt in his voice, “Oh, okay. I'm good with whatever you want.”

His obedience pulls at your heartstrings, chest slightly aching but it's gone the moment his warmth touches your back, shadow over you as he slides in once more, breath fanning your neck, dog tag tickling the dip in your spine.

Something soft slips beneath your belly and you glance down to see he's cushioned you with a pillow to raise your hips as you kneel on the bed, hugging the other pillow doused in his scent underneath your head.

His hips roll, sigh tickling the hair at your nape as he pumps into you slowly and deep, numbing your mind with the delicious drag of his cock. You're stuffed to the brim, the curve of him caressing all the squishy spots inside you, tip dotting sticky pecks on your cervix.

Patient as he is, even Caleb is weak in the face of his desires so when you clench around him every time he thrusts in and push him back when he draws out, there's only so much he can bear, stuttery hips and breathy pants morphing into low groans and gravely grunts as his resolve splinters.

Then you're scrambling for something to hold onto to ground you, face buried in his pillow with a muffled cry as he snaps his hips against yours with feral intent, hitting the end of you over and over again. bedframe rattling as the hinges creak in protest, overpowered by the headboard knocking the wall rhythmically. Your body shakes with the force of his thrusts and he's drunk off the feeling of you clamping down on him, squelching around him with filthy, sloshing arousal, creamy, frothy ring at his base.

“Hah, I knew you were perfect. All that beauty and brains, pussy had to be pretty too. Taking me so well,” Caleb slurs, lost in the plumpness of your cunt nestling him like he's being hugged affectionately.

God, he's rambling even when he's fucking. It'd be amusing if the praise didn't do funny things to your insides that felt a lot like butterflies. You had to remind yourself that it was the lust talking, sputtering sweet nothings so you hum in response.

That's not enough for him it seems because he's bending over, slick chest flushed to your back as he grinds into you at a sluggish pace, nipple piercings cold against your shoulder blades as his big body crowds you, heaviness pressing you into the mattress, the bulge of his cock deep in your belly distinct as it makes your squirm.

Sprinkling kisses to your damp neck all the way up to your ear, his lips brush the shell of it. “Do you know how good you feel?”

His heart thuds against your back and he hopes his thorough strokes convey every emotion he experiences with you, the ones that make him feel like there's cotton in his ears and something fuzzy in his chest.

“Caleb,” you suck in a gasp as he grounds into that spot that has you seeing stars at the back of your eyelids. He was infuriatingly skilled at pleasuring a woman and you wanted to show him that you could return the favor.

Wriggling so he wasn't crushing you into the bed anymore, you turned at the waist to meet his gaze.

The muscles of his abdomen bunch as he rocks into your lazily, he cocked to the side as his fringe falls over his dark eyes that are zeroed in on you, devouring your figure like he's afraid he'll forget a detail if he doesn't keep his gaze on you the entire time.

Emboldened by his appreciation, you lift yourself up, bracing your forearms on the bedding, and drop back down on his cock. An unbidden grunt rumbles in his throat, head dropping forward as his mouth gapes on a harsh breath.

Half-lidded gaze elated and salacious, your smile at him over your shoulder, purring, “Do you know how good you feel?”

There's no response from him, it's like he can't muster up the words and vocalize them into anything intelligible as he watches you lift up then drop down again, the slap of your ass against his thighs scattering his thoughts. Every slide is sloppy and incredibly soft, suckling his cock until it was pulsating, precum dribbling inside you. His whimpers and hitches in his breath only encouraged your movements.

Orgasms from each other may ruin you both for anyone else with how they lock your body up and leave you in a puddle of bliss on his sheets. Only for a few dreamy minutes before the bubble of ecstasy pops and you want another hit to chase that drugging high again. Always a good sport, Caleb nods eagerly despite his flushed body and frantic heartbeat.

Hovering over his lap, back facing him once more, you cup the base of his cock and ease it inside you once more, a relieved sigh passing your lips at the delicious fullness of it. Too eager, you sit on it instantly, a choked sob stuck in your throat when he splits you open mercilessly

Large, warm hands rub at your hips, kneading them soothingly. “Slow down,” he tries to keep his voice leveled, thrown off by how much deeper he is in this position, “Don't hurt yourself, baby.”

“I'm fine,” you grit out. “Just sit back and enjoy, yeah?” you tell him, using the last word like he always does. He smiles as he notices, stomach fluttering at the idea of you picking up habits from him.

Air is knocked out of his lungs before he can respond. It hurt you, this new angle, but he felt so good within you, each bounce on his shaft only satiated by the next one. Gradually, the pain fades until pleasure seeps into you, glides disgustingly slippery as you work yourself up and down with fervor.

Nails digging into his thighs, you feel them flex and yield beneath your touch. Throaty, high-pitched noises he could barely contain punctuate every bounce. You're relentless, hardly giving him a chance to catch his breath with how fast and deep you were going.

His hooded eyes did not know where to look. Your glistening body was a sight to behold and he hates that he's so fucked out, eyes nearly crossing and rolling back as he watches your hair spring and ass ripple like waves, that he can't concentrate properly.

“C-Could you slow down? I'm not gonna last much longer if you're gonna act like a little b-bunny,” he stammers out, giving himself a mental pat on the back for getting that out between his garbled moans.

Glancing over your shoulder, your cunt clenches at the view that greets you.

His brows are furrowing, nose wrinkling, animalistic grunt exhaling from it as he nibbles on his already reddened and raw moist bottom lip, canine hooking on his lip ring as his gaze is glued to where your sopping cunt is swallowing his cock with audible shlucks. Feeling your stare, his slitting, glossy amerite eyes cut to yours and you almost come undone then and there.

The bedside lamp sheds light upon one side of his face in a warm glimmer while other is darkened by the shadows.

A dopey smile pulls at his lips as he tips his head, fondness exuding from him. “Hi, baby.”

Stomach doing somersaults, you turn away again, ending the moment as the familiar goopy puddle in your lower belly rises, your movements picking up. It builds and builds until it breaks, spreading out in ticklish tingles that has you gasping out a cry.

Static branches out all along Caleb's spine, crackling within the length of his cock as he releases a loud groan, twitching hips thrusting up into your as he spills his seed, coating your walls as your spasming pussy milks him dry once more. Your movements grew sluggish with the aftershocks so he grabs your waist and guides you to ride his orgasm out, soft whines sounding in your throat.

Mind muddled, he leans forward and licks the sweat off your spine, the hot swipe of his tongue causing you to shiver as he sucks a hickey into your skin, lips pulling off with a wet pop when he is done.

Somewhere between him burying his face between your legs, eating you out like a man starved and him cleaning you both up in the shower, you grew incredibly sleepy.

Waking up in his bedroom, clad in one of his shirts, pussy swollen and tender, muscles sore when you move was a given.

The guy and girl standing frozen and wide-eyed in his doorway were not.

Squealing, you shot up, clutching the covers and pulling them up to your clothed chest stupidly, wide awake now. Your startled reaction rips Caleb out of his sleep too, eyes wide as he looks around frantically.

“What happened? Is it the Cilantro Zombie?!” He calls out and now your surprise is replaced by confusion.

“The fuck is a Cilantro Zombie?”

“Zayne? Emcee? What are you two doing here?” Caleb asks once he sees them, his hair sticking out in all directions, eyes droopy as he tries to rub the sleep from them.

The man named Zayne covers Emcee's eyes but she tries to peek anyway, giggling to herself and wiggling her brows at Caleb.

It registers later, when you've gotten acquainted with them that afternoon, that she's Caleb's ex.

Well, fake ex-girlfriend, apparently.

Sprawled next to you on the couch, Emcee munches popcorn as she explains the whole situation.

“He was trying to keep the girls at bay,” she says between chews. Then she checks to see if the guys are still gone before listening in, whispering, “Though between you and me, I don't know what they see in his clingy ass.”

You laugh at that, finding her funny and easy to get along with. Zayne too, even though he was a bit more reserved, was a friendly person.

“Ah, well the plan worked well. I called him a cheater and believed it for a while,” you admit though he could have told you about this earlier to save you all the moral dilemmas.

Emcee shakes her head. “He's stupid like that. I told him it'd be a bad idea but he thinks he knows better because he's like two years older than me.”

She slides you a mischievous look. “But I was right in the end, it totally backfired.”

You chuckle in agreement.

“I suppose it wasn't all that bad. Now he has you,” she says, reminding you that he asked to be your boyfriend earlier in the shower.

The steps were in the wrong order but you didn't mind. You told him you'd give him your answer after you thought about it.

But when the front door swings open, laughter flutters in as Caleb reacts to one of Zayne's dry jokes like he does to yours as they carried in takeout, you realise that you'd made up your mind about him long before you accepted it.

LORE & ART

Appearance in the series Roles of the dog hybrids — Yandere themes , fluff , reaver and khas being creepy , alone time doesn't exist in phainon's world , crack short fic How Nanook got the hybrids , Are they related or not? Nanook's reaction to the situation — Yandere themes , mentions of violence Who gets hissed/swatted the most? — Yandere themes , attempted declawing Phainon's crime against color theory (+ COOL ART) Are phailings jealous of each other? Phailings' relationship with Nanook Phailings' favorite places in the farm Reader's attempt at hiding and failing miserably (+ COOL ART) Nanook tries to punish reader and Phailing's reaction Nanook finally steps in Nanook becoming somewhat reader's fav? Reader getting injured (not really) Reader stalking phailings out of spite randomly snuggling the doggies Cool ideas by anon — part2 Maine coon reader — NSFW weird cat sleeping positions Phailings' and kids loafing on the phailings Appearance in the series Roles of the dog hybrids — Yandere themes , fluff , reaver and khas being creepy , alone time doesn't exist in phainon's world , crack short fic How Nanook got the hybrids , Are they related or not? Nanook's reaction to the situation — Yandere themes , mentions of violence Who gets hissed/swatted the most? — Yandere themes , attempted declawing Phainon's crime against color theory (+ COOL ART) Are phailings jealous of each other? Phailings' relationship with Nanook Phailings' favorite places in the farm Reader's attempt at hiding and failing miserably (+ COOL ART) Nanook tries to punish reader and Phailing's reaction Nanook finally steps in Nanook becoming somewhat reader's fav? Reader getting injured (not really) Reader stalking phailings out of spite randomly snuggling the doggies Cool ideas by anon — part2 Maine coon reader — NSFW weird cat sleeping positions Phailings' and kids loafing on the phailings first interaction Nanook as protection

( ✎ ) Well as much as I love all 3 of them being a samoyed, I kinda want to change it a little. ALSO, keep in mind, there might be some changes in this post, especially the description of each characters! EXPECT SLOW UPDATES (SORRY)

He have witnessed adoration between his parents who seem to cannot be stopped in the public display of their affection and he have seen it on televisions late at night when he has nothing to watch, so to say that he was unfamiliar with the ways of love would be a lie in it itself; to say that he also doesn’t yearn for such would be another lie.

Phainon adored you more than he could admit to himself and even if he did, no words will be enough to fill the vessel of affection that he held dear for you. Everything he would try to say and think of would fall short to the rot of his ribs, to the light in his gaze, to the existence of you. Your whole being alone stands as evidence that stars have perished to create the shape of you, bringing your atoms closer to him, and yet, in the hours when the world slept and his guard dissolved like frost, he let himself imagine that the space between your breaths was a home he had been seeking across every lifetime.

He would not dare be greedy to ask even a caress of your light, but if the universe were merciful enough to let him orbit your gravity without burning, he would spend eternity as your silent moon—content to reflect what he could never hold, faithful to a warmth he would never taste, and thankful for the sheer mercy of being allowed to exist in the same constellation as you.

It was an understatement to use the word serious despite it was for something that definitely fits the definition of it. To Phainon, it was so serious that he had to resort consulting Aglaea for his affairs, believing the wiser lady would bring him knowledge that he had not thought of.

“The most romantic place to eat in Okhema?” The golden-haired designer repeats as her head tilts slightly, pondering, but what came out of her mouth was not an answer but another question: “Why do you ask?”

“I’m just curious, is all.” He says rather quickly as he scratches the back of his head, averting his gaze down the ground. Under this light and with that expression on his face, he looks like a puppy that have been caught by its owner doing something he ought not to do.

“It’s about [Name], isn’t it?”

“What? Is it that obvious?”

The golden-haired woman chuckles, clearly having seen through Phainon’s attempt of nonchalance earlier.

“It was merely a jest, but it seems like you’re too honest for your own good.”

So serious that he read romantic books in preparation.

“What are you reading?”

“Nothing!” He scrambled to hide the book behind his back, afraid that the feline-like woman would figure out what was in his hand. Cipher have always had sharp eyes, after all.

So serious that he practiced his lines in front of a mirror before cringing and burying his face in his hands, wondering what in the worlds is he doing.

“I must have gone crazy.”

Phainon had it all planned for weeks. It was not in his character to be meticulous, but it felt like he had to. If he doesn’t have these things planned, he’s worried that he’ll end up stumbling on a rock and messing everything up, then he’ll lose all of his chances, and what would you even think of him? A coward that can’t get his feelings out and straight? A witless man who doesn’t know how to romance another? A fool that only knows how to make you smile and be a gentleman?

He framed his invitation to you as something with the keywords of: dinner, celebration, and his treat. “Dinner” because he was planning on confessing during the night when the fireworks come and it’s the best time to do it; “celebration”? for what? He only said something about something good had happened and how he intends to share it with his “dear” partner; “his treat”, after all, how could he have you spend for your food when he was the one who took you out? Even so, he’ll never make you pay or split the bill.

(In your view, this was just your usual hangout with him, but to him, it was a date. His first date with you and you're unaware of it.)

He had all of it planned from the invitation and to his very confession.

Except none of his plans came into fruition.

It’s not that he chickened out, had cold feet, or run away. It was never any of those things. Hell, that never came to his mind. It’s just that everything in the universe seems to be working hand in hand to destroy everything he had built for this moment.

First, it was the flowers. Oh, a bouquet of your favorite flowers, intricate in all its details and selective in the overall arrangement of it to ensure that you would love it. Unfortunately, the flower shop that he had planned to pick it up from burned down in the middle of a night and he only knew of it when he went there, and saw the charred remains of what once was the store.

Although, he wasn’t mad at all. It’s not like there was some kind of superman that could prevent something like that in happening. He was only relieved that the workers were safe and no one was harmed in the incident. Besides, it’s not like it’s not the only flower shop in town.

It is.

It was the only flower shop in town.

Phainon, not wanting to be late, had to compromise and rushed to the restaurant with no bouquet in hand. It’s okay, he tells himself, everything is still going to be okay, he convinces the voices inside his head. He’s off to a really rough start and he’s not liking it already—anxiety easily weaves through the gaps of his fingers, consuming the thoughts of his thoughts. Red, green, turn left, stop, brakes, park his car, turn off the engine; every movement of his had become mechanical except for his sigh that seemed to draw from the well of his very humane worries.

By the time he had arrived, you were already there, standing outside in all your grace and charm, looking as beautiful as ever despite the restaurant lights only illuminating your figure. He stood still there, a man who cannot be moved, captured by your radiance as you remained unaware of his presence until he gathered the very little of his courage and shame to call for your name.

Just your smile as soon as you recognized him was enough to make him forget of his frustrations and when you took his hand in yours to hold—a gesture too intimate yet had become normal between you and him, but doesn’t reduced the warmth of it—, he forgot what he was even worrying about. Right, right, right, it will all be fine. Everything will be okay and fine, until it is not.

Second, it was the restaurant.

Phainon had booked a reservation in advance for a spot in the balcony that allows you to have a view of the city and the stars outside. However, when he walked in with you and asked, it seems there was no reservation under his name. How could that be? He had called in days prior and confirmed his booking; he had even provided proof of it and yet, there was nothing.

All he got was an apology from the host and a compensation which came in a mere form of: “We’ll provide a free dessert and drink for the error.”

Great. He doesn’t know what to say or what to do, he could only turn to you and apologize, asking if you’re okay with the new arrangements. If you would rather eat somewhere else, then he is okay with it too. He didn’t mind if the inconvenience was to him, as long as you weren’t affected, as long as it wasn’t you being inconvenienced.

In the end, you wanted to eat in that restaurant you and him would always eat at; that one restaurant that you would turn to in every occasion of your life. You wanted something familiar, something warm, something soothing, and you wanted his hand, too, so he gave it to you as long as you gave yours to him.

Third, the lake.

The lake that the two of you will go to as Phainon smiled warmly, telling you that he wants to take you somewhere as you finished eating. The lake that had the best spot to see the fireworks. The lake where he will confess his feelings to you just as the blaring sound of the fireworks explode overhead, painting the night sky in bursts of colors. His voice, usually so steady, wavers just slightly as he says your name like it's the answer to a question he's been asking himself for months.

The reflections of light dance across the water's surface, mirroring the flutter in his chest, and when he turns to face you fully, the last of the sparks fizzle into silence, leaving only the soft lap of waves and the tremor of his words: "I've been wanting to tell you this for so long, and I couldn't think of a better place than right here, with the stars above us and the lake beneath us, because you make everything feel this vast and this beautiful." He would squeeze your hand, his smile softer than the moonlight, and before the next rocket even leaves its trail, he whispers the three words that make the entire world fall away.

But of course, none of this happened, because as it turns out, the lake had been off-limits to the public for a crime investigation.

Thus now, you’re walking along the path of the park, dimly lit with the few light sources here and there. Phainon has been silent for a while now, seemingly deep in thought as he walks beside you. He looks… slumped? Disappointed? Frustrated? You can’t really pinpoint the exact center of his emotions, not when he seems so close yet so far at this moment.

There is a turmoil in his thoughts that resembled a hurricane wrecking everything in its way. Is this it? Is this really it? Will all of his weeks of planning fall away just like that? Has all of his efforts gone naught like that? Is that all he can do then? Let something as flimsy as the universe undermine the vastness of his feelings for you?

“Phai, wait.”

Your voice pulls him out of his trance as you held on to his arm. When he turns to look at you, he sees you bending and reaching for your heels as if wanting to take it off. It doesn’t take much for him to figure out why.

“Does your feet hurt?” Still, he asks, concern lacing with his tone as he guides you to a nearby bench instead, making you sit down while he kneels on the ground before you.

“Yeah.” You can only say. It feels embarrassing now; all of his attention easily pours into you like liquid to an empty goblet. He takes off your footwear before carefully setting it on the ground. Thankfully, he has prepared for something like this to happen—he takes out a small box of bandaid from the pocket of his pants.

You’re so reliable, you want to say, but the heavy and tense atmosphere stops you from doing so. Instead, it was Phainon that speaks for the both of you and his words weren’t something that you have expected him to utter.

“I’m sorry,” he sounds guilty and the way he gently tends to the small blisters of your skin feels almost like an apology, too. “I didn’t want things to go this way.”

He must sound so pathetic in your ears now. A sorry-excuse of a person who cannot even do anything right.

“Phai, none of it is your fault, okay? None of us expected for the reservation to not come through and besides, how would we have known someone was going to steal the swan figurines on the lake?”

That was true; none of you would have known. But also, that wasn’t just it. That wasn’t just all of it and right now, in this moment of you and him, he wants to spill everything he’s been hiding. He’s always known within himself that secrets are something that he can never keep from you—from you who is able to untangle him easily, who reads the falter between his syllables.

“I had a bouquet prepared too.”

“Huh?”

“But the flower shop burned down.”

“Phai, really,” you laugh softly and it eases off some of the weight on his shoulders, “you’re pretty unlucky today, huh?”

“Don’t laugh.” Even if your laugh is the sound he is fond of. Phainon is pouting now and you see that he’s less tense compared to earlier, which makes you feel relieved too. You pat the empty space on the bench beside you and he easily understood what you’re trying to say.

“Sorry, I can’t help it.”

“Besides, I like you too.”

“What?”

You turn to look at him, grinning. Your eyes sparkled brighter than the stars above you and aeons, titans, heavens, there is no words to capture your beauty. He adores you so much that it would consume him until all that is left is the marrow of his bones, but it will never be enough. No, nothing will be enough, not even him.

“You’re not entirely… how do I say this? You’re not really good at hiding things or maybe,” you begin, trying to find the right words scrambled on the feet beneath you, picking up the letters until it finally forms into a proper sentence: “You’re just way too honest.”

You’re too honest for your own good, Aglaea’s words echoed inside his head.

He sighs, “that’s another thing that I screwed up then.” And you hum, tilting your head, questioning him what he means by it, to which he simply resolves your confusion with: “I haven’t even told you of my feelings and you even beat me to it.” He doesn’t look angry, only disappointed at himself but only for a brief moment as a knowing smile tugs on the corner of his lips. He should have known you and how you also know him the same.

“Who’s to say you cannot say it now?” You beam at him, legs swinging off the ground as if an excited kid who's just discovered that the world bends to the shape of their joy. Phainon watches you, and the heart in his chest cracks open, warm and terrifyingly in the shape of you. “I still want to hear it from you. Just because I already know it, it doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear it.”

So say it, Phainon. He should let you have this—let you have him saying it out loud, so you can keep it tucked somewhere safe. After all, who is fate and the universe to decide that he cannot tell you of his feelings right at this moment? There is no strict rules in feelings. He has no bouquet, no restaurant reservation, no lake to watch with you, but he has you.

"I…” He stumbles, falters, but he doesn’t relent. “I've been wanting to tell you this for so long, and I couldn't think of a better place than right here—well, I don’t think this is a better place. I was supposed to say this when we’re at the lake.”

Ah, I think I screwed up again, he would add, and you would only laugh as you call his name, and in that very instant, he feels so small and big at the same time, like the universe contracts and expands to make space for him and the scale of his feelings.

You placed your hand on top of his. “You even practiced your lines too?”

“I wanted it to be perfect.”

“That’s ridiculous, I doubt anything could be perfect.” You laugh once more and he feels happy despite the despair of your words.

“But you are.” And you laugh harder.

“Fine then, take your time. I won’t go away.”

Time. There is no time at all; time is a social construct made by people who needs to label something just to make sense of everything. The rise and fall of the sun, the way the moon conquers the sky, the stars in your eyes, the rise and fall of your chest where your heart lies beneath, the warmth of your hands, and the glimmer of your smile. There is two truths that Phainon knows for certain: 1.) time is a social construct made by people who wants to understand everything within their experiences—born from the human need to measure, to name, to contain the vast and formless flow of existence within the narrow limits of what we can grasp, and 2.) you are made for him.

“You make everything feel this vast and this beautiful,” he laces his fingers into the gaps of your own, holding you and holding your hand, sharing his warmth and the intensity of his feelings with a small squeeze, “and I like you.”

You squeeze his hand back: I like you too.

“Phai, even if you screw up yesterday, today, and tomorrow; even if you do it in a toilet, a garbage dump, or in the most romantic spot while we’re out there rowing in the lake, my answer will not change.”

For the first time this night, Phainon finally relaxes and lets the heaviness leave his shoulders. He finally lets slip the laughter along with the last thread of doubt he'd been clutching onto and it spills out of him; he presses his forehead against yours, rubbing the tip of your noses together, which only makes your breath shaky, warm against his lips.

“May I?”

His voice is soft but so loud, lingering in the space that exists between you and him. A nod and you feel it; his lips meeting yours like the first spark that climbs into the dark, a small trail of light that almost look like shooting stars, and then suddenly, the sky above you cracks open in a shower of bright colors.

The fireworks are blooming exactly as they were meant to as if it had been waiting for this very moment to applaud. Each burst of light echoes the way his mouth moves against yours, soft then deeper, radiant then dissolving into the heat that pesters long after the color fades, and when you part, you both simply laugh—breathless and giddy, foreheads still touching—as your fingers find his again and tighten around them.

(At least one thing went right.)

i couldn't stop writing at all !?@!@? I GOT CARRIED AWAY UGHGHHHH