dude!

Warm nostalgia floods your senses as you hang half off the mattress, the blood pooling in your head while your hair brushes the floor. The position is ridiculous, yet familiar, mimicking the countless times you sprawled across this very bed while he paced during a rant about homework or some injustice committed by Cartman. You can almost hear his voice—sharp when he was frustrated, soft when he was thinking, warm when he let his guard slip. Those moments were effortless in a way adulthood no longer allows. Lying upside down, the ceiling seems farther away and his achievements loom larger, making it impossible to ignore how far he’s stretched himself just to retain the identity everyone expects from him. A tight knot forms in your throat, not from the angle but from the realization that he’s been drowning quietly while the people who care about him stood on the shore, unaware.

The room remains still, lit by the muted afternoon glow that filters through his curtains, and the longer you stay there the more the silence presses in. It isn’t uncomfortable—just lonely, in that specific way spaces feel when the person they belong to has been fading from themselves. You reach out automatically toward one of the pillows, tugging it close as if it might anchor you, and the faint scent of his shampoo clings to the fabric. The familiarity coils around you with a tenderness that borders on painful. You imagine him walking through the front door downstairs, weighed down, exhausted, convinced no one has noticed the cracks forming. You imagine being here when he does, waiting in the one place that saw him at his most unguarded, hoping that maybe your presence can remind him he doesn’t have to hold everything together alone.

Your gaze travels toward the ceiling, where the glow-in-the-dark stars still cling in their crooked constellations, their edges yellowed slightly with age but stubbornly holding on. A soft laugh escapes you before you can stop it, warm and involuntary, tugged out by the memory of Kyle barking orders at all four of you while you stood on mismatched chairs. Stan kept sticking the stars in the wrong places, Kenny kept stealing them to make obscene shapes, and Cartman deliberately put them upside down just to piss Kyle off. The scene had devolved into yelling and bickering within minutes, but Kyle had refused to let any of you quit because, according to him, “proper celestial accuracy” mattered. In the end he’d climbed the chair himself, muttering irritably under his breath about being “surrounded by idiots,” and arranged the constellations exactly the way he wanted. Seeing them now, slightly peeling but still glowing faintly in the afternoon shadows—makes a rush of affection bloom in your chest that tightens your smile.

A faint creak of the front door reaches your ears, but you don’t think much of it until a heavy, weary sigh rolls up the stairwell, carrying exhaustion so dense it makes your own lungs tighten. You blink toward the sound, still upside down, the room blurring a little as the blood shifts in your head. Footsteps reach the hallway, slow and dragging, and Kyle appears in the doorway, freezing the moment he sees you sprawled across his bed like a human bat. You lift your hand lazily, offering a small wave without bothering to right yourself.

“Hey,” you say, voice light, easy. “Welcome home.”

Kyle stares at you for several seconds, long enough that you start to wonder if he’s disassociating. His expression is unreadable; tired eyes, tense jaw, forehead creased with the habit of thinking too hard for too long. Eventually he drags a palm over his face and mutters, “I’m not gonna ask how you got in here.”

You grin at him, unbothered. Sheila’s excitement practically launched you through the door; if anything, you’re surprised she didn’t send you up with snacks.

Kyle shrugs off his jacket, the motion sluggish, weighed down. Fabric slips from his shoulders, revealing the strain in the line of his posture, and he tosses it onto his desk chair without looking. As he digs into his pocket, your eyes catch the silver glint of a cigarette pack in his hand. He taps it against his palm out of habit, something jittery and rhythmic, and your brows shoot up.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, almost laughing from shock.

His response is a dry, razor-thin, “Good observation.”

The sarcasm lands with a thud, but the familiar edge to it pulls another giggle from you. He huffs at the sound, the exhale sharp but not truly irritated, more like he’s forgotten how to handle any form of warmth without flinching.

Quiet settles between you both, thick enough to feel like another presence in the room. You let it linger for a heartbeat, two, before breaking it with an exaggerated, drawn-out, “Sooooooo.”

Kyle presses the heel of his hand to his brow, muttering something you can’t hear, clearly refusing to play along. His silence is not angry, just exhausted, stretched thin like he’s been holding himself together with threads.

You grin wider. Annoying him has always been oddly effective therapy.

Your toes nudge the back of his calf as he tries to ignore you, and he groans under his breath, defeated in the face of your persistence. Slowly—reluctantly—he lowers himself to sit on the floor beside your upside-down head. The movement is stiff, drained, but he still does it. His knees bend awkwardly, and he braces his arms across them, staring ahead at nothing in particular. From your vantage point, the freckles on his cheekbones look darker, the shadows under his eyes deeper, the worry in his expression sharper. He looks older and younger all at once, like the weight of everything he’s been carrying has crushed the adult version of him back into the boy you grew up with.

Your smile fades into a gentler curve, the teasing slipping away as something earnest unfurls inside you. His profile is inches from yours, inverted in your vision, but close enough that you can see the way his throat tightens when he swallows.

“I miss you,” you say softly.

The words fall between you with a quiet sincerity, free of theatrics, free of pressure.His eyes flick toward yours, startled for a moment, and the guarded tension in his expression cracks, revealing a flash of raw vulnerability he can’t hide quickly enough. His lips part, not quite forming a response, and the faint tremor in his inhale tells you he felt the words the way you meant them—deeply.

You wait for him to answer, watching the way his stare fixes itself on the far wall instead of you. The silence stretches, not hostile, just worn-out, like he doesn’t have the energy to shape the words sitting behind his ribs. You exhale softly, accepting it for what it is. He’s here. That’s enough.

Your voice slips out again, gentler this time. “Everyone misses you, you know.”

His jaw twitches, but he doesn’t turn.

You keep going. “They’re all unbearable without you. Stan’s brooding so intensely he looks like he’s auditioning for some tragic indie film. Kenny keeps trying to cheer everyone up by doing increasingly dangerous stunts, which is… honestly terrifying. Cartman’s been moody, which should be normal, but he’s been moody because you’re not around to argue with him. It’s like the whole ecosystem fell apart.”

A faint puff of air escapes Kyle’s nose—almost a laugh, but it dissipates before fully forming. You smile at it anyway.

“The whole group is weird without you,” you continue, words spilling out now that the dam has cracked. “Like, we function, I guess, but there’s this missing… center. You always keep us grounded even when you’re spiraling, which is insane by the way, because you’re allowed to not be the stable one all the time.”

Kyle rubs his thumb along his knuckle, slow and distracted. His shoulders curl inward, as if your words are brushing up against a part of him he’s been trying to hide.

“I know you shut everyone out when things get bad,” you say softly, “and that’s okay, really. You don’t owe us constant access to your brain. But you don’t have to go through it alone either. You can lean on people. Or—if you prefer being alone—just maybe… alone near people? Does that make sense? Probably not. I’m trying to say you don’t have to disappear for weeks for us to care. We already do. You don’t have to earn it, or prove anything, or—”

Your rambling builds momentum before you realize it, the kind of frantic tenderness that crashes out when you’ve been worried for too long. You’re halfway through a tangent about burnout and self-imposed pressure and how mental health isn’t some marathon he needs to win when he moves.

The shift is subtle at first, his hand sliding slightly closer to where your hair spills off the bed, his shoulder angling toward you, but then he leans in fully, closing the narrow space between you with a careful slowness that knocks the air from your lungs. You’re still mid-sentence when he kisses you.

The world tilts, not because you’re upside down but because Kyle touches you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he breathes too deeply. His lips meet yours with a tenderness, the kind of contact that unfolds rather than strikes. His mouth is warm, hesitant, then firmer when you exhale against him, your surprise melting into instinctive response. Every second stretches long and unhurried, his lips brushing yours again with a quiet, aching need.

He lifts a hand to the side of your face, fingers weaving into your hair with a careful pressure, guiding you closer even though you’re already barely a breath apart. The angle is awkward with you upside down, yet somehow it crafts a deeper intimacy, his kiss tilting your world in the most literal way. His lips part against yours, slow and gentle, savoring rather than taking. He kisses you like someone who has replayed the thought in silence for months and finally lets himself feel it.

When he pulls back just enough for your lips to separate, you feel his breath brush you; shaky, warm, and painfully genuine.

“I miss you too,” he murmurs, voice breaking on the edges.

He leans in again before you can respond, capturing your mouth in another slow, lingering kiss. This one sinks deeper, his thumb stroking your cheek as if grounding himself with the softness of your skin. His lips move with a fragile hunger this time, like he’s learning the shape of relief through touch alone. The taste of mint and the faint trace of cigarette smoke mingle on his breath, contradicting each other the way he contradicts himself—disciplined and unraveling all at once.

Between the next kiss he whispers against your lips, “I’m fine. I will be. I’ll… be back soon.”

His forehead stays pressed lightly to yours, breath mingling with yours, the moment warm and suspended, as if the room itself doesn’t dare move too quickly. He brushes another kiss against your lips, soft and tentative, like he’s worried the honesty he just admitted might shatter unless he seals it with touch. The kiss is feather-light, so careful it sends a flutter through your chest more than any heated moment ever could.

You giggle against his mouth, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably. “Never smoke again,” you whisper, your smile shaping the words against his lips. “You taste bad. Next time you’re stressed you should just take it out by pound—”

Kyle lets out a scandalized noise before your sentence can even land. His palm presses to your face and he gently pushes your head away from his. The playful shove sends your view tilting even more upside down, your laughter spilling out freely as he stands up in one swift motion.

“Oh my god,” he groans, running a hand through his curls with theatrical irritation. “You’re perverted. Actually perverted. I leave for two seconds and you go straight to—what even—” He gestures vaguely, flustered in that unmistakable Kyle way, cheeks tinted a warm rose that gives him away despite the lecture building in his voice.

He starts pacing, launching into a tirade that would be intimidating if his ears weren’t so red. “You can’t just say things like that! Who raised you? Why is that your first suggestion? Do you realize how unhealthy that coping mechanism is? Do you even—are you listening to yourself?”

You watch him from your upside-down perch, your vision filled with the swing of his curls, the animated motion of his hands, the spark returning to his eyes as he scolds you. You should probably pretend to be apologetic, but relief swells in your chest too intensely to hide. He looks alive again. Annoyed, flustered, tense, expressive—Kyle, the one you’ve been aching for through weeks of silence and worry.

“Perverted,” he mutters again, pointing a finger at you like it’s a diagnosis. “Seriously. You need help.”

You grin so hard your cheeks hurt.

Because even as he paces and lectures and tries very poorly to pretend you didn’t just kiss him breathless on his bedroom floor, there’s light back in his face. There’s life in his voice. There’s warmth in the air between you.

You missed this. His dramatics, his quick temper that always softens at the edges, his inability to hide how much he cares even while pretending he doesn’t. You missed him so much it had settled like a weight on your ribs, but watching him now, alive with emotion, even if irritated, feels like that weight finally easing.

He wheels around mid-rant to throw another reprimand your way, only to stop when he sees the expression on your face—soft, open, overflowing with the relief he never let you say out loud.

The lecture falters.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

The air at the state carnival is thick with the stench of fried batter, melting sugar, and too many goddamn people pressed shoulder to shoulder, moving like cattle in a maze built for disappointment. Somewhere in the distance, a carousel moans out a tired, warped jingle, and Cartman is bitching about the price of hot dogs again.

You’re only half there.

Kenny’s hand is wrapped around yours, calloused fingers laced with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world, but it still throws you sometimes. Like you’ll be walking, looking at a game booth or at Butters trying not to vomit after one corn dog too many, and then you’ll look down, and it hits you all over again. Kenny’s holding your hand. Like a boyfriend. Like someone who gets to do that. Like someone who gets you.

And sure, not much has changed. He still calls you babe when he wants to piss you off. Still says the most unhinged shit in front of everyone like he wants you to squirm. Still looks at you like you’re a joke he knows the punchline to.

Except now he puts his hand on your waist when he stands too close behind you, and you don’t flinch away. Now he kisses the back of your neck when no one’s looking. Now he grabs your tits just to see if you’ll yelp—and you do, every time, and he grins like it’s his birthday.

And now you’ve fucked. Like, actually fucked. Like him breathing heavy in your ear, whispering filth, his hands on your hips, your back arching into him, the whole thing. And okay, maybe it took a couple of awkward tries, like the first time, him cracking jokes halfway through, you accidentally kneeing him in the ribs once—but it’s a thing now. You have sex. With Kenny. Regularly.

You’re still not sure how the hell that happened.

You barely notice the conversation around you until you feel Kenny nudge your side with his knuckles. It’s soft, casual, a little reminder that he’s still there. You blink, look up at him—sunlight in his hair, his hoodie tied around his waist because it’s too fucking hot, sweat sticking to his neck in a way that makes your stomach flutter—and blink again.

“Sorry,” you say, flushing a little, caught off guard. “What’d you say?”

Kenny’s about to answer, but of course Cartman’s already laughing, a loud, honking noise that cuts through the air like a fucking siren. “Oh my God, dude, she’s completely gone. Like, hello? Earth to girlfriend, you ever gonna stop daydreaming about Kenny’s dick or what?”

Kyle groans like he wants to throw himself into the nearest trash can. “Dude, Cartman, shut up.”

But it’s too late. Cartman’s locked in, eyes gleaming like he just sniffed out blood in the water. “I’m serious! You see the way she looked at him just now? That’s a girl thinking about getting railed in a Porta Potty behind the funnel cake stand.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks already burning. “You’re disgusting.”

Kenny just snickers beside you, not even pretending to hold it back. “Leave her alone, man. She was zoning out. Probably just overwhelmed by how fuckable I am.”

You elbow him in the side without looking.

He leans in closer anyway, his breath brushing your ear, warm and low. “You wanna sneak behind the haunted house later? I’ll make it worth your while.”

You glare at him, but it doesn’t stick. You’re already smiling.

Stan and Kyle start heading toward the rollercoaster, Butters trailing behind them like an excitable puppy. Cartman makes a big show of dragging his feet. “Yeah, yeah, go get your little adrenaline boners. I’ll be over here making sure I don’t puke like Butters.”

“I only puked that one time,” Butters says, wounded.

“Yeah, and it was on me,” Cartman snaps.

Kenny turns to you. “You coming?”

You shake your head. “Nah. I’m good.”

His gaze lingers for a second. “You sure?”

You nod.

Without missing a beat, Kenny throws his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side, hand low on your waist. “Guess I’m not going either.”

Stan slows down, looking back. “Dude, really?”

“You guys go,” Kenny calls, already walking you in the opposite direction, fingers playing with the waistband of your shorts like he’s trying to see how low he can tug them before you swat him away. “We’ll meet up later. I got better things to do.”

Kyle gives you a look—part confusion, part knowing—and Cartman snorts.

“Yeah, no shit,” he mutters. “Hope the haunted house has a mop.”

“Fuck off, Cartman,” Kenny says, not even looking back.

You wave, eyes a little wide, stomach tight in that weird fluttery way that hasn’t gone away since the first time Kenny got on his knees and said trust me like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing he’s ever said to you.

And then it’s just the two of you.

Again.

Like always.

Kenny walks slow, letting the crowd move around you, his thumb tracing idle circles against your hipbone like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. You can feel the heat from his skin even through the thin fabric of your shirt. He smells like heat and sweat and cheap body spray and that awful cologne you made fun of the first time he wore it—but now you kinda like it. Now it’s him.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just walks. Then—

“You spaced out.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Yeah, so?”

He bumps your shoulder with his. “What were you thinking about?”

You hesitate.

He smirks. “Was it me?”

Your face goes hot instantly.

His grin widens, full fucking predator mode. “Ohhhh, shit, it was me.”

“You’re so fucking annoying.”

Kenny lets out this shit-eating giggle, the kind that makes you wanna smack him and laugh at the same time, his hands sliding from your hips to catch both of yours in one smooth motion. His palms are rough, warm, familiar, greedy in the way they curl around your fingers, and he tugs you forward with zero effort, like you’re some ragdoll meant to follow him around whenever he feels like yanking your leash.

“C’mon,” he says, voice lilting, teasing, eyes bright like he already knows he’s gonna get what he wants. “What d’you wanna do, babe?”

You freeze up a little, glance at the ground like maybe there’s an answer in the dusty gravel under your shoes. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. You think—really think—but your brain’s just this big white noise machine playing awkward silence. It’s stupid, you know it’s stupid. You’re dating him. It shouldn’t be this hard to answer a simple question. But you feel your shoulders hitch up all the same, and your fingers tighten slightly in his grip.

Kenny watches you for half a second. You don’t even have to say it. He can see the blankness in your expression, the wheels grinding in your head and turning up nothing. And instead of laughing or teasing or making it worse, he just shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“Alright. You didn’t eat earlier,” he says simply, already pulling you toward the food stalls without waiting for confirmation. “We’re getting food.”

You’re about to protest—start with a weak little “I’m not hungry” or “We can do something else”, but Kenny’s already decided. That’s the thing about him. He makes decisions like he makes jokes: fast, cocky, and usually with no regard for what anyone else wants. You’d be annoyed if it didn’t make your chest warm in that weird, stomach-knotting way.

He’s dragging you past clusters of tourists and locals, the sticky heat pressing against your skin as the smell of fried dough and over-salted fries wraps around you. There’s a kid screaming somewhere in the background, someone winning a stuffed animal, a group of teenagers fighting over who’s paying for their funnel cakes. But all you really notice is the way Kenny doesn’t let go of your hand, not once. His grip is casual, swinging a little between your bodies, but it doesn’t budge. Not even when he has to shoulder past a group of people loitering around a corndog stand.

“Line’s not too bad,” he mutters as you both stop at a vendor with faded signs and a crooked awning. “You want fries? A burger? Funnel cake? Fuckin’… whatever, I’ll just get a bunch of shit.”

You hover awkwardly beside him, half-tucked behind his arm as the line inches forward. There’s this knot in your chest, and you try to blame it on the heat or the smell of cheap oil frying in thick metal tubs, but you know what it really is. You glance up at him, the way he keeps glancing around, one hand still holding yours and the other shoved in his pocket.

He looks normal. Happy, even.

Like this isn’t a big deal.

Like you aren’t a big deal.

But you feel like your whole face is glowing red.

And it’s not just the Kenny of it all—it’s everything. The way the past few months have been this constant blur of tension and teasing and feeling like your life isn’t even yours anymore. You think about Stan’s little smirks when you show up to hangouts late, hair a little messed up. About Kyle’s weirdly gentle comments, like he’s trying to play mediator between you and your own shame. And Cartman? God. That little bastard hasn’t shut the fuck up since he figured out what was going on.

Every time you and Kenny so much as look at each other, Cartman’s got some new fucked-up nickname ready. McSlutty and his Sex Doll. Ride-or-Die and the Girl Who’s Dying Inside. “Goddamn, dude, do you ever stop blushing? I swear to God, I’ve seen boiled lobsters with more emotional control than you.”

You hate that it gets to you. That it works.

But the worst part—the part you try not to think about—is that they’re right. You are awkward. You do act weird. It’s not like you and Kenny are doing anything wrong, but you still feel this permanent flush crawling up your neck every time someone calls it out. Like you're not used to being looked at like that. Like his.

The line moves again. Kenny squeezes your hand, just once, not even looking at you when he does it. But he feels you.

Of course he fucking does.

“You good?” he says, quieter now, leaning in a little so you can hear him over the drone of the carnival crowd.

You nod a little too fast, not trusting your voice.

Kenny looks at you sideways, one eyebrow arched, his mouth tugging into that lopsided smirk that always makes you wanna punch him in the chest. Or kiss him. Or both.

“Yeah, alright,” he says, clearly not buying it but letting it go. “You’re being all…” He waves his free hand vaguely. “You. Quiet and weird and cute or whatever.”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

“I will not, actually,” he says brightly, stepping forward as the last people in front of you move up to the counter. “Gotta keep my girl entertained, yeah?”

There’s that word again.

Girl.

He says it like it’s nothing. Like it just is.

And yeah, okay, that’s what you are, technically. His girlfriend. He asked, you said yes, it happened. But every time he says it out loud, especially around other people, it still makes your stomach twist up into this tight, nauseating knot of something you can’t name. Not bad. Just overwhelming.

The guy at the counter looks at you both with dead eyes. “Next.”

Kenny steps forward without letting go of your hand. “Hey, lemme get—shit, I dunno, babe, you want fries or a hot dog?”

“I said I’m not hungry,” you mutter, still flustered.

“Yeah, and I don’t care.” He turns back to the vendor. “We’ll get both. And a drink. No ice. Ice is a scam.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s this tight feeling in your throat again. Because this—this dumb little moment, him ordering for you like it’s just what he does—it feels good. Safe, even. And you hate that it catches you off guard.

You don’t say anything while the guy prepares your food. Kenny drops your hand just long enough to dig out a crumpled bill from his back pocket and slap it onto the counter. The vendor hands him a paper tray overloaded with greasy fries, a foil-wrapped hot dog, and a plastic cup already sweating from the heat. Kenny grabs it all in one hand, balancing it like a fucking wizard, and turns to you with a grin.

“Find us a bench, babe.”

You want to argue again. Want to say something about not being hungry, about not wanting to sit in the sun, about needing a second to breathe. But he’s already walking off to get napkins, that same bounce in his step like the whole world just falls in line behind him, like everything’s easy when he decides it is. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t need to, he just assumes you’ll follow. And he’s right.

You glance around the carnival, blinking through the shimmer of heat in the air, until your eyes land on a half-shaded picnic table pushed a little off to the side. It’s mercifully clean, barely sticky, and—more importantly—empty. You slide onto the bench slowly, picking at a splinter near the edge of the tabletop, trying not to look like you’re waiting.

Kenny comes back a second later, balancing a stack of napkins in one hand and the drink in the other. The tray’s wedged in his arm like he’s done this a thousand times, and he sets everything down in front of you with an absent little hum. Then he sits, slouching across from you with his legs spread wide and his forearms braced against the table like this is just any other day, like it doesn’t mean anything that it’s just the two of you here.

He starts eating—neatly. It’s this tiny, weird detail you always forget until it happens, and it throws you off every time. He’s a fucking menace in every other way. Messy, and borderline feral, but when he eats? He’s deliberate. Organized. He picks up one fry at a time, dipping it like it’s a science experiment, chewing slow, never speaking with his mouth full.

You watch him for a second too long.

Your face goes warm.

He notices immediately.

His eyes flick up to yours, sharp and curious under the lashes, mouth already curling into that smug little grin that always spells trouble. You snap your gaze away, fumbling for the drink like it’s a lifeline, the condensation slick and cold against your fingers. You sip slowly, trying to calm down the weird fluster in your chest, but the straw makes this dumb little slurrrrp sound at the end, and you know—you know—Kenny fucking clocked it.

He tilts his head at you, chewing the last bite of his fry. “Alright,” he says, voice softer now. Not teasing. Not flirty. “What’s wrong?”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve been all quiet and weird since we got here.” He sets the hot dog down, leans forward on his elbows. “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?”

You shake your head too fast. “It’s nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you. Of course he doesn’t. But instead of pushing, he just grabs the drink, takes a slow sip from the same straw you just used. It’s casual. Thoughtless. Like he does it all the time.

You freeze. Your heart stutters in your chest like it’s trying to throw itself out. It’s stupid. It’s so fucking stupid. You’ve kissed him. He’s gone down on you. You’ve had your mouth on his neck, his chest, his dick—and now you’re losing your mind over a straw.

But you can’t help it. Your face feels like it’s on fire.

Kenny pauses mid-sip, eyes narrowing over the rim of the cup. And when he pulls it away, his tongue drags slow across the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Ohhh,” he says, voice low and light and absolutely insufferable. “That’s what this is.”

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

“Nooo, I knew it,” he says, grinning now, that feral glint sparking behind his eyes. “You’re all blushy ‘cause of the drink? Babe, we share spit on the regular. Like, you’ve literally had my tongue halfway down your throat.”

You make a strangled noise and shove a fry into your mouth just to have something to do.

He leans across the table slightly, grin widening. “What, you gonna die of embarrassment because I had a sip of your soda? Jesus, what would happen if I licked your spoon or—God forbid—used your chapstick? You’d combust on the fucking spot.”

You focus on chewing. On the burn of salt and oil on your tongue. Anything but the way your stomach’s tying itself in knots or the way Kenny’s staring at you like you’re the most fun he’s had all day.

Then—suddenly—he’s quiet.

You glance up and he’s watching you again, but the edge of his smile has softened. His eyes are still bright, but there’s this… pause in him. This breath he holds between words like he’s not sure if he should say what’s next.

His voice, when he speaks, is gentle and low.

“Hey.” He nudges the tray toward you. “Seriously. You want me to stop?”

Your chewing slows. You look at him and your chest tightens all over again. Because there it is. That thing he does. The way he looks right through you. The way he knows when to cut the bullshit. He can tease you ‘til you want to strangle him, but the second he thinks you’re really upset? He stops. And that makes it so much worse.

You swallow, throat dry.

“No,” you say, voice small. “It’s not you.”

Kenny tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to show he’s listening.

“It’s a me problem,” you mutter, trying not to shrink into yourself.

For a second, he just watches you. Silent. Still.

Then he nods, like that’s enough. Like he gets it. Like you don’t have to explain. But of course, he can’t leave it at that.

He smirks again, just a little. “So… just to be clear. You’re telling me I should keep teasing you?”

You groan, dropping your face into your hands.

He laughs. It’s warm. Loud. Bright. It fills the space between you like sunlight. Softly, he pushes the tray a little closer again. “Eat, babe,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”

You glance up through your fingers, frown tugging at your mouth. “You’re not my mom.”

“Yeah, but if I was, I’d be so fucking disappointed in your diet.”

You snort. Just a little. And you take another fry. And another. The salt burns against your tongue, hot from the fryer and soaked with grease, but it gives your hands something to do, your mouth an excuse not to talk. You keep chewing long after your appetite’s gone. It’s mechanical, but it helps. Kenny doesn’t say anything else for a while, doesn’t push, doesn’t smirk at you across the table like he’s waiting for the next wave of embarrassment to hit. He just eats—prim, careful, slow—and when the food’s finally gone and only crumpled wrappers and half-wilted napkins remain, he grabs the tray with one hand and stands up like there’s nothing left to worry about.

You trail behind him to the nearest trash can, dropping your cup into the bin just after he dumps the rest of it. You wipe your palms on your thighs, too sweaty, too twitchy, and when you turn around, he’s already there, hand out like it’s second nature, like he doesn’t even think about it anymore. His fingers slide between yours and curl tight, warm and steady and grounding. You blink at him, still not quite used to it, but he doesn’t tease you this time. He just holds your hand like it’s where it’s supposed to be, like he never intends to let go.

Kenny glances down at you, mouth pulled into a half-smile that looks deceptively lazy. “Alright,” he says, voice low and relaxed. “What’re we doin’ now, babe? Rollercoaster’s probably still got the guys locked up in line. Stan was already talking about it like it’s the second coming of Christ.”

You open your mouth, close it again. You don’t really have an answer. Your brain still feels fuzzy around the edges, like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. There’s nothing you particularly want to do, nothing that jumps to mind, so you tug at his hand a little and offer a quiet, “Can you pick?”

His smile shifts, softens at the edges, and he nods without hesitation. “Sure.” He glances ahead, toward the far end of the carnival where the crowd gets thinner and the lights shine a little clearer against the rising dusk. “Wanna go on the Ferris wheel?”

You nod. It’s easier to agree than to think.

The walk’s not long, but the noise gets quieter the further away you get from the central stalls. The music playing overhead becomes more of a muffled echo, tinny and low, blending into the hum of conversation and mechanical creaks of rides winding down from their loops. The Ferris wheel looms ahead, massive and slow and glinting with red and gold bulbs. You watch it turn steadily, each cart rocking gently as it reaches the top and dips back down. It looks calm. Safe. Manageable.

You don’t realize how tight your grip’s gotten until Kenny shifts his hand in yours.

“You’re squeezing like I’m about to vanish,” he says lightly, and when you glance at him, he’s already watching you again.

Your stomach tightens. You can’t tell if it’s the way he’s looking at you or the question he asks next, direct and firm in a way that slices through the air like a wire snapping.

“Seriously, what’s goin’ on with you?”

The words hit low in your gut. They’re not mean, not harsh, not laced with that usual teasing edge. But they’re clear. Kenny’s not letting it go. 

You blink forward, eyes fixed on the Ferris wheel, trying to will your face into something neutral. It doesn’t work. You can feel the heat creeping back up your neck, the prickling sting of self-awareness pulsing beneath your skin like static.

“I dunno,” you murmur, barely loud enough to hear over the noise of the crowd.

Kenny hums, not buying it. “Bullshit.”

Your stomach knots.

“I mean it,” you say quickly, but it’s weak, rushed, like you’re trying to fill the space before he fills it for you. “I just feel… off.”

“Off like you don’t wanna be here? Or off like you’re freakin’ out for no reason?”

You grit your teeth, your face burning, and your voice comes out sharper than you intend. “I don’t know, Kenny.”

You expect him to snap back, to roll his eyes, to make a joke about you being dramatic or to start listing all the reasons why you’re clearly overthinking. But he doesn’t. He slows down his steps, shifts so his body angles toward you just enough to block out some of the crowd.

“Okay,” he says. “You don’t have to know. But you gotta give me something, babe.”

You swallow hard. It’s easier to focus on your shoes than his eyes.

“I just… feel like everyone’s watching,” you admit finally. “Like they’re waiting for me to screw this up.”

Kenny’s brows lift slightly, surprised maybe, but not confused.

“You mean the guys?”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

Kenny doesn’t respond right away. You can feel the tension shift in his grip—not tighter, but firmer. Reassuring. He steers you closer to the line at the Ferris wheel, which isn’t long, and you both step into place behind a couple who are too busy making out to notice anything around them. You’re grateful for the distraction. At least no one’s paying attention to you here.

“You know they’re just being assholes, right?” he says after a beat. “Like… especially Cartman. He’ll tease anyone for literally anything. He’s still calling Kyle a ‘pissy little elf’ because of the time he wore that green hoodie with the pointed hood.”

You breathe out, half a laugh, half exhaustion. “I know.”

“So why let it get in your head?”

You don’t answer right away. You’re not sure how. It’s not that you think they’re right—it’s just that they’re close. Close to that thing inside you that’s always been too soft, too slow to catch on, too unsure of how to act when things matter.

“I don’t know how to be with you in front of them,” you finally admit, voice low, tight. “They’ve seen us for years as just… whatever we were. Friends. And now everything feels like a performance. Like if I hold your hand wrong or say the wrong thing, they’ll know I’m not good at this. Like I’m pretending to know how to be your girlfriend.”

Kenny doesn’t say anything at first. But when you look up, he’s staring at you like he sees all of it. Not just the words you said, but the ones you didn’t. The way you shrink back. The way you overthink. The way you panic the second something starts to feel too good.

“You are my girlfriend,” he says, voice low but firm. “There’s no pretending. You don’t gotta prove shit to them.”

You nod, but your throat’s tight again, and you’re not sure if it’s relief or fear or both.

“I’m not good at this,” you say.

Kenny shrugs. “I didn’t ask you to be good at it. I asked you to say yes.”

Your breath catches.

“You said yes,” he continues, voice softer now, almost tender. “That’s the only part that matters.”

You nod again, and this time it sticks. The line moves forward. You step with him, still holding his hand. Still feeling that tightness in your chest, but it’s slowly loosening, like you can breathe again.

Kenny glances at you again, a flicker of amusement breaking through the sincerity.

“And for the record,” he says, lips twitching up at the corners, “you’re pretty fuckin’ cute when you’re awkward. Real ‘doe-eyed virgin trying not to faint on prom night’ vibes.”

Your jaw drops. “Kenny.”

He smiles, all sugar-coated innocence, like he didn’t just say that. His eyes glint with mischief, his mouth curling into that devastatingly smug little smirk that makes your stomach twist up like a wrung-out towel. Before you can say another word, his hand drops low and gives your ass a quick, firm squeeze, bold and shameless.

You yelp, slapping his shoulder with a half-hearted swipe that only makes him giggle harder.

“You nasty perv,” you hiss, face flushed, eyes darting around in panic.

He just laughs, soft and wheezy and self-satisfied. “You love it,” he says under his breath, nudging you playfully with his elbow.

You glance around, scanning the area to make sure no one saw—or worse, heard—but no one’s looking. The couple ahead of you is too busy pawing at each other like they’re in heat, and the ride operator’s barely staying conscious. You exhale slowly, the embarrassment still boiling under your skin, but the heat in your face starts to shift. Less panic. More… giddy.

The Ferris wheel lets out a soft mechanical groan as it comes to a stop, the gears clanking under the weight of the turning cart. The couple ahead of you steps in, the operator securing the flimsy metal bar across their laps without sparing them a second glance. You and Kenny shuffle up next, and before the operator can even wave you forward, Kenny speaks again.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, eyes still locked on yours.

You glance up at him.

He shifts a little closer, enough that your arms brush. “I appreciate you tellin’ me,” he says. His tone is different now—steadier, no teasing. “About feeling awkward. I know that shit’s not easy to say out loud.”

You nod, mouth pressing into a line. You want to respond, but your throat’s too tight again.

Kenny nudges you with his shoulder, softer this time. “You don’t gotta keep it all locked up, y’know? You can be real with me. I can take it.”

You hum under your breath, still nodding. You glance down at your shoes, your scuffed soles shifting over the cracked pavement, and murmur, “Yeah. I know.”

The gate creaks open in front of you. The ride operator gives a half-assed gesture toward the empty cart swinging gently to a stop. Kenny squeezes your hand once, quick and grounding, and leads you inside, stepping up and turning so you’re guided into the cart first. He waits for you to sit before sliding in opposite you.

You perch on your seat, hands in your lap, legs angled slightly away like you’re trying to take up as little space as possible. The metal is warm from the sun, the air thick with the scent of old rust and sugary grease, and as the cart rocks slightly under your weight, your heart stutters.

You don’t look at him.

You look at the chipped paint on the frame of the cart. You look at the empty booth at the top of the operator’s platform. You look at the goddamn sky.

When you finally do glance at him, careful, slow, like peeling off a bandage—he’s already looking at you.

Of course he is.

He’s leaning forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and there’s this look on his face that melts something deep in your chest. Not teasing. Not smug. Just present. Like you’re the only thing in his world right now.

You cover your face with your hands, giggling behind your palms like a fucking middle schooler, because what the hell is this. Why is he looking at you like that? Why does it feel like your skin is trying to lift off your body just from being seen?

Kenny laughs quietly, and you hear the creak of the cart as he shifts. A second later, he’s sitting beside you instead of across, close enough that his thigh presses against yours.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrists.

You resist for half a second. Just enough to feel stupid about it.

But he’s patient. His grip is soft, coaxing, and when he tugs your hands away from your face, it’s not forceful—it’s warm. Careful. Like he’s handling something fragile.

Your hands fall into your lap, your face bare again, cheeks hot and mouth twisted in an embarrassed smile. You don’t meet his eyes. You can’t.

Not until he leans in and kisses you.

Just lips against yours—slow, easy, grounded. His mouth brushes yours like he’s trying to smooth down the fray in your nerves, like he’s kissing the embarrassment straight off your face. His thumb ghosts along your jaw, not quite touching, just hovering, and the rest of his hand settles lightly on your hip.

You don’t move for a moment.

And then you lean into him.

His hand tightens on your hip. Not hard. Not greedy. Just there, solid and familiar. A low warmth curls through you, quieter than desire but deeper, more consuming. It makes your shoulders soften, your hands uncurl in your lap, your breathing slow.

When he pulls back, it’s only an inch. His lips hover just over yours, like he’s waiting. His breath is soft on your skin.

You open your eyes, and his are already on you—blue and endless, the kind of gaze that feels like it could crack your chest open if you let it.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmurs. “Y’know that, right?”

You nod. It’s barely a movement.

Kenny smiles, just a little, his hand still on your hip.

The Ferris wheel jerks and lurches into motion. The cart rocks beneath you with a soft sway, and your heart lurches into your throat. You reach out instinctively, grabbing at the edge of the bench, but Kenny catches your hand mid-movement and pulls it onto his thigh.

“Relax,” he says, fingers lacing with yours again. “You’re safe.”

You exhale slowly, the breath shaking just a little.

His hand is warm under yours. His thumb rubs slow, thoughtful circles across your knuckles, and the longer it goes on, the more your shoulders sink. Your heart’s still beating a little too fast, not from fear anymore, but from awareness. That quiet, aching sort of feeling that pools in your chest when you realize how much you want to stay here in this moment, in this seat, next to him.

Your other hand is still curled into the sleeve of his t-shirt, fingers lightly clutching the worn fabric. You aren’t even holding on tightly anymore. It’s more like you just want the connection, the skin-to-skin pull, the assurance that he’s there. That he’s not going anywhere. He lets you hold on.

The cart creaks as it sways gently, the Ferris wheel continuing its climb into the sky. Below, the lights blur together into soft colors—gold and pink, hazy neon blue, the kind of late-summer dusk that always feels a little unreal. The kind of dusk where it’s easier to say things you wouldn’t in the daylight.

Kenny’s thumb stops moving. He shifts slightly beside you. You glance up at him, expecting another teasing remark, something smug to poke fun at your nerves. But his expression’s different now. There’s no smirk on his face. His eyes are steady, almost serious. His mouth parts just a little, breath slow.

“I love you,” he says.

It lands in your chest like a dropped match.

Your lips part, not from shock exactly, but from how simple he made it sound. There’s no preamble. No stammering. Just that same clear tone he always uses when he’s not messing around. His face is soft in the fading light, eyes watching yours like he’s not afraid of what you’ll say back.

You breathe out, your voice quieter than his, but just as certain. “I love you too.”

His smile blooms slowly, tugging at one corner of his mouth like he’s trying not to grin too wide. He leans in, and when he kisses you this time, it’s still gentle, but fuller and more depth, more heat, like he’s smiling into your lips. His nose brushes yours, and your fingers tangle in the hem of his shirt, your body leaning into his.

The kiss deepens. His hands move—one staying at your hip, the other sliding around to your back, pulling you closer. His touch is warm and steady at first, then bolder. His palm presses low on your spine, his fingertips drifting just under the hem of your tank top, and you gasp softly into his mouth when you feel him inch higher.

His tongue brushes yours, slow and languid, and your thighs tense where they press together. You don’t stop him. You don’t want to. You’re dizzy with the closeness, his scent, the way he’s touching you like you’re precious and breakable and his all at once.

His hand slides down again, over the waistband of your shorts, and that’s when you feel the tug.

His fingers are working the button.

You break the kiss with a small, startled gasp, eyes wide as you look up at him. “Kenny,” you whisper, breath catching in your throat. “We’re—We’re on a Ferris wheel.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look the least bit guilty. His lips graze your jaw, then the soft skin just beneath your ear. His voice is husky against your skin, lazy and unbothered. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m being a good boyfriend. Helping my pretty girl relax.”

You squirm, not entirely sure if you want to pull away or melt further into him. “That’s—That’s not what this is,” you stammer, your voice cracking around the words, but it’s breathy, not firm. Not convincing.

His mouth finds your neck, lips trailing kisses just below your jaw, warm and lingering. His breath is hot against your skin, and you can feel the way his tongue flicks out against the delicate pulse point, just before he sucks gently, enough to make your hips twitch.

Your hands grab at his wrist instinctively, fingers curling around the bones just above where he’s slipped them beneath your waistband. You mean to stop him. You should stop him. But you’re holding him, not pushing.

“Kenny, someone might see—” you whisper, but your voice comes out soft, unfocused, like you don’t even believe yourself.

He kisses the hollow of your throat. “No one’s looking, babe,” he breathes. “Cart’s closed. We’re all the way up here. Just you and me.”

His fingers are still working, slow but determined. The button pops free, and you suck in a sharp breath as your waistband loosens. His touch is careful, deliberate, like he’s testing your boundaries, waiting for that moment where you’ll really pull away. But you don’t.

Your thighs clench together, and your nails dig into his wrist, not in protest, but in anticipation. Your body is buzzing, flushed and tingling, heat coiling low in your belly with every kiss he presses to your throat. Your chest is rising and falling too fast, and your thoughts are starting to fall apart, unraveling like string in your hands.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, lips brushing your collarbone.

You don’t say anything.

Your hands stay on his wrist.

The cart sways gently again, the ride slow, quiet, suspended at the highest point. The wind brushes your cheeks, cooling the heat in your face just enough to keep you grounded. The world below looks far away now; soft and silent and irrelevant.

Kenny kisses you again, just behind your ear, and his voice is lower this time, almost reverent.

“You’re seriously so fuckin’ cute when you’re nervous.”

Your breath stutters out, legs tightening.

“Kenny—”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, barely a ring of blue left around the edges. His breath hitting your cheek in soft, uneven puffs. His expression still carries that infuriating smugness, the one that always means he knows exactly what he's doing—but under it, there's a flicker of restraint, like he’s holding himself back just enough to let you decide how far this goes.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, every breath tight in your throat. You can’t even hear the carnival anymore. The wind brushes across your cheeks as the Ferris wheel sways gently, high above the noise, the crowd, the people who might look up and see—but you don’t care. Not really. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when his hands are still resting just inside your waistband, and all you want is for him to keep going.

You give him a shaky nod.

That’s all he needs.

Kenny grins, slow and wicked, that shit-eating gleam lighting up his face as he lets out a giggle—quiet but devious, like he’s just unwrapped a present he’s been waiting weeks to touch. He dives back in, his mouth latching onto the side of your neck, open-mouthed and hot, tongue flicking just beneath your jaw before sucking a deep, lingering bruise into your skin. You gasp, your fingers clenching into the back of his shirt, and your hips jerk when his hands slide all the way down and make quick work of your shorts.

The button pops, the zipper drags low with a hiss, and then he’s pushing them down your hips with practiced ease, knuckles brushing the skin of your thighs. The cool air hits your legs, raising goosebumps, and you squirm, trying to keep your knees together, trying not to choke on how exposed you suddenly feel in this rickety little cart suspended in the sky.

Kenny pulls back just enough to look, his grin deepening when he catches sight of your underwear. A laugh—quiet, cruel, delighted—bubbles from his throat as he tilts his head to the side, letting his eyes roam slowly over you.

“No way,” he says, mock disbelief dripping from every syllable. “Are you serious with these?”

You try to pull your shorts back up, already whining through clenched teeth, but he grabs your hands and pins them to your sides. His other hand toys with the hem of your panties, a delicate pink with little bows at the hips, the kind you only wear when you don’t expect anyone to see. He snaps one of the bows lightly against your skin, his smirk widening when you flinch.

“You’ve got little girl panties, babe,” he coos, voice saccharine-sweet and mocking. “Jesus. What, did you think we were going to a tea party?”

You groan, turning your face into his shoulder, cheeks burning hot enough to scorch. “Shut the fuck up,” you mumble into the fabric of his shirt. “You’re such a dick.”

Kenny hums, completely unaffected. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s cute. Real innocent.” He drops his voice, low and filthy against your ear. “But these are soaked, babe. You get this wet from just kissing me?”

Your whole body tenses. Your fingers curl into fists, still pinned at your sides, and your legs squeeze together on instinct, but it doesn’t matter. His fingers are already dipping between your thighs, grazing the heat there through the thin, damp fabric, and you shudder with a choked sound that you try too hard to swallow.

“Oh my God,” he laughs, still whispering but practically vibrating with delight. “You are, aren’t you? You’re fucking dripping.” His knuckles press more firmly, slow, lazy circles through the fabric, and your hips twitch despite yourself. “From a little kiss and a sweet word. God, that’s pathetic. Are you seriously that needy for me?”

“Asshole,” you whine, your voice high and uneven, your head spinning from the heat blooming low in your stomach. “You’re such a—fuck—you’re such a piece of shit.”

Kenny leans in again, dragging his lips along your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth with exaggerated sweetness. “You love this piece of shit.”

Your breath stutters again. You hate that he’s right. You hate that he can say the most unhinged shit and still have your heart fluttering every time he smiles at you like this. You want to curse him out and bury your face in his chest all at once.

“I do,” you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear.

He groans, low and smug. 

You writhe in his grip, humiliated and breathless and aching, still trying to fight off the heat creeping between your thighs. Your legs are squeezed together tight, but it doesn’t help, not when Kenny’s fingers keep sliding over the wet spot that keeps growing between your legs like your body’s begging to be touched. It’s like torture; hot, humiliating, overwhelming. He hasn’t even really touched you yet, and you already feel like your body is on fire, like every breath you take makes the burn worse.

Kenny’s fingers are maddening, teasing you with a pressure that’s just light enough to keep you on the edge. He drags his knuckles slowly across the damp fabric, trailing over the most sensitive part of you, never lingering for more than a second. His eyes are locked on your face, watching every twitch of your jaw, every little flutter of your lashes. You press your lips together hard, biting down to stop yourself from making a sound, but your hips keep shifting, instinctively chasing the contact he keeps pulling away.

He notices right away. Of course he does.

"Don’t do that, now,” Kenny murmurs, his voice low and smooth—but a little uneven, the first sign of that drawl bleeding in. He tilts his head, pressing his mouth hot against your ear. “Don’t be hidin’ from me, baby. Wanna hear you.

You shake your head, eyes squeezed shut, still biting down, still trying to hold onto some last shred of composure. It’s a losing battle. You can feel your pulse in every inch of your body—your neck, your wrists, your thighs. Every time his fingers slide down, slow and deliberate, you clench up harder.

Kenny lets out a low laugh, rough and mean, but his tone is soft. “God, you’re stubborn,” he murmurs, trailing kisses down your neck. “Cute little thing trying so hard not to fall apart. You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You think I can’t hear how hard you’re breathing?”

Your lips part involuntarily as you gasp, but you still don’t make a sound. His kisses are warm, lips dragging slow against the column of your throat, his breath damp and shivery where it meets your skin. Your thighs tense when he presses down harder with his fingers, just a little more pressure through the soaked fabric, and your whole body jolts.

Kenny grins against your neck. “God damn,” he whispers. “Tryna act all shy when you're damn near drippin’ down your thighs.”

You manage a weak, mortified whine, your hands scrambling for purchase on the edge of the cart, your legs pressing together like you can somehow contain it all—the pressure, the heat, the trembling need that’s gotten completely out of control.

His hand leaves you for one second, just enough to curl his fingers into the side of your panties. And without ceremony, without a warning, he pushes the fabric aside.

The air hits your skin, sticky and warm and mortifying, and you inhale sharply, biting back another sound. He hums low in his throat, his free hand keeping you pinned by your hip while the other slips between your thighs, finally touching you where you need it. His fingers slide through your slick folds slowly, deliberately, dragging through the mess he’s teased out of you.

He whistles, quiet and low. “Mm-mm. You feel that, baby?” His voice drops to a drawl, syrup-dripping slow. “You hear that slick little sound? That’s all you.”

You let out a breathy, helpless noise and jerk against him, your legs twitching open despite yourself. Your hips try to rise, try to follow the movement of his fingers, but he keeps the pace unbearably slow. His touch is barely more than a glide, a brush, a cruel little tease that never quite gives you the friction your body’s begging for.

Kenny kisses your neck again, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. “You need it that bad?” he mutters against your throat, licking over the mark he left earlier. “Is this what gets you off now? Getting felt up in public like a fuckin’ slut?”

You shiver violently, hands gripping the metal seat under you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. You don’t answer. You can’t. The heat is too thick, your head too fuzzy. His fingers tease your entrance, just the tip of one circling gently, never pushing in, and your thighs jump again.

“Kenny,” you gasp, voice cracking, body trembling from restraint.

He nips at your jaw, smirking. “Yeah?”

You choke on the words. Your mouth moves but nothing comes out. He pulls his finger away, and your whole body clenches in protest, hips bucking up like you’re desperate for it back, and God, you are.

Kenny just chuckles darkly. “Thought so.”

He slips one finger in—slow, knuckle by knuckle—and your whole body arches like it’s too much. You gasp again, louder this time, and he shushes you gently, the hand on your hip stroking circles to calm you down.

“There we go,” he coos. “That’s it. That’s my good girl.”

You bury your face in his shoulder, clinging to the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, whimpering through clenched teeth as he starts to move. It’s slow at first, just the curl of his finger dragging over that perfect spot, over and over, and it makes your walls clench and your thighs tremble. Every tiny movement sends another ripple of heat through you, and you can’t stop the wet, needy noises your body makes as he fucks into you.

Kenny’s lips are still against your neck, his breath uneven now, rougher, more ragged. “God, I love you like this,” he murmurs. “All wet and whiny, all desperate just ‘cause I touched you.”

You whimper again, hips rocking into his hand, your voice cracked and high. “Kenny, fuck—please—”

He presses a second finger inside and you swear you black out for a second, back arching off the seat, the edge of the cart creaking beneath the movement. You try to muffle your sounds into his chest, but he’s watching you now, breath catching at how flushed your face is, how glassy your eyes are, how you’re falling apart in his hands.

His thumb finds your clit, finally, and your body seizes with a sob of relief.

“You gonna cum for me like this baby?” he whispers. “Right here, where anyone could see? Just from my fingers? That how needy you are?”

You nod fast, the word please falling out of your mouth on a choked moan.

Kenny grins, presses his lips to your temple. “Go on, then. Show me how much you love me.”

The pressure breaks all at once.

You cum with a cry half-muffled against his throat, body locking up, thighs clenching around his wrist. Your hips twitch with every wave, the pleasure crashing through you so hard it blurs your vision. Kenny holds you steady, fingers moving slower, dragging out every last aftershock, kissing you through it.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmurs. “My good girlfriend. Goddamn, you’re perfect.”

You melt into him, your whole body loose and twitching, breath still ragged in your chest. Your face is buried in the crook of his neck, skin burning, heart hammering, brain completely fried. You feel dizzy, giddy, like you’re floating a few feet above yourself. Kenny kisses the side of your head, lips lingering, the curve of his mouth still smug. His hand starts to slide away from between your legs, fingers slick and slow with withdrawal, and the moment he’s gone, you make a broken sound in your throat, helpless and wrecked and already missing the contact.

“Oh, poor baby,” he coos, voice saccharine. His tone is teasing, but there’s still warmth behind it, still softness. He pulls your underwear gently back into place, dragging the fabric carefully over your sensitive skin. You hiss at the overstimulation, hips jerking, and he just laughs under his breath, buttoning your shorts again like he’s done this a hundred times. His hands linger at your waist a second longer than necessary, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones.

The Ferris wheel gives a mechanical groan beneath you, and then there’s a metallic click as the cart jolts and begins its slow descent. The whole thing starts to come back into focus. The carnival. The ride. The fact that you’re still high above everyone else, in an open-air cart that anyone could have looked up at.

Panic slams into your chest. Your eyes go wide as you snap back to reality, adrenaline surging through you all over again, but this time, it’s not the good kind. “Oh my God,” you whisper, grabbing at your shorts, tugging them up like they aren’t already secure. “Kenny, what the fuck.”

He’s already laughing, head thrown back like this is the funniest thing that’s happened all night. His entire hand glistens faintly with your slick, and without shame, without hesitation, he wipes it off—on your shirt. Your shirt. Right at the hem.

You squeal, slapping his arm in horror, your voice pitching up. “What the fuck?! You disgusting gremlin!”

Kenny just cackles, unbothered, smug as hell. “It’s yours, babe,” he says like that makes it okay, reaching for your hand.

You try to swat him away, but he snatches it and pulls you up with him as the cart door swings open. Your legs do not cooperate. The second your feet hit the platform, your knees wobble and you stumble like a newborn deer, nearly face-planting into the railing. Kenny catches you, steady as ever, and just grins.

“Oh my God,” you hiss through clenched teeth, still trying to walk normally. “You actual piece of shit. My fuckin’ legs, Kenny—Jesus—what the fuck—”

Kenny keeps holding your hand like nothing happened, giggling to himself while you limp beside him like you’ve just walked out of a car crash. You’re ranting under your breath the entire time, face bright red, eyes darting around to make sure no one’s staring. “You have problems,” you whisper harshly. “You’re a fucking freak. I can’t believe you did that, I let you do that, we’re in public, we could’ve been arrested, we could’ve been banned—”

“Babe,” Kenny laughs, “you’re the one who came so hard your legs stopped workin’.”

“Shut up!” you snap, swatting at him again, but your voice cracks halfway through, too mortified to hold up your usual fire. You’re trying to keep your head down, trying to reset your breathing, trying to pretend your whole body isn’t still vibrating.

You finally realize you’re not moving anymore. You look up.

Kyle, Stan, Cartman, and Butters are standing right in front of you.

Your blood freezes.

Kenny is casual as ever, smiling like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Hey,” he says cheerfully. “How was the rollercoaster?”

The silence is deafening. All four of them are just staring. Stan’s mouth is open. Kyle looks like he just walked in on a murder. Butters has both hands clutched to his cheeks like a Victorian maiden. Cartman—Cartman is vibrating.

You swallow hard, forcing a pitiful smile onto your face. “...Hi.”

It’s the weakest “hi” you’ve ever said in your life.

There’s another beat of silence.

And then Cartman explodes.

“OH MY FUCKING GOD,” he shrieks, throwing his head back in laughter so loud it echoes off the nearby food stalls. “YOU NASTY MOTHERFUCKERS TOTALLY FUCKED IN THE FERRIS WHEEL!”

Your soul leaves your body.

“W-What?!” you shriek, dropping Kenny’s hand like it burned you. “No! No we didn’t, what the fuck are you even talking about?!”

Cartman is wheezing, doubled over. “YOUR FACE—YOUR LEGS—YOU’RE LIMPING, BITCH!”

“I TRIPPED!” you yell, pointing at the ground. “I tripped on the—on the fucking platform, you psychopath!”

“You can’t walk straight!” Cartman howls. “You’re red as fuck! You look like you just got destroyed!”

“I’m gonna destroy you!” you scream, breaking away from Kenny and lunging forward. “I’m gonna fuckin’ end you, Eric, I swear to God!”

Kyle grabs your shoulder, trying to hold you back, his face still pale with secondhand shame. “Dude, please, we’re in public—”

“I know we’re in public! He apparently doesn’t give a shit!” You whirl around to glare at Kenny, who’s standing there, hands in his pockets, looking pleased as hell.

Stan finally finds his voice. “Wait. Wait. You guys… didn’t—?”

“We didn’t!” you shout again, even though your voice cracks and your face is ten shades too red to be convincing. “He just—he was just being—handsy! That’s it! Nothing happened!”

“You’re lying,” Cartman wheezes. “You’re so lying. He fingered you on that ride, I know it. I see it in your eyes. That’s the face of a Ferris wheel orgasm.”

You shriek again, grabbing a nearby napkin holder and hurling it in Cartman’s general direction. He ducks, still laughing, and Kyle has to physically drag you back before you commit a felony.

“Jesus Christ,” Stan mutters, dragging his hands over his face. “We can’t take you guys anywhere.”

Butters is still blushing so hard his nose looks sunburnt. “Um… should I… should I go home?”

You collapse into Kenny’s side, groaning in horror, and he just throws an arm around you like he’s proud.

“Hey,” he says brightly, squeezing your waist. “Not feeling so awkward about being my girlfriend now, huh?”

You scream into his chest.

Snow rested over South Park like a held breath. Not heavy, not urgent, just enough to quiet the town and dull its usual sharpness. The sidewalks were coated in a thin white layer that hadn’t yet been trampled into slush, and the air carried that clean, biting cold that made every inhale feel deliberate. Your boots pressed careful prints into the snow as you walked, hands tucked into your jacket sleeves, shoulders rising slightly each time a breeze slipped through the gaps in your clothes.

The corner stop came into view slowly, framed by bare trees and the crooked bus sign that leaned a few degrees to the left like it had grown tired of standing straight. The bench beneath it looked even worse than usual, one wooden slat split down the middle, frost clinging to the metal legs and edges. Kenny stood nearby, exactly where he always said he would be. His orange parka was zipped all the way up, hood pulled over his head but loose enough to show his face. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, elbows angled outward, and he was staring up at the sky with a squint, eyes following the lazy path of falling snowflakes as if he was trying to predict where they would land.

You slowed without meaning to, watching him for a moment before he noticed you. He looked calm in a way that felt rare, shoulders lowered, breathing steady, the usual restless energy dialed down by the quiet morning. The sight tugged a smile onto your face, and a playful idea took hold before you could talk yourself out of it.

You stepped off the sidewalk, moving carefully, using the bus stop sign and the old newspaper stand as cover. Each step was calculated, weight shifted slowly to keep your boots from crunching too loudly. Your heart beat a little faster with the effort, a mix of nerves and anticipation. You lifted your arms as you closed the distance, ready to startle him just as you reached his back.

Kenny turned his head slightly, catching your reflection in the glass of the sign. A smile spread across his face before he even faced you fully. When he did, there was no surprise in his expression, only easy amusement.

“Really?” he said, voice muffled by the parka, warm with humor.

You stopped short, arms dropping as a laugh slipped out of you, embarrassed and caught. Heat crept up your cheeks, made worse by the way he was already grinning like he’d expected this from the start. “You weren’t supposed to see me,” you said, shaking your head as you stepped into the open. “You’re ruining the whole thing.”

Kenny shrugged, rocking back on his heels, eyes still on you. “You’re bad at sneaking,” he replied, tone light, not unkind.

You rolled your eyes, but the reaction carried no bite. Standing there in front of him, breath puffing into the cold air, you felt oddly relieved, like the day had finally begun now that you were here. “I’m really glad school’s canceled,” you said after a moment. “Not just because of classes. I finally get a chance to hang out with you without everyone else around.”

His eyebrows lifted immediately, a familiar spark lighting his eyes as his mouth tilted toward a grin that promised trouble. He opened his mouth, clearly about to say exactly what you expected him to say.

“We should walk to Stark’s Pond,” you cut in quickly, pointing down the road before he could finish.

Kenny laughed, the sound low and soft, shoulders shaking slightly. He dipped his head, mock disappointment written all over his face. “You always do that,” he said. “Right when I’m about to say something great.”

“You’ll live,” you replied, already turning away from the bench.

Snow crunched under your boots as you started down the sidewalk, and a second later Kenny fell into step beside you. The space between you was small, close enough that your sleeves brushed when you walked. Neither of you moved to correct it. The bench faded behind you, swallowed by quiet streets and pale snow, and the town felt slower somehow, like it was content to let the two of you take your time. No cars passed, no kids screamed in yards or skateboards clattered across sidewalks. Just you and Kenny and the snow, the soft hush of winter making the world feel smaller.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to. The silence between you had always been easy. Kenny wasn’t a talker unless he had something real to say—or unless he was trying to make you laugh—and you’d learned to like that about him. He didn’t fill the air with empty noise, didn’t waste energy pretending things were different than they were. You walked side by side, watching your breath rise in little clouds, the snow soaking into your pant cuffs, the town unfolding slowly as you moved toward Stark’s Pond.

The closer you got, the more familiar the walk became, each bend in the road marked by shared memories. That tree Kenny once tried to climb on a dare and fell out of. The wooden fence with a plank missing where the two of you used to sneak through to avoid walking the long way. Every landmark was laced with your own history, small and dumb and comforting. You glanced over at Kenny once or twice, catching the way his eyes traced the scenery like he was remembering it all too.

By the time you reached the pond, the sun had started breaking through the thin cloud cover, making the snow on the trees glint faintly, almost blue. Stark’s Pond sat nestled at the edge of the woods, ringed by bare branches and old picnic benches covered in snow. The water was frozen, not glassy and smooth like in movies, but textured and dusted with snow, with long cracks near the shore and fallen leaves frozen beneath the surface like ghosts trapped in ice.

You both stopped at the edge, boots sinking slightly into the packed snow. Kenny stared out across the pond, shoulders hunched forward like the cold was finally starting to seep into his layers. His breath fogged in the air as he stepped closer to the water’s edge, gaze locked on the ice.

He stepped one foot out onto it.

You moved fast, your voice loud and sharp. “Kenny—what the hell are you doing?”

He turned his head toward you, one foot now firmly on the frozen pond, the other still on the bank. His hood had slipped back slightly, revealing messy blond hair flattened by his parka. There was a crooked grin on his face, one brow arched like he was proud of himself.

“I’m seeing if it’ll hold,” he said, as if that explained anything. “It’s solid. I can hear it.”

“You could’ve fallen in,” you snapped, heart hammering faster than the situation probably deserved. “Jesus, Kenny.”

He blinked at you, his grin widening. “Aw, are you worried about me?”

You rolled your eyes, but it was useless, your face was already flushed. He knew exactly what he was doing. “Duh,” you muttered, stepping forward to shove him lightly in the chest. He rocked back on his heels, stepping safely off the ice with a laugh.

“I’m touched,” he said, his voice light, teasing. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“Good,” you said, huffing as you crossed your arms over your chest. “At least I’ll know you feel things.”

You both laughed, the sound echoing over the pond, bouncing off the trees and frozen air. Your breath came out in clouds, your cheeks flushed from the cold.

The laughter faded into quiet again, but not an uncomfortable one. It was the kind that came after a shared joke, the kind that settled like an exhale.

You stepped closer to the edge of the pond, looking out at the uneven frozen surface. “Remember that summer?” you said, the memory surfacing with sudden clarity. “When Craig dared you to skinny dip here?”

Kenny groaned behind you. “God. Don’t remind me.”

You turned your head, smirking. “You actually did it. Stripped down in front of everyone. Didn’t even hesitate.”

He moved to stand beside you again, his shoulder bumping lightly into yours. “I had a point to prove.”

“You had nothing to prove,” you said, shaking your head. “You just wanted attention.”

“Well,” he said, grinning, “I got it.”

You snorted. “Wendy screamed.”

“She saw greatness and panicked.”

You laughed again, your breath puffing visibly in the cold. The memory was clearer than you expected. How the water had looked that day, rippling under the sun, Kenny’s clothes in a pile on the rocks, the way he hadn’t even flinched at the cold until he got out, teeth chattering as he tried to pretend he was fine. You’d handed him your towel without looking directly at him, cheeks hot, and he’d just smirked at you like he knew anyway.

“I remember thinking you were gonna die of hypothermia,” you said, voice quieter now. “You were shivering for like an hour.”

“I didn’t die,” Kenny replied, kicking at the snow with the toe of his boot. “You gave me your towel, remember? Warmed me up.”

“Because I’m a good friend,” you said, lifting your chin.

He turned to look at you then, his expression softer, the teasing faded into something else. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but nothing came out. His eyes met yours for a beat too long. 

You felt the cold more acutely all of a sudden, not the wind or the snow, but the space between you and him, the electricity sitting quietly inside it.

He looked away first, but his smile lingered, softer now.

“Thanks for still hanging out with me,” he said, voice quiet. “Even when I’m an idiot.”

You nudged his arm gently with your elbow. “Always.”

Kenny’s head tilted toward you, that smug, sideways smirk already curling up his mouth before he even opened it. “Always, huh?” he echoed, voice dipping just low enough to make it sound like a joke wrapped in a question. He cocked an eyebrow, looking at you with that signature half-lidded, shit-eating expression like he’d just discovered your deepest secret and was absolutely going to milk it for the rest of your life.

Your cheeks flared with heat almost instantly, as if the cold had never touched you. You turned your face slightly, hoping to hide it, but you could feel the way his eyes stayed on you, waiting for the explosion. Of course he didn’t just say thank you. Of course he didn’t take the moment for what it was.

“You’re such a dick,” you muttered, but you were already unraveling, your voice rising in tempo and volume as you turned toward him fully, arms flailing slightly in frustration. “You always do this! Every time we have, like, an actual moment or I say something remotely genuine, you just—ruin it! With your stupid little smirk and your dumb little voice and your pervy comments and—God, I don’t even know why I try to be serious around you, I must be clinically insane or—”

A snowball hit you square in the chest.

Your entire body jerked from the impact, breath catching as cold packed snow slid down the front of your coat collar. You looked down, stunned, at the wet splatter of snow now sticking to your jacket, and then up again, your eyes narrowing.

Kenny was already reaching for another handful of snow, grinning so wide it almost hurt to look at him. “You were being annoying,” he said, voice light, unbothered. “Had to shut you up somehow.”

You stared at him, frozen in place for a moment. And then, wordlessly, you lunged for the snow at your feet, scooping it up in your bare hands and hurling a misshapen, crumbling ball directly at his face.

He dodged.

Of course he dodged.

The snowball sailed past him and exploded pitifully against a tree trunk. Kenny whooped like a little kid, immediately firing another shot at you, this one hitting your thigh. The cold soaked straight through your jeans, and you yelped, lurching sideways to scoop more snow while trying to keep your balance on the icy ground.

“Okay,” you hissed, heart thudding. “You wanna do this?”

“I was trying to have a peaceful winter walk,” he called out, ducking behind a nearby bench. “You’re the one who went feral.”

You loaded up a handful of snow and charged, hurling it in his general direction. He popped up just long enough to take the hit in the shoulder, cackling like a maniac as he fired two more at you in retaliation, one hitting your hip, the other clipping your arm. The cold numbed your fingers, but the heat rushing through your chest more than made up for it.

What started as a few half-hearted throws turned into a full-on snowball war. You circled each other around the pond like predators in puffy jackets, ducking behind trees, slipping in patches of ice, laughing too hard to breathe. Your gloves were soaked through in minutes. Your knees ached from crouching behind logs. Kenny somehow managed to stockpile snowballs in a pile behind a bush like a psycho preparing for war, and you spent most of your time trying not to fall while desperately forming ammo on the fly.

He was annoyingly good at this.

One snowball landed against your back, another grazed your face, and by the time you managed to shove a handful of snow down the back of his coat, you were already panting, arms aching, cheeks red from a mix of cold and laughter.

Kenny was relentless. Laughing, fast, always one step ahead. You tried to tackle him at one point, leaping forward with a desperate war cry, but he sidestepped with a low “oof, close one” and you ended up face-first in the snow, sputtering curses into the powder while he wheezed with laughter from a safe distance.

By the time you gave up, you were dripping. Your jacket was heavy with melting snow, your jeans clung damp to your legs, and your hair stuck to your forehead in cold, wet strands. Your gloves were useless now, fingers numb and clumsy, and every exhale came in fast, foggy bursts. You were freezing. And you’d never laughed that hard in your life.

Kenny, of course, was barely winded. He stood victoriously on a low ridge, arms outstretched like he was accepting applause from an invisible crowd. “And still undefeated!” he called out, triumphant.

“You’re such an asshole,” you wheezed, staggering toward him, wiping snow off your face with a sodden sleeve. “I hope your hands freeze off.”

“You’ll miss them,” he shot back, waggling his eyebrows.

“Gross,” you groaned, but you couldn’t stop smiling. You hated how good it felt. How easy it was to laugh around him. How he always managed to turn your irritation into something weightless.

You stopped a few feet away from him, snow dripping from your sleeves, your cheeks flushed and eyes bright. He looked at you like he was proud of himself, not for winning, but for pulling that laugh out of you, for seeing you smile like that.

The wind blew gently across the pond, rustling the branches, and for a second the only sounds were your breathing and the soft creak of ice shifting beneath the snow.

“You done crying yet?” he teased, voice softer now.

You scoffed and shook your head. “You’re dead next time.”

He smiled, slower this time. “Looking forward to it.”

You let out a breath, a little huff that turned into a visible cloud in the cold air. The adrenaline from the snowball fight had worn off, leaving behind the creeping sting of winter seeping through your clothes. A full-body shiver ran through you, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to shake it off.

“This is miserable,” you muttered, teeth chattering slightly. Your jacket clung to you like wet seaweed, cold and heavy, the dampness spreading inward to your layers underneath. You tugged at the zipper with stiff fingers, cursing under your breath when it snagged, but eventually you wrestled it open and shrugged it off.

Kenny’s brows furrowed immediately. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t look up, just shook out the jacket and tried to wring some water out of the sleeves. “It’s just making me colder,” you said, voice tight. “All this wet fabric? It’s worse than the snow.”

Before you could react, before you could even finish adjusting your sleeves, Kenny was already unzipping his own parka. You glanced up at the sound of it and froze as he stepped in front of you, flipping the coat around and holding it open. You blinked, barely registering it before he started slipping it over your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The inside of the parka was still warm from his body, a deep contrast to your freezing clothes, and the scent of his cheap body spray and winter wind clung faintly to the lining. Your arms slid into the sleeves almost on reflex, and he zipped it up for you with quick fingers, the motion casual but precise, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

You stared up at him, stunned. “Wait—Kenny, what the hell? You can’t just—” You grabbed at the zipper, half-prepared to rip the coat back off. “What are you gonna wear?”

Kenny just shrugged. “I’ve got a long-sleeved under this,” he said, holding up his arms to show the black cotton stretched over his forearms. “I’m fine. Not like we’re camping out here for the night.”

You frowned, guilt twisting in your chest as you looked at him standing there in just the thin layer, wind tugging at the hem. He was already grabbing your soaked jacket off the ground, wringing it out once with a grimace before shaking it off and slinging it over his arm. He didn’t even look at you as he did it, like it was obvious he’d carry it.

The warmth of his parka was already soaking into your skin, chasing off the cold that had settled in your chest and back. You pulled the sleeves tighter around your hands, the smell and heat of it leaving your throat a little tight.

“You’re gonna freeze your ass off,” you muttered, still staring at him.

Kenny looked over his shoulder and gave you a tired grin. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your heart twisted a little. He said it so easily, like freezing wasn’t a big deal, like shivering was just another day in the life. You stared at him for a moment longer, the oversized jacket heavy and warm around you, his jacket, and finally spoke up again, voice soft.

“Do you wanna go to Tweek’s?” you asked, shifting on your feet. “I’ll buy you a hot cocoa or something. Warm you up.”

He paused, caught off guard, like the offer had landed somewhere unexpected. You watched him turn it over in his head, eyes narrowed, and for a second you expected him to say no, to crack a joke, or to pretend he wasn’t cold at all.

But instead, he nodded once. “Sure.”

You blinked. “Wait, really? You’re letting me pay for you?”

Kenny gave a sheepish shrug, lips curling into a crooked smile. “You offered. And I’m not a complete idiot.”

You smiled, a little surprised yourself. Kenny usually hated it when anyone offered him money or anything close to pity, always brushing it off like it made him lesser. This felt different. Not charity. Just… warmth.

“Alright,” you said, motioning for him to follow. “Let’s go before you lose a finger.”

You both took off in a brisk pace, half a speed-walk and half an attempt to outrun the cold. The wind picked up, your boots slipping slightly on icy patches. Kenny kept close beside you, your wet jacket still slung over his arm like it didn’t weigh anything at all. The streets were mostly empty, the town quiet under its layer of snow, and Tweek Bros Coffee stood out ahead like a glowing orange beacon through the gray.

The door jingled as you stepped inside, the sudden rush of warmth hitting your face like a blanket. Your fingers stung from the temperature shift, but you welcomed it. The smell of espresso and cinnamon syrup hung in the air, thick and comforting, and the soft jazz playing on the speakers added a sleepy kind of atmosphere that immediately softened your shoulders.

Kenny stepped in behind you, letting the door swing shut. He shivered, even if he tried to play it cool, and his hands rubbed at his arms through the thin sleeves.

Tweek wasn’t behind the counter—his mom was. You spotted her as she emerged from the back, smiling just a little too wide, like she was waiting for someone to mess up so she could pounce. You and Kenny exchanged a glance. She’d never been outright mean, but both of Tweek’s parents gave off that weird, hyper-wired, too friendly vibe that set your nerves on edge.

Still, you approached the counter, Kenny a step behind you. You pulled out your wallet, shaking the wet off your fingers as you looked over the menu, even though you already knew what you were getting.

“Two hot cocos,” you said, glancing up as Tweek’s mom leaned in with that eerie Stepford-wife smile.

“Of course, dear,” she said sweetly. “Whipped cream?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Both.”

She turned without another word, disappearing into the back again with a strangely stiff gait. You pulled out a few bills and slid them across the counter, tucking your wallet away quickly, and turned to face Kenny again.

He was looking at you—not the shop, not the menu, you—his expression unreadable but softer than it had been outside. The tips of his ears were red from the cold, his hair still a little damp from the snow, and his arms were crossed as if he didn’t quite know where to put them.

“You really didn’t have to, you know,” he said quietly.

“I wanted to,” you replied, just as quiet. “So shut up and let me.”

Kenny’s mouth tugged into a smile, but he didn’t argue. His eyes lingered on you for another second longer than you expected, before flicking away toward the counter where the drinks were being made.

“I really like the whipped cream here,” he said, almost too casually.

You snorted. “So you have been here before.”

“Only to steal napkins,” he said, deadpan. “But the whipped cream’s worth the risk.”

You giggled, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. It echoed lightly in the warm air between the two of you, muffled by the soft hum of coffee shop chatter and the hiss of steamed milk from behind the counter. Kenny looked pleased with himself, lips tugging up just enough to show it, even if he played it off like he hadn’t been trying to make you laugh.

The two of you leaned lightly against the counter as you waited, your shoulder brushing his. You didn’t pull away this time. His parka still hung over your body, big and warm. Kenny didn’t comment on it, but his eyes flicked toward you once or twice, like he was still checking to make sure you were warm.

“So,” you said after a pause, your voice low, “what exactly is your ranking of stolen goods from South Park’s finest establishments?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Napkins from Tweek’s, obviously. Energy drinks from 7-Eleven. One time I got a whole rotisserie chicken from Whole Foods without getting caught.”

You blinked at him. “A whole chicken?”

“Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear the answers to,” he replied, completely serious. You both broke into quiet laughter, stifling it slightly as Mrs. Tweek appeared from the back.

She set two paper cups on the counter with mechanical precision, each topped with a cloud of whipped cream and a light dusting of cinnamon. Her smile was strained, too polite, her eyes locked a little too directly onto Kenny before sliding to you.

“Here you go, dears,” she said sweetly. “Be sure to clean up after yourselves.”

“Thanks,” you said quickly, scooping up the drinks. Kenny grabbed the wet mess of your jacket still slung over his arm, and the two of you made your way toward a small table near the window. You felt her gaze follow you the entire way.

The seats were low and rickety, the kind that rocked when you shifted your weight, but they were warm, close to the heater vent that rattled with dry air. You sat across from each other, both of you bringing the cups to your lips in near-synchrony.

The first sip was everything you needed; warm, rich, sweet, the heat spreading through your chest like a hug. You closed your eyes for a second, letting it settle, and when you opened them, Kenny was doing the same. His lashes rested against his cheeks, his expression calm, content in a way you didn’t see often. You both stayed silent, sipping slowly, letting the warmth undo the cold in your bones.

Around you, couples wandered in and out, snow still clinging to their coats and boots. Laughter echoed off the tiled floor, and the smell of gingerbread lattes drifted past every time the door opened. You glanced toward Mrs. Tweek again and caught her watching your table with the quiet intensity of someone judging the arrangement of furniture in a room. You turned quickly back to your drink.

Kenny noticed too. He leaned in slightly, raising his brows. “You feel that?”

“She’s watching us,” you whispered.

“Like she thinks we’re gonna rob the place.”

“Or like she’s trying to decide if we’re dating.”

He snorted, finishing the last of his drink in one long sip. “Let’s get out of here before she starts asking questions.”

You nodded in agreement, downing the rest of your cocoa and rising to your feet, stuffing your hands back into the sleeves of Kenny’s oversized parka. He slung your damp jacket over his shoulder again and nodded toward the door. The bell jingled as you stepped back into the cold, and the wind hit you like a slap—sharp, immediate, but somehow less awful now that you’d warmed up.

You instinctively stepped closer to him, huddling a little beneath his parka. “So, what now?” you asked, your voice half-lost in the wind.

Kenny shrugged, looking up toward the rooftops. The sky had darkened to a soft blue-gray, evening approaching fast, the lights on Main Street starting to flicker to life. “Wanna just walk?”

You nodded, already stepping in time beside him. “Yeah. Let’s walk.”

The town had changed while you were inside. The streets were still quiet, but every storefront glowed now. Strings of gold and red lights hanging from awnings, snow-dusted wreaths in windows, cutout reindeer and fake presents stacked in displays. The lampposts were wrapped in evergreen garland, little bows tied around them like the whole town had been dressed up without you noticing.

You and Kenny moved slowly, your steps crunching in rhythm, no real destination in mind. The decorations gave the town a softness, a gentler kind of energy that didn’t feel like South Park most of the time. It made everything feel smaller, like it was just you two in the middle of it.

Kenny tilted his head toward the lights. “When I was a kid, I used to think the lights were magic,” he said. “Like… literal magic. Like the town lit up because Christmas was coming, not because people plugged stuff in.”

You smiled at that. “That’s kind of sweet.”

He scoffed. “It was before I knew what an electric bill was.”

You laughed, nudging him gently with your elbow again. “What’s your best Christmas memory?”

Kenny was quiet for a moment, his breath fogging the air between you. “One year, Karen made me this snow globe out of an old jar. Had a little stick figure guy glued to the lid with glitter and water. She made it in class. Said it was me, and that the glitter was all the trouble I get into.”

You glanced at him, heart tugging a little. “Do you still have it?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I keep it under my bed.”

You smiled at the image. “She sounds like a good sister.”

“She is,” Kenny said quietly. “She’s probably the only reason I like Christmas at all.”

You let the silence settle again, comfortable and easy. The two of you passed under more lights, the glow washing your faces in red and gold. The cold was biting again, but not unbearable, not with him beside you, not with the warmth still lingering from the cocoa.

Eventually, your wandering brought you near the edge of town, where the pavement gave way to gravel and the Christmas lights thinned out. The old train tracks stretched across the snow, quiet and empty, slicing through the landscape in two straight lines. The trees nearby were still, bare branches like dark fingers reaching up into the twilight sky.

Kenny slowed as he saw the tracks, and you followed, both of you stepping onto the frozen gravel. The crunch beneath your boots was sharper here. You walked between the rails, your steps steady, measured. Kenny balanced on one of the tracks, arms out for show.

“Does a train actually come through here?” you asked.

“Once a year,” Kenny said. “Christmas Eve. Probably some cursed-ass ghost train full of dead elves and tax collectors.”

You laughed, hugging his jacket tighter around yourself. “God, your brain is a disaster.”

He grinned down at you, hopping off the rail to walk beside you again. “Yeah. But you still hang out with me.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, lips curling into a lopsided smirk. “Says more about you than it does about me.”

Kenny didn’t miss a beat. He stuck his tongue out right back, childish and exaggerated. You both snorted with laughter, the sound bright against the empty openness of the outskirts, echoing faintly in the cold stillness. It warmed the air between you more than the hot cocoa had.

You walked in step, boots crunching over the gravel and old rail ties, your pace unhurried. The world was blue with evening now, sky streaked with purple and deepening gray. Streetlights no longer reached this far, but the town’s distant glow shimmered just over the hills, and the snow glowed softly under the low light.

You nudged Kenny with your elbow, catching his eye. “You think Kyle and Stan are stuck at home?”

Kenny shrugged. “Probably. Kyle’s mom probably has him Lysoling every doorknob in the house, and Stan’s probably in the garage, drinking soda with that glassy look he gets when his parents start screaming.”

“God,” you muttered, shaking your head with a smile. “They’re so weird.”

“You’re friends with them.”

“So are you.”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I never claimed to have standards.”

That made you laugh, and the sound earned a little grin from him. He hopped up onto the rail again, balancing easily for a few steps, arms out wide. His boots made a soft metallic scrape as he moved, arms swaying to keep his balance. You watched him, smiling, your pace slowing just a little to match his playful strut along the rail.

“You know Cartman would never come out here,” Kenny said. “Too far from a microwave. Or a camera.”

You both laughed again, and Kenny started humming tunelessly under his breath as he walked, still balanced like a tightrope walker. His breath fogged out ahead of him, and for a long stretch, the silence between you was filled only with the crunch of your boots and the occasional creak of wind through bare trees.

Then it happened fast.

Kenny’s foot slipped. The rail was slick with a thin layer of ice, and one wrong step sent his weight tipping sideways. His arms flailed briefly, a sharp inhale catching in his throat—and you lunged.

Your hand closed around his wrist, fingers tightening with instinct and force. You yanked, hard, and Kenny stumbled forward off the rail and into you, his chest hitting yours, your grip still locked on his arm. His boots skidded in the snow-crusted gravel, but you held him steady.

He didn’t fall. But you felt him freeze.

His body tensed in a way that didn’t match the moment, breath caught, too sharp, too long. You blinked, startled, still holding his hand, your heart beating fast more from adrenaline than anything else.

“You good?” you asked, squeezing his hand gently.

That small squeeze, your thumb brushing against the bone of his wrist, snapped him back like the sound of breaking glass. He blinked hard, once, and let out a breath that trembled at the edges.

“Whoa,” he said, laughing weakly. “So you do care.”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t let go of his hand. “I just didn’t want you to bust your ass and make me carry you back into town.”

“Right, right,” he said, voice steadying, though you could still see the tightness around his mouth. “Definitely not because you’re secretly in love with me or anything.”

You snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late,” he said, flexing his fingers in your grasp. “You’re still holding my hand.”

You looked down at your hands, still laced together, still warm despite the chill. Your fingers didn’t move to let go. Neither did his.

You kept walking like that. Silent for a while. Kenny didn’t joke again right away. His thumb brushed yours once, unintentionally, and you caught the way he glanced over, like he was still figuring out what the hell just happened.

The train tracks curved slightly ahead, cutting through a stretch of trees, and as you passed under them, the wind died. Everything got quiet. Quiet enough to hear your own breath. Quiet enough to hear Kenny’s when he finally spoke again.

“I don’t really do the whole holiday thing,” he said, his voice low, softer than before. “Not like other people. We don’t put up lights. We don’t bake shit or drink cocoa and tell stories. Half the time, I just try to get through it because of Karen.”

You slowed, listening.

“But this year… this is the first one that doesn’t feel like I’m waiting for it to be over.”

You stopped walking. He stopped too.

You turned to face him, his parka still swallowing your frame, your fingers still laced between his. Snow had started collecting again in his hair, delicate flakes sticking to the tangled strands of his blond hair, and his cheeks were bright with cold, pink at the apples, red at the tip of his nose. But it was his eyes that held you in place—sharp, focused, impossibly clear. He was never this still. Kenny always moved like he was on a timer, like the world would disappear if he slowed down. But now? Now, he wasn’t looking away. He wasn’t laughing. He was there, looking at you like you were the only fixed point left in the town.

Kenny’s voice was quieter when he spoke again, but no less steady. “I’ve been trying to figure out why this doesn’t feel as shitty as every other year. It’s not like my family’s doing anything different. Nothing changed. But you’re here, and we’re walking around in the freezing cold like idiots, and I don’t want it to end.” His hand squeezed yours gently, as if he was reminding you it was there. “Usually I’m just counting down until it’s over. Waiting to get through it. But this?” He laughed under his breath, a low exhale that fogged the air between you. “This feels like it matters.”

Your heart beat so hard you were surprised he couldn’t hear it. It thrummed under your skin, in your throat, in your fingertips. Your face was flushed from more than the cold, heat crawling up your neck in a slow, burning tide. The words caught in your mouth for a moment, too soft to rise, and you had to swallow to clear your voice before you spoke.

“You make the holidays better too,” you said, your voice fragile and quiet and so completely true. “I didn’t realize how awful they felt until you weren’t just a background character in them. You make them feel…” You struggled for the right word, your gaze flicking briefly to your joined hands, the contrast of his rough knuckles and your softer fingers. “Alive. Like I’m not just going through the motions.”

He inhaled softly, his brows twitching just slightly like your words had hit him somewhere deep. You could see it in his face, that quiet shift. He wasn’t used to being seen like this. It sat strange on him, but he didn’t turn away.

“I think you’re the reason this year doesn’t feel fake,” you added, voice gaining a little strength, cheeks still burning. “You make the cold feel okay. You make me—”

You didn’t get to finish.

Kenny tugged your hand forward, not hard, just enough to pull you a step closer. Before you could react, before you could even register what was happening, his other hand cupped your jaw, rough thumb brushing against your cheekbone with surprising care. He leaned in fast but not careless, eyes locked on yours until the very last second, until his lashes lowered and his lips pressed to yours.

The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined it might be. Not a quick peck, not a joke, not a sloppy first kiss borne of teenage impulse. It was slow, purposeful, drawn from something quiet and full in his chest. His lips were cold at first, chapped from the wind, but he kissed you like he wanted to memorize every line, every texture, every sigh that caught in the back of your throat. The press of his mouth against yours deepened gently, his fingers tilting your face just so, guiding you without force. His hand tightened around yours, grounding both of you in the moment.

His breath mingled with yours in the narrow space between pauses, and when he tilted his head just slightly, fitting his mouth more snugly to yours, it sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the weather. He tasted faintly of cocoa, a hint of cinnamon still lingering on his tongue, and there was a quiet desperation behind the kiss. Not rushed, but full of want. Like he was afraid if he stopped, it would never happen again. Like this was his one chance.

You kissed him back without hesitation, your free hand rising to brush against the side of his neck, your thumb sliding just over the collar of his shirt. His skin there was warm despite the cold, and he leaned into your touch instinctively. The snow fell around you silently, untouched by wind, the world standing still as his lips moved against yours like the moment had been waiting for this all along.

When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. His nose brushed yours, breath shaky, eyes still half-lidded as he searched your face.

“I’ve wanted to do that forever,” he whispered, voice raw around the edges. “Didn’t think I’d get to.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You just stood there in his coat, in his arms, holding his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Why not?” you asked, barely louder than a breath.

Kenny’s lips curved into something small, something a little sad and a little amazed all at once. “Didn’t think I’d get to have nice things.”

You stared at him, heart aching in the best and worst way. You squeezed his hand again, just to remind him it was real. “You do now.”

The wind outside clawed at the windows like it wanted inside. Thick sheets of snow pummeled the glass, each gust shrieking through the cracks in the aging school walls. It was past four, but the sky had already gone a dusky gray, clouds swollen with more snow still to come. Somewhere down the hallway, faint music from the holiday talent show rehearsal echoed in fits; an out-of-tune saxophone bleating through “Jingle Bells” before cutting off abruptly. The rest of the building felt abandoned. Everyone else had gone home hours ago, riding the last school buses out before the snowstorm turned into a full-on whiteout. You, unfortunately, had been volunteered for "decoration duty" as penance for skipping gym one too many times, and Cartman had earned his spot after gluing Clyde’s locker shut with peppermint taffy.

Now you were both in the auditorium, standing amid half-finished winter displays and strings of tangled fairy lights. The air smelled like hot glue and pine-scented disinfectant. A step ladder wobbled near the stage curtain, and you were on your toes trying to pin up a cardboard cutout of a snowman that kept sliding down the curtain rod. Cartman was supposed to be holding the base steady, but his attention was completely absorbed in peeling the foil off a candy cane, mouthing each strip like it had personally offended him.

“You’re not even trying,” you snapped, looking down at him.

Cartman didn’t look up. “You’re not even doing it right, dumbass.”

“The tape isn’t sticking ‘cause you’re shaking the ladder—”

“I’m shaking the ladder because you weigh more than the goddamn snowman,” he drawled, grinning at his own joke like it was the cleverest insult in history.

You climbed down, snatching the snowman from the curtain and tossing it to the floor. “Maybe if you stopped eating every five seconds and actually helped—”

The lights above buzzed, flickered twice, and went black. Total darkness swallowed the stage. Somewhere in the building, a breaker tripped with a distant clunk, followed by the hollow hum of silence falling hard.

You stood still, waiting for the emergency lights, but none came. The room smelled like burnt wires and peppermint. Your breath came out in a soft cloud.

“Oh, fuck this,” Cartman barked into the dark. “This whole school’s run by retards. Who the hell builds a gym without a generator?! I swear to God—this is actual oppression.”

You moved to pull out your phone for light, fingers numb with cold already. “Jesus, can you shut up for two minutes? It’s just a blackout.”

“It’s not just a blackout,” he snapped back. “It’s a fucking death trap! I’m not dying in a school full of gay snowmen and half a string of lights!”

“God, you’re so dramatic,” you groaned. “It’s snow. It’s just snow. We wait it out. Try using one brain cell.”

Cartman’s voice rose to a shout. “You think you're so fucking smart, don’t you? Just because you read one book without pictures?”

“At least I read anything, you mouth-breathing Neanderthal—”

“Yeah? Well at least I don’t spend all day pretending like I’m better than everyone when all I really want is for someone to fucking notice me!”

His voice cracked. The words hit the air like a slap. You stopped mid-breath.

In the heavy dark, you could hear your own heartbeat punching against your ribs. Cartman’s silhouette stood a few feet away, shoulders hunched like he wanted to shrink back into himself and vanish. The silence that followed was worse than the yelling. Cold crawled down your spine in thick, wet strands. You couldn’t see his face, but the shape of his posture was like a kicked dog—tense and cornered, but not sure why it let its belly show.

Your mouth was dry, brain still stuttering around the fact that Eric Cartman, undisputed king of spite, shameless insult, and performative apathy had just let the mask slip. He hadn't even meant to, that was the worst part. He'd shouted it like an accidental reflex, like his chest had cracked open on its own.

“I didn’t know you were auditioning for a Hallmark movie,” you said finally, your voice not nearly as sharp as you'd intended. The sarcasm clung to the back of your throat like smoke after a fire.  The words weren’t cruel, and you both knew it. They were lifeboats in a flood of embarrassment.

Cartman didn’t reply. He shifted his weight, muttered something low under his breath that sounded more like a hiss of air than a real word, and turned away from you, moving through the dark like he knew exactly where he was going. His boots scraped across the gym floor, echoing off the metal bleachers like a sound far too alone.

“Where the hell are you going?” you called after him, grabbing your phone to shine the dim light ahead.

He didn’t answer at first. Just kept walking, shoulders pulled tight to his ears like a turtle shrinking into its shell. You followed anyway, partly out of boredom, partly out of instinct. Cartman may have been a walking headache, but he was still Cartman. Leaving him alone in a dark school during a blackout felt like a good way to discover he’d hotwired a fire extinguisher and blown out the chemistry lab.

Eventually, you both turned into the hallway near the vending machines, that weird little stretch of linoleum tile that always smelled like janitor mop water and ancient Dorito dust. The only light came from the machines themselves, dull yellow glows casting dramatic shadows over Cartman’s face. The flicker of the candy machine's ancient LED screen made him look like a cartoon villain giving a monologue.

He didn’t say a word. Just started digging through his coat pocket for change like it was a holy mission. His fingers fumbled with quarters, crammed them into the slot with exaggerated care, and jabbed at the keypad. B6. You watched a Snickers bar drop. Next came D2—Nacho Cheese Doritos, of course, and another aggressive smash of the button.

You leaned against the wall, arms crossed, the back of your head resting on the cool cinderblock. “Real survival instincts. Hoard snacks before the storm takes us all.”

Cartman didn’t look at you. Just scoffed quietly, maybe at himself. Maybe at you. Maybe at nothing. His hand jammed into the slot, and out came the two bags.

One hit you in the chest before you even realized he’d turned around. It was your favorite brand. Sour Cream & Onion. You blinked down at it.

“I, uh... I pressed the wrong button. So, like... shut up,” he muttered.

You stared. That was definitely not the wrong button.

He finally looked at you, just for a second, eyes darting up with the shifty hesitation of someone who’d been caught doing something uncharacteristically decent. There was color in his cheeks, faint but there. Not the warm red of cold weather, but the uncomfortable flush of vulnerability. You could practically see the defense mechanisms screaming in his skull: call them a bitch, throw the chips, make a fat joke, do something.

But instead, his voice dropped into a quieter register. Still laced with bravado. But the edges were softened now, dulled by the lingering echo of what he’d said earlier.

“Whatever, okay? I didn’t mean to freak out. Just—ugh.” He waved a hand in a vague circle, like swatting a thought away. “Forget it. Merry fucking Christmas, or whatever.”

You started laughing before you could stop yourself. Not a mean laugh, more of a surprised, short breath through your nose that curled into a smile. You peeled open the chip bag, the sound crackling through the quiet hallway like a spark in dry air.

“That was the worst apology I’ve ever heard,” you said, grinning.

Cartman shrugged. “Yeah, well, you’re the worst at existing, but I don’t say that out loud every time, do I?”

“Literally just did.”

He snorted, plopped down on the floor beneath the vending machine’s glow, and tore open his Doritos with the grace of a raccoon in a dumpster. You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder in the half-light, backs against the wall as the wind moaned outside. The silence was more comfortable this time. It didn’t feel so loaded. It just was, like a snow globe between shakes, flakes drifting quietly.

You ate a few chips, wiping salt from your fingertips onto your jeans. The warmth of the moment lingered, tentative, like it was afraid to be acknowledged. You didn’t want it to end, but it couldn’t last without being named.

So you looked at him. Really looked. His cheeks were puffed slightly with a mouthful of fake cheese dust, his eyes focused on nothing in particular, legs splayed out like he owned the floor. He looked... normal. Human. A teenage boy in a shitty storm, trying to make things a little less cold.

“What do you want from the holidays?” you asked, your voice soft, not teasing.

Cartman paused mid-chew. His eyes flicked to yours for half a second, suspicious. Like he wasn’t sure if this was a trap.

You didn’t press. Just waited.

He swallowed, slower than necessary. His fingers twisted the half-empty chip bag around in his lap, the crinkle almost masking his answer.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “Not get ignored, I guess.”

The words were flat, not self-pitying. Honest in a way that made your chest tighten. He shifted beside you, as if the weight of the answer had landed somewhere in his bones.

“I mean, Mom tries. Buys a bunch of crap I ask for. But it’s not the same when it’s just the two of us. She lets the cats lick frosting off the cookies and tells me it’s festive. That’s her big plan for cheer. Watching movies with Butters sometimes doesn’t count either. He cries during Elf and makes it weird.”

He didn’t laugh at his own joke. He just stared at the wall across from him, empty of posters, lined only with cracks in the paint.

“I just wanna be in a room where people don’t forget I’m in it,” he mumbled, almost too quietly to hear. “Even if they’re yelling.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Your chest ached, not with pity. Cartman would hate that. but with recognition. The kind that sticks in your ribs and spreads out like bruises under skin.

You reached over, nudged his shoulder gently with yours. He didn’t flinch away. Didn’t snarl or elbow you back. He just sat there and let the contact happen, like it was allowed now. 

The chip bag in your lap crinkled as you folded it shut, fingertips dusted with salt and onion. You looked down at your hands for a second, chewing on your thoughts. The moment had stretched on long enough that the silence wasn’t awkward anymore/

You drew in a breath, letting the words slip out low. “I think I just want it to feel like it matters. The holidays, I mean. Like they’re not just... days with lights slapped on them. Like something’s actually different. Like someone gives a shit.”

Cartman didn’t respond right away. He just glanced at you, a quick dart of his eyes like he was checking to make sure you weren’t mocking him. His mouth twisted into a slow smirk, and for a split second you thought he might actually say something nice.

“Dude,” he said, snorting, “that’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hold back the laugh that slipped past your lips. It broke the weight in the air like a pebble tossed in water, sending easy ripples through your chest. “You’re such a dick.”

“Whatever.”

Outside, the wind kicked up again, harder this time. The windows vibrated in their frames, the gusts shrieking like nails dragged across sheet metal. The snow wasn’t falling anymore; it was slamming, horizontal flurries battering the school like a siege. The soft hum of the vending machine lights seemed smaller, more fragile in the face of it.

You noticed the way Cartman’s gaze lingered on the window. His jaw clenched. He pulled his knees up, arms wrapped loosely around them, trying hard not to look like he was doing it for warmth or comfort. He didn’t say anything, but you could see it in his face—the flicker of fear. Not panic. The kind that creeps in when you realize you’re more trapped than you thought.

You pushed yourself to your feet, brushing chip dust off your jeans. “So… what do we do now?”

Cartman looked up at you like you’d asked where babies came from. “Uh, we don’t die in a fucking snow drift, genius.”

You crossed your arms. “I meant here. In the school.”

He made a big show of sighing, getting to his feet with a theatrical grunt like your very existence was a burden. “We’re not going outside, dumbass. Not unless you wanna freeze your tits off in the parking lot. So we get comfortable. That’s what we do.”

You rolled your eyes again, but there was a weird sort of comfort in his tone; snide, familiar, weirdly grounding. The Cartman version of a hug.

The two of you made your way back through the dark hallway, lit only by your phone screens and the red emergency exit signs casting eerie glows on the tiled floors. Your footsteps echoed too loud in the silence of the shut-down building. Somewhere in the distance, the old heating pipes groaned and clanged like a monster rolling over in its sleep.

Back in the theater, the decorations you’d been fighting with earlier looked oddly frozen in place, like a scene from a play caught mid-act. Your bags were still by the stage steps, right where you’d left them. You scooped yours up and slung it over your shoulder, watching Cartman rifle through his own, checking for snacks or maybe a battery pack. The holiday banners you’d half-hung fluttered slightly in the cold air, catching on the updrafts sneaking through the auditorium’s cracked insulation.

He gave you a look. “Library’s got those loser chairs with the cushions and beanbags. Better than sitting on a gym floor till we die.”

You followed him without question.

The walk wasn’t long, but in the dark, every turn felt unfamiliar. The halls were different without the din of students, without the flicker of classroom lights or the hum of projectors. Just your footsteps, your breath, and Cartman muttering about how if he died here, he’d haunt the vending machines and possess the school mascot.

The library doors creaked as Cartman shoved them open with his shoulder. Inside, the space was still, quiet in a way that felt reverent. The storm had stolen all the usual school noise, leaving behind a strange, peaceful vacuum. Shelves loomed like sentries, and the reading area at the back was scattered with overstuffed armchairs, a ratty couch, and two beanbags sagging with age.

Cartman made a beeline for the couch, flopping onto it with the kind of exaggerated groan that suggested he thought he’d earned it. You eyed the beanbags, decided one looked less gross than the other, and dragged it over.

He pulled out a blanket from his bag, one of those stupid holiday-themed fleece ones with cartoon reindeer and candy canes. He didn’t say anything when he unfolded it. Just threw it over both your legs like it was the most normal thing in the world. You didn’t argue.

Outside, the wind screamed against the walls like it wanted in. Inside, the library stayed still, two warm bodies nestled under a reindeer blanket like some weird truce had been called.

Cartman stretched out, arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it held answers.

“So,” he said, voice low, “you still want your Hallmark Christmas or whatever?”

You let out a laugh, and shoved his shoulder with the side of your arm. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Cartman didn’t even pretend to be innocent. He turned toward you with a shit-eating grin, smug as ever in the glow of dim emergency lighting and vending machine afterglow still clinging to the corners of the library. “It means I’ve seen you watching those corny-ass movies during study hall. Don’t even try to deny it. Every time I walk by, there’s some blonde chick in a scarf and some rugged guy in a flannel baking cookies or shoveling snow while staring into each other’s eyes like they’re about to nut just from looking at each other.”

Your stomach dropped as the words hit and the warmth in your cheeks arrived before you could stop it. You tried to hide it, glancing away like that would erase the faint heat prickling across your skin.

“I don’t watch them that often,” you muttered, but your voice lacked conviction. You both knew the truth. Those movies were safe. Stupid. Predictable. Everything your life generally wasn’t.

Cartman cackled like he’d won a battle in a war you didn’t even know he’d started. “Oh my god. You do. You actually like that cheesy crap. Do you get all emotional when the small-town baker finally tells the big-city lawyer chick he loves her?”

You shook your head with a groan, grabbing for your bag and unzipping it in one irritated motion that was definitely more theatrical than necessary. “Shut up.”

He didn’t.

You yanked out your laptop, flipped it open, and let the screen's glow light both of your faces in the dark. Your fingers moved over the keys with practiced ease, pulling up the folder you kept hidden two levels deep inside a generic Documents tab labeled “Homework.” Inside it were five Christmas movies, all downloaded illegally, all watched at least twice. You pulled up your favorite without saying its name. The music started soft and saccharine, swelling violins behind snow-frosted title cards.

The opening shot was of a snowy street in Vermont, or maybe Michigan, or one of those fictional towns that only exist in made-for-TV holiday universes. Bright lights, small businesses, people smiling in puffer jackets with zero concern for how bitter real winter actually was.

Cartman stared at the screen, disgust painted thick across his face like it offended him on a spiritual level. “This is what you wanted? Jesus Christ. This is weaponized white people joy.”

You didn’t look at him, just leaned back into the beanbag and cracked open the small bag of vending machine trail mix you’d saved. “If you hate it so much, you can leave.”

“Hell no,” he said immediately, scooting lower on the couch and tossing the blanket back over his legs. “I’m not getting my balls frozen off just because you’re emotionally constipated.”

“You talk like you even have balls.”

He threw a wadded up Mars Bar wrapper at your face.

The movie played on, soft glow flickering across both your faces, casting weird shadows over the bookshelves and aging posters stuck to the library’s back wall. Every time the male lead so much as smiled wistfully into a cup of hot chocolate, Cartman made a noise like he was choking on his own dignity.

“Oh yeah. That’s realistic. Just what every bakery owner dreams about. Falling for some high-heel-wearing asshole from Chicago.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving your hand into the trail mix bag and throwing a peanut at his chest. “You’re ruining the atmosphere.”

He picked up the peanut like it was a bullet and held it between two fingers. “This is what love looks like? White people with emotional issues bonding over gingerbread?”

You aimed the next throw at his forehead. “Go to sleep.”

“Can’t. Too emotionally overwhelmed by this profound tale of festive redemption.”

Despite the back-and-forth, neither of you moved to stop the movie. The glow from your screen lit the area in a soft golden hue, warm despite the cold storm just outside the walls. The wind still howled, the occasional blast rattling against the windows like the storm itself was pacing outside, waiting for a crack to slip through.

Halfway through the film, the couple onscreen was dancing under string lights, fake snow drifting around them like soap bubbles on a set that probably cost five bucks. The male lead dipped the girl dramatically and whispered something heartfelt that made Cartman snort audibly through his nose.

“Kill me,” he muttered.

You shot him a look. “You’re not even watching.”

“I’m watching in horror.”

“You’re just mad because no one would ever slow dance with your ass.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just shrugged, eyes still on the screen, voice quiet this time. “Don’t need that shit.”

You tilted your head but didn’t press. Instead, you adjusted the laptop slightly to prop it on the beanbag’s edge so you could lie back. The cushion conformed under your shoulders, swallowing you in its soft, cheap foam. The blanket was warm now, body heat sealed in beneath the cartoon reindeer. You could hear Cartman shifting beside you, the sound of his breath slowing a little with every passing minute.

When the final act of the movie began, predictable as always, involving a snowstorm, a canceled train, and a dramatic confession at the town’s tree lighting ceremony—you glanced over at him. His arms were crossed over his chest, head slumped slightly against the back of the couch, mouth parted just enough to prove he was no longer pretending to be annoyed. His eyes were closed, lashes soft against his cheeks. The usual scowl that lived in the lines of his face was gone, smoothed out by sleep or at least something close to it.

You smiled without realizing it. Not because the movie was sweet, or because the heroine had just forgiven the guy for lying about his job, but because for once, things felt... not awful. Trapped in a snow-locked school, wrapped in a fleece blanket with a sarcastic asshole breathing evenly beside you while a cheesy movie played in the background. It shouldn’t have felt safe, but somehow, it did.

Your own eyelids grew heavy, the warmth of the moment mixing with exhaustion and the hypnotic drone of the movie’s ending montage. The couple kissed under a snowfall, the camera pulled back, music swelled. You heard Cartman shift again, maybe mumble something incoherent under his breath, maybe just sigh. You couldn’t tell anymore.

The screen dimmed as the credits rolled. You didn’t make it to the end. Somewhere between the first name and the third production assistant, your body gave out, the beanbag lulling you into stillness. Your head tilted, barely brushing against Cartman’s side where the couch dipped into the cushion. The last thing you remembered was the sound of the storm howling, muted by the walls and softened by the warmth that hummed between you.

When you opened your eyes, the library was soaked in pale blue light. Dawn had crept in slow and soft, filtered through the frost-caked windows like the sky was still unsure if it was allowed to be morning yet. The laptop had gone black on your lap, long since dead, and your limbs felt warm and heavy under the blanket. The storm’s howling had quieted, replaced by the steady rumble of machinery and the rhythmic scrape of steel against ice.

A snowplow.

You blinked the sleep out of your eyes, stretching until your back popped, arms lifting high above your head, fingers flexing toward the ceiling. Cartman wasn’t on the couch anymore. You turned, groggy, and spotted him at one of the tall windows lining the back wall. He was standing still, wrapped in the fleece blanket now slung over his shoulders like some cartoon general surveying a battlefield, his messy hair sticking up in every direction, lit faintly gold by the morning sun breaking weakly over the snowdrifts outside.

You yawned, voice cracking from sleep. “You’re up early. Trying to scare off the snowplow with your face?”

Cartman didn’t look away from the window. “Funny. No, I was just figuring out how I’m gonna spin this whole thing so everyone at school doesn’t assume we had a candlelit fuckfest in the library.”

You groaned, dragging your feet over the carpet as you walked toward him, blanket still draped around your shoulders like a cloak. “Nobody cares, Cartman. Everyone was too busy figuring out if their Wi-Fi still worked to wonder what we were doing.”

He turned to look at you then, and for a second the insult you expected didn’t come. There was something about the way he looked in the pale light—hoodie rumpled, eyes still heavy with leftover sleep, that made your breath catch a little in your throat. His smirk was slower this time, less sharp.

“You say that,” he said, “but if word gets out that you and I were cuddling during a blackout, I might actually die from the gay rumors alone.”

You snorted, stepping up beside him, your shoulder brushing his as you leaned in to get a look at the parking lot below. The plow was almost buried in snow up to the windows, tires spinning a little before it pushed forward again, carving a path through what looked like three feet of icy buildup. Everything beyond that was white, blinding and quiet. Trees bowed under the weight. Light bounced off the rooftops, throwing reflections like a cracked mirror.

You didn’t look at him when you answered, voice quiet. “Let them think what they want.”

He went still next to you. Not dramatically. Just a pause in his breathing, a brief stillness in the usual twitchy Cartman rhythm. You turned toward him slowly, heart beating somewhere behind your teeth now, louder than before. He was close. Closer than you'd expected. That lingering smell of chips and peppermint from the vending machine clung to his hoodie, his breath faintly visible in the cold air between you.

The silence stretched like thread pulled taut. Neither of you moved at first.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth. His lips were dry and chapped, the corner still caught in the echo of a smirk, but his expression was unreadable. He blinked once, and it was the only cue you needed.

You leaned in.

Your hand slid up to the edge of his hoodie, fingers barely grazing the cotton. Your nose bumped his, awkward at first, but neither of you flinched. The kiss was soft, tentative, like you both expected it to break the moment it started. His lips were warm against yours, slow to respond at first, like he was surprised you were really doing it. But then you felt the shift—his breath stuttered, and his mouth moved back against yours.

There was heat behind it, surprising and electric. His hand brushed against your side, hesitant, fingers curling slightly before he pulled back just enough to press in again, deeper this time. His lips opened against yours, and your heart kicked up like it wanted out of your chest. The kiss was messy, unpracticed, the kind you only get from two stubborn people who had spent too much time pretending they didn’t care. You tasted faint salt and warmth and winter breath.

Cartman broke away first, breathing harder than before. His eyes were wide for a second, stunned, but that familiar mask slammed back into place almost instantly.

“Oh my God,” he gagged dramatically, dragging the back of his sleeve over his mouth. “That was disgusting. You kissed me. That means you’re gay. Holy shit.”

You shoved him, hard enough that he stumbled back into the edge of the nearest bookshelf. “Are you serious right now?”

He cackled, holding his side like you’d stabbed him. “I’m gonna need a priest. I’ve been violated. My lips are tainted. I’ll never recover.”

“You literally kissed back,” you shot back, face burning.

“That was CPR,” he said between wheezes. “I thought you were dying.”

You wanted to throw something at him. Maybe your shoe. Maybe your entire soul. Instead, you rolled your eyes and walked back toward the couch, grabbing your dead laptop and slinging your bag over your shoulder.

Behind you, Cartman was still muttering fake curses, but his voice was lighter than usual, almost... content. You didn’t need to see his face to know he was smiling.

The side of South Park High always stank like chemicals and old fryer grease. Rust clung to the corners of the vents like barnacles, and the dumpsters were rimmed with frozen slush so black it looked like oil. You stepped carefully through the alley between the gym and the cafeteria wing, drawn by the unmistakable voice of Eric Cartman echoing behind the trash bins.

He was crouched low to the ground, hunched over his ragged old Jansport, muttering under his breath like a lunatic. His beanie sat askew on his head, cheeks flushed from cold or frustration—it was hard to tell with him. His thick gloves had been pulled halfway off, dangling from his wrists as he worked with nervous precision on a soda bottle full of dark liquid. Tangled wires jutted from the cap, wrapped around a kitchen timer that ticked loudly in the still air. The expression on his face was the same one he used when trying to argue his way out of detention: intense, single-minded, a twisted kind of delight curled in the corner of his mouth.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just stared, letting the weight of his idiocy hit you like cold wind. The longer you watched, the more ridiculous it became. He was so damn sure of himself, so proud, like he was crafting a masterpiece instead of another half-baked plan to terrify the most harmless kid in school.

Eventually, you spoke up, your voice sharp enough to cut through his self-satisfied focus. “Eric. What the hell is that?”

He didn’t jump. He barely looked up, only glancing at you from the corner of his eye. His fingers didn’t stop moving. “It’s called revenge. I’m innovating.”

Your footsteps echoed against the brick wall as you came closer, boots scuffing against frost-bitten concrete. “Is it going to explode in Butters’ face or just set him on fire?”

“It’s just gonna pop, scare the piss outta him. Maybe singe the hem of his ugly-ass jeans. Relax. It’s not even a real firebomb this time.”

He said it like that made it better. Like the absence of actual combustion meant the prank was somehow humane. You dropped into a squat beside him, ignoring the bite of cold in your knees, and stared at the mess of parts sprawled in front of him. There were two more plastic bottles in the bag, both sealed with duct tape and leaking slightly. One had something pink floating in it that made your stomach turn.

“You know this is going to get you expelled. Or arrested. Or just punched in the face again by Wendy.”

Cartman rolled his eyes and tugged the kitchen timer free so he could fiddle with the dial. “She only got me ‘cause I wasn’t ready. And this isn’t illegal, it’s science. It’s an experiment.”

“Sure. An experiment in getting your shit rocked.”

His lips tightened, but he didn’t respond to the jab. He was too focused, too invested in the setup to be rattled. His brows were drawn together with grim determination, and there was a kind of desperate energy buzzing off him, like this prank wasn’t just payback, it was necessary. You knew that look. The righteous anger masking something smaller, more fragile, deeper than he’d ever admit.

You leaned closer and lowered your voice. “Why are you doing this, really?”

Cartman finally stopped moving. He stared at the bottle in his hands, jaw twitching. “Because Butters keeps ratting me out. To Garrison. To Principal Victoria. He left a note on my locker last week saying I was a ‘bad influence.’ A fucking note, dude. Like I’m not already on my last strike.”

“So your answer is to blow him up.”

“I’m not blowing him up,” he snapped, louder now. “It’s a scare. It’s to send a message.”

The frustration in his voice barely covered the hurt. You could hear it under the surface, thin and shaking like glass. You sighed and sat back, rubbing your hands together for warmth. “You really think that’s the way to fix this? Pushing people further away?”

Cartman stood up abruptly and slung the backpack over his shoulder. “I don’t give a shit who gets pushed away.”

“That’s not true.” You stood, facing him. “You care. You always care. That’s why you lash out. That’s why you do this crazy shit, because you’re scared of being left behind.”

His face twitched again, but he looked away. The silence that followed wasn’t denial. It was avoidance. That told you everything you needed to know.

Your breath fogged between you. The weight of years of friendship hung in the space, thick and uncomfortable. You took a step toward him and placed your hand on his arm. “Let it go. Just this once. Don’t do this.”

He yanked his arm free like your touch burned. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“I’m not telling you. I’m asking you. Because you’re my friend. And I don’t want to watch you burn everything down again.”

He opened his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to insult, but the sound of a door opening across the lot interrupted him. Both of you turned.

Butters emerged from the back entrance of the gym, his blond hair sticking out from under his blue beanie, a plastic bag clutched in one mittened hand. He was humming to himself, eyes squinting at the sun, completely unaware of the tension sitting like a storm behind the dumpster. His posture was loose, casual, the bounce in his step childlike. It made Cartman bristle instantly.

His fingers tightened around the backpack strap, eyes zeroing in like a predator spotting prey. You moved to intercept, but he was already moving, slipping the smaller of the two bottles out from under his coat with swift, practiced motion. His expression was blank, cold, all traces of the previous conversation gone.

You reacted without thinking, rushing forward to block his line of sight. “Eric, don’t.”

He didn’t listen.

The bottle was already lit. A small, sputtering hiss escaped from the cap, signaling the fuse had caught. Panic surged in your chest, sharp and overwhelming. You lunged in front of him just as he raised his arm to throw.

The explosion was minor, more noise than power, but it hit you full force. The heat was sudden, shocking, like a slap across the skin. Shattered plastic and smoke filled the air. Your vision blurred. You stumbled backward and hit the ground hard, tailbone striking the frozen pavement, your palms tearing open on rough concrete.

Pain bloomed across your shoulder, hot and bright. One shard had sliced your jacket, cutting into your skin. You didn’t scream, but your breath came in gasps, fast and ragged. You tasted blood in your mouth from the force of the landing. Your eyes watered from the smoke. Your whole body trembled.

Cartman froze.

He stood over you with his mouth open, expression slack with disbelief. The bottle clattered to the pavement beside him, forgotten.

For the first time, his voice didn’t sound cruel or smug or defensive. It was small. “Shit. Are you—are you okay?”

You couldn’t answer. You curled in on yourself, face pressed into your sleeve, sobs beginning to rise without warning. Your arm throbbed, your skin stung, but the worst part was how stupid you felt. How expected this was. How you’d known he would go too far and tried to stop him, and it still wasn’t enough.

Cartman dropped to one knee beside you. His gloves fumbled, unsure of where to touch, how to help. “Come on. Get up. We have to go. You can’t stay out here. You’re hurt.”

Your tears came harder. He cursed under his breath, his voice cracking. “Jesus Christ, don’t cry. Fuck. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I swear, I didn’t think you’d—I thought you were behind me.”

You still couldn’t look at him.

His arms slid around you, awkward but steady, lifting you up from the cold. You leaned into him because you had no other choice. His breath came fast and uneven as he started dragging you across the lot, muttering to himself the entire way.

“This is bad. This is really bad. No one saw. No one saw. It’s fine. You’re fine. Just hold on.”

His grip was tight. His steps were frantic. He wouldn’t stop repeating your name. He held you like a lifeline, arms tense, not because he was trying to be strong, but because he didn’t know how not to panic. Your silence only made it worse. No cursing him out. No sarcastic jabs. Not even a groan of pain. Just your head pressed against his chest, limp, trembling, barely walking under your own weight. His hoodie smelled like cheap detergent and Axe body spray, and you could hear his heart hammering like it was trying to claw out of his ribcage. Every few seconds he looked down at you, his jaw clenched so tight it ticked. His breath came out in quick, panicked bursts that fogged the cold air as he hauled you toward his block.

“You’re fine. You’re fine, you dumbass,” he muttered, almost spitting the words through clenched teeth. “I told you to stay back. I told you. Why the fuck would you jump in front of it? Why would you do that for him?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Every inch of your body felt wrong, every breath shallow and shaky. His arms were solid around you, but it didn’t stop the sting in your shoulder or the heaviness pressing down on your chest. The silence stretched between you, unbearable, suffocating, and Cartman kept filling it with noise because he couldn’t stand it.

“God, you’re so fucking dramatic,” he snapped, voice cracking halfway through. “All this over a stupid bottle. You got hit with, what, like one piece? Two max. It didn’t even hit your face. Why are you crying like you just got stabbed? Seriously, you’re always pulling this martyr crap. Like, oh no, I have to save Butters. Oh no, I’m gonna throw myself into the fire. You’re not some anime protagonist, okay?”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His jaw was set hard, like if he admitted he was scared out loud, he’d shatter. You heard him snort, sharp and bitter.

“Always has to be about you, huh? Always gotta be the one to fix things. Make me feel bad. Like you’re better than me just ‘cause you’ve got a conscience and I don’t. Guess what? You’re not. You’re just a bleeding heart with no survival instincts.”

Still no answer. Still that awful, hollow quiet from you. And it twisted inside him like broken glass.

“I wasn’t even aiming at him,” he mumbled, less sharp now, more tired. “I was gonna miss on purpose. Just spook him. I didn’t want you to get hurt, okay? I swear to God, I didn’t think you were gonna jump in like a fucking idiot.”

The wind had picked up. Your lips were pale, your arms still trembling against your sides as he finally turned the corner to his house. His yard looked the same as always: scruffy, neglected, a half-buried scooter frozen in the grass. The porch steps creaked as he stomped up them, kicking the door open with more force than necessary. His mother’s voice called from the kitchen, sweet and oblivious.

“Snookums? Is that you? Do you want a snack or—oh, who’s that with you?”

He didn’t even answer. His grip only tightened as he carried you past her voice, down the hallway, and up the stairs two at a time. He kicked his bedroom door open, the hinges groaning in protest, and brought you inside like you were made of glass about to crack apart.

He sat you down on his bed, as gently as he could manage. The mattress creaked under your weight, the familiar scent of his room wrapping around you like smoke. Old chips. Faint BO. The plasticky smell of energy drink cans lining his desk. The bedspread was wrinkled and mismatched, and the posters on the walls were crooked—war movies, anime girls, some band he only pretended to like because Stan hated them.

Cartman hovered for half a second, then bolted across the room toward his closet. He yanked a shoebox down from the top shelf and dumped it onto the floor. Bandaids, gauze, half-used Neosporin tubes, a dusty inhaler, some old Tylenol. It looked more like a first-aid museum than a medkit.

“Fuck, where’s the alcohol wipes. I had alcohol wipes. I know I had them. They were in here like last month.”

He muttered to himself while tearing through the mess, not looking at you because looking would make it too real. If he looked and you were still crying, still hurt, still too quiet, he wouldn’t know what the hell to do.

You sat there, hands limp in your lap, eyes unfocused, staring down at the blood-streaked tear in your jacket sleeve. The pain was there, yes, but it was nothing compared to the look you’d seen on his face when he pulled the bottle. That stupid, careless recklessness that always ended in people getting hurt. You. It was always you.

He finally found the wipes and dropped to his knees in front of you, tossing wrappers aside as he peeled one open. His hands hovered again. He was hesitating. Eric Cartman, king of impulse, actually hesitating. His eyes flicked up to yours, then quickly down again.

“This is gonna sting,” he mumbled, and you didn’t say anything, so he pressed the wipe to your arm and watched the blood smear.

You flinched. He stopped immediately.

“Shit. Sorry. Sorry, I’m—I’m not good at this.”

His voice cracked again, and when he spoke next, it came out quieter. “You shouldn’t’ve done that.”

Your head turned slowly, your eyes meeting his. He looked wrecked. His cheeks were red, hair a mess, lips parted like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how to start. His hands were still hovering near your arm, unsure if they were allowed.

“You always do this,” he said. His voice was shaking now, the edges raw. “You jump in like you think you’re invincible. Like it’s your job to pull me back every time I go too far. Like you’re the only one who can fix me.”

The room was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the old computer in the corner.

“You think I don’t notice how much you look at me when you think I’m not watching? Or how you always show up before I can completely fuck up my life? You think I don’t care. That I’m just this selfish piece of shit who doesn’t feel anything.”

He swallowed hard, eyes on the floor now. “But I do. I do care. About you. I just don’t know how to show it without screwing it up.”

A rough sound scraped out of your throat, halfway between a laugh and a wounded breath. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough to cut through the thickness in the room. A scoff. Cartman’s head snapped up immediately, startled, as if he hadn’t expected you to speak at all.

Your voice came out unsteady. “You care?” You let out a painfully hollow laugh. “You care, Eric? Since when?”

His shoulders tensed. “Since always,” he muttered, but you didn’t let him finish.

“You’re a bad person,” you whispered, and the words tasted like blood. “Do you get that? You’re mean, and selfish, and cruel, and you just… you bulldoze through everyone’s lives like you’re the only one who matters. You don’t think about consequences. You don’t think about who you hurt. You don’t think about me.”

His mouth opened in protest, but the sight of your eyes; wet, furious, exhausted, made him freeze in place.

“You never think about how your shit lands on me,” you continued, voice cracking as months of swallowed frustration rushed out all at once. “I follow you through every disaster. Every scheme. Every awful idea you convince yourself is some kind of genius plan. I clean up your messes. I defend you to everyone. I stay by your side because I thought you’d do the same if it ever mattered.”

He stared at you as if the room had tilted sideways.

“I thought,” you said, voice trembling, “that being your best friend since we were six meant something to you.”

Cartman’s jaw tightened. “It does.”

“No, it doesn’t,” you shot back. “Because you don’t treat me like a friend. You treat me like a prop in whatever story is playing in that messed‑up head of yours. I’m always the one holding you back from going too far, or dragging you home before you get suspended, or grabbing you by the stupid hood of your jacket to stop you from running into traffic because you got mad at Clyde for looking at you wrong.”

His cheeks flushed red, but not from anger, more like guilt he didn’t know how to hide.

You pressed your palm against your face, overwhelmed by the pressure of everything you’d never said. “Do you remember second grade? When Craig told everyone not to talk to you because he said you were annoying? I sat with you at lunch every day for three weeks while you threw carrot sticks at the wall and yelled about justice. Do you remember in fourth grade when you lost your voice from screaming at your mom and I spent an entire weekend reading to you because you were bored out of your mind? Or the Halloween in seventh grade when you got egged by eighth graders and I walked you home even though you were pretending it didn’t hurt?”

His breathing had gone shallow, each memory striking him visibly. The muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers curled into tight fists against his knees.

You leaned forward, voice rising. “I have been here. Always. I have always been here for you, Eric. Through every meltdown. Every tantrum. Every time you told the whole world to go to hell. I stayed because I believed you had a heart under all that garbage. I stayed because I thought you cared.”

He looked away, and his shoulders hunched inward like a kicked dog.

“I do,” he whispered.

“You don’t show it,” you shot back, voice thick with tears. “You show the opposite. You hurt people because you can’t deal with your own emotions. You hurt me because you know I won’t leave. You treat me like I don’t feel anything. Like I’m invincible. Like getting blown up is just another Tuesday because that’s what life is with you.”

His expression twisted in panic. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You always hurt me.”

The room went painfully silent. His chest rose and fell like he was struggling for air. The guilt on his face was so raw it almost didn’t look like him.

He finally spoke, voice cracking in the middle. “I didn’t think you would actually get hit. I swear I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to—”

“You never think.” Your voice trembled. “You never look at me long enough to understand what you’re doing.”

Cartman’s eyes flicked up sharply. For a second, something burned in them. Fear, maybe, or desperation, or both tangled together.

“I look at you all the time,” he said softly.

You froze.

He pressed a shaking hand to his forehead and shook his head like he was arguing with himself. “I look at you constantly. I can’t stop. You think I don’t notice you? You think I don’t see you? You’ve been stuck in my damn brain since we were kids.”

The confession stunned you long enough for him to get to his feet. He began pacing the room, running both hands through his hair with frantic energy.

“This is exactly why I screw everything up,” he snapped at the air. “Because I can’t say anything right. I can’t do anything right. I try to act normal around you and I just end up ruining everything, or making you mad, or doing some insane bullshit like blowing up a plastic bottle like a moron.”

He stopped pacing and pointed at you with trembling fingers. “You think I don’t care? You think I don’t think about you every damn day? You think I don’t get pissed whenever someone else makes you laugh? You think I don’t lose my mind every time you spend lunch with Kyle because he listens to your nerd book opinions like they’re the gospel?”

Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t move. He was unraveling too fast to interrupt.

“I screw up because I like you,” he yelled, voice cracking so hard it nearly broke mid‑sentence. “I like you, okay? I like you so fucking much it makes me insane!”

Your heart slammed into your ribs.

His whole face went red. His hands dropped to his sides as the magnitude of what he’d just shouted seemed to hit him all at once.

He stared at you like a deer staring at an oncoming truck.

You stared back, breath caught in your throat, pulse thundering.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Cartman swallowed again, this time visibly terrified. “I’m serious,” he said quietly, desperately. “I like you.”

Your whole world shifted. The air thickened around you, heavy with disbelief, like time had stopped just long enough to let the weight of what he said settle in your chest. Your shoulder still ached, your fingers were numb from how tightly you were gripping your jeans, and your face was stained with dried tears. Yet all of that faded under the weight of his voice, his words replaying again and again in your head, like your mind couldn’t decide whether to believe them or not. I like you. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t the biggest thing he’d ever said.

Your eyes started to sting again, all the pressure welling up behind them until it broke. Tears ran hot down your cheeks before you could stop them, your mouth shaking open as you tried to find words, any words, that didn’t sound crazy.

“That’s not funny,” you whispered, voice rough and broken. You shook your head, wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve, and forced the next words out through a tight throat. “That’s not the kind of thing you joke about, Cartman. That’s not—this isn’t a goddamn bit, okay? You can’t do that to me.”

Cartman blinked, standing frozen by the edge of the bed like he’d been slapped in the face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You can’t just say that shit,” you snapped, your voice pitching up as the panic hit you all at once. “You can’t—Jesus, Eric, you don’t get to pull this out of nowhere like it’s no big deal. I’ve known you my whole life. You say crazy stuff all the time. I don’t know when you’re serious. I never know with you.”

His expression hardened slightly, confusion mixing with something sharp behind his eyes. “I am serious. I wouldn’t fucking say it if I didn’t mean it.”

“I don’t know what you mean half the time,” you said, your hands moving as you spoke, all energy and nerves. “You tell me I’m annoying, and a buzzkill, and you ignore me when I try to talk you down from your bullshit, and then suddenly—suddenly—you’re telling me you like me? You call me a crybaby and then kiss me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Cartman stared at you for a beat, breathing harder now, like he couldn’t figure out if he should yell or shut down completely. You could see the storm building in him. You always could. He was so easy to read when you knew how.

He didn’t blow up.

He just stepped forward and kissed you.

There was no warning. No dramatic pause. Just his mouth on yours, firm and unfiltered, the way he did everything else in his life—without asking, without thinking, just acting. His lips were dry and warm, and he leaned in like he meant it, like he’d been holding it back for way too long. The pressure of it knocked the wind right out of you.

Your brain stalled. Everything else dropped out—your anger, the tears, the pain. Your hands found his hoodie on instinct, fingers curling into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. The kiss was a mess, all nerves and awkward angles, but he didn’t pull back. Neither did you.

He mumbled against your lips, breath hot and uneven. “You talk too fucking much.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you whispered back, voice half-caught in a laugh that threatened to crack apart your chest.

Cartman chuckled against your mouth, low and smug, barely moving away. “You still kissed me though. Just sayin’.”

You pushed his shoulder, not hard enough to make him move. “You kissed me, dickhead.”

His grin grew wider, cocky in that infuriating Cartman way, but it didn’t have the usual venom. “Didn’t hear you complaining.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. A real one this time, loud and shaky and impossible to swallow. Cartman laughed too, softer than usual, like he couldn’t believe it either. His forehead rested against yours, his breath brushing your cheek, and you realized how close he still was. He hadn’t let go of you. His hands were still gently cupped around your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks where your tears had dried.

“You’re such a piece of shit,” you said, smiling despite yourself.

“And you’ve been in love with me since, like, fifth grade, so who’s the real idiot here?” He leaned in again, kissing the corner of your mouth this time, slower. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

“Eat shit.”

Cartman snorted. “Not before dessert.”

You groaned, rolling your eyes, but didn’t pull away. There was a warmth in your chest now that dulled the rest of the pain. His room still smelled like energy drinks and socks, your arm still throbbed, your face was still sticky with tears, and none of it mattered.

This was still Cartman. The same Cartman who used to throw gum in your hair and swear he had no idea how it got there. The same one who used to steal your crayons and draw dicks on your homework. The one who built a shitty pillow fort in his backyard for your birthday when you were nine because he couldn’t afford to buy anything and wouldn’t admit he cared. The same one who always sat next to you, no matter how much trouble he caused, no matter who else hated him.

Maybe he was a mess. Maybe he hurt people. Maybe he would never stop being loud and reckless and self-destructive. But maybe he wasn’t lying. Maybe he was in love with his best friend since childhood.

His hands slid around your back, gentle for once, holding you like you were a person and not a thing he was afraid to lose. You exhaled, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.

“You’re still gonna blow things up, aren’t you?” you murmured into the side of his neck.

“Only if they deserve it,” he replied, smug again. “Or if it’s really funny.”

You sighed, nuzzling closer. “God, I’m so fucked.”

Cartman laughed again, light and surprised, like hearing that from you made him feel unstoppable. “Yeah. You are. Fucked for life.”

The dorm was quiet, just the gentle hum of the mini fridge and the occasional squeak of Kyle's mechanical pencil scratching across the page, his emerald eyes narrowed in focus. Outside, snow swirled in flurries past the narrow dorm window, turning the campus into a pale blur. But inside… inside, it was all heat. The warmth of his body pressed close to yours, the subtle scent of his cologne—cedarwood and fresh laundry—and the way his thigh brushed against yours with every breath, every tiny movement.

You sat cross-legged on his twin bed, the physics textbook propped open between you two like a barrier you were pretending to care about. Your pencil hovered uselessly above the worksheet, your eyes on the graph in front of you, but your mind somewhere far more sinful. Somewhere between the slope of Kyle’s jaw and the curve of his mouth, the subtle twitch of his fingers as he flipped pages, his quiet humming as he read low and familiar.

And utterly distracting.

You didn’t mean to stare. God, you really didn’t. But it was impossible not to.

Kyle had taken off his hoodie earlier. It had gotten too hot in the room he said, and now he was just in a tight, slightly wrinkled long sleeve shirt that hugged his frame in all the right ways. You could see the subtle movement of muscle under cotton when he shifted his weight, the way the fabric stretched a little across his chest. But worseso much worse—were his hands. Long fingers, pale knuckles, veins like subtle rivers running just beneath the surface. Hands that gestured when he explained concepts, hands that moved with ease and confidence. You’d seen him fidgeting with the string on his hoodie earlier, wrapping it around a finger, then tugging. And the thought of what else those fingers could do if they weren’t wrapped around a pencil made your thighs press together under the covers of your oversized sweatshirt.

You forced your eyes back to the page. Focus. Focus on the damn question.

A ball is launched at an angle of 30 degrees with an initial velocity of 12 m/s—

Nope. Your brain short-circuited. You couldn’t read past “ball.” Your cheeks flushed so hot it made your ears burn.

“You okay?” Kyle’s voice broke the silence, soft and amused, too sweet for someone so evil without knowing it.

You looked up too quickly and nearly headbutted him. His face was right there, closer than you thought. His hair was fluffed up from where he’d been running his hand through it in frustration a few minutes ago, his lips parted in that slight, thoughtful frown he got when he was trying to explain something tricky. His freckled cheeks were pink from the warmth of the room, or maybe from being so close to you. He didn’t lean back. He just tilted his head and looked at you like you were a puzzle more interesting than anything in the textbook.

Your heart lurched.

“Y-yeah,” you managed, voice strained, eyes darting back to the worksheet. “Just… thinking.”

Kyle smiled, soft and fond. “Thinking is good. But not if you’re thinking about dinner already. We haven’t even finished projectile motion.”

You let out a breathy laugh, trying not to seem too shaky. “Yeah, sorry. I just… I suck at this.”

“No, you don’t,” he said quickly, eyebrows furrowing like you’d insulted him. “You’re doing great. Seriously. You’ve gotten, like, three questions right without my help.”

You gave him a look. “Out of twenty.”

He scoffed, leaning a little closer, and you swore his knee pressed more firmly into yours. “That’s three more than last week. I think you’re doing amazing.”

Your breath caught. He was too close, too kind, too pretty. And he didn’t even know how much it was messing you up.

“You’re a really good teacher,” you said, softer now, fingers twisting the edge of your sleeve.

He smiled again, and it was a little shy this time. “Thanks. I like helping you.”

His eyes lingered a beat too long on yours before he looked away, clearing his throat and picking up his pencil. “Okay—so for this one, let’s try it together. If the velocity is 12 m/s and the angle is 30 degrees, what’s the horizontal component of the velocity?”

You nodded, trying desperately to switch your brain back to math mode. “Um… twelve times cosine thirty?”

“Yeah!” Kyle’s voice lit up with praise, and he gave your arm a little nudge with his elbow. “Exactly. That’s awesome.”

The contact made your stomach twist. You wished you could bottle that feeling. His casual warmth, his excitement when you got it right, the way his whole face lit up. You wanted to bury your face in his chest and just stay there, right under the collar of his shirt where his scent was strongest.

But you didn’t. You stayed perfectly still. Because if you moved too much, you might accidentally kiss him.

Or worse. You might tell him what you really wanted.

And what you wanted wasn’t physics. What you wanted was his mouth on your neck, his hands under your shirt, his breath warm against your skin as he murmured something low and sweet. You wanted to ask him to touch you. You wanted to ask if he ever noticed how quiet you got when he leaned in, how tense your thighs went when his fingers brushed yours.

But you were too shy. Still. After months of dating, you’d barely worked up the courage to tell him when you were cold, let alone horny.

Your eyes dropped again to his hands. They were tapping lightly against the notebook now, rhythmically. He always did that when he was thinking; drumming with two fingers. And you could feel the movement through the mattress, through your leg, through your whole damn body. You shifted slightly, hoping the friction between your thighs didn’t make you too obvious.

Kyle looked up again. “You’re squirmy today.”

You blinked. “What?”

His eyes narrowed, but he was smiling. Teasing. “You keep fidgeting. Is it the chair? My bed sucks, I know. You want to move to the floor?”

You shook your head quickly, way too fast. “No! I mean—no, I’m fine. Just kinda… distracted.”

He tilted his head. “By what?”

You stared at him, pulse skipping. He didn’t even know. He was just looking at you like he always did, with that easy confidence, that kindness that melted all your walls. You wanted to say you. You wanted to say your stupid adorable face and your stupid perfect hands and the way you say my name when I get something right—

But you swallowed it all down and muttered, “I dunno. Just tired.”

He didn’t believe you. You could tell. But he didn’t push. Instead, he gave you a crooked little smile and said, “You want a break?”

You nodded, maybe a little too fast.

“Okay,” he said, tossing the pencil onto the notebook and flopping back on the bed beside you, arms stretched out above his head, shirt riding up slightly to reveal a strip of pale stomach and the soft V of his hips. “Five-minute break. Doctor’s orders.”

You were going to die. Right here. Right on Kyle Broflovski’s bed, while he was looking all relaxed and soft and delicious beside you.

And then he turned his head toward you and said your name.

You looked at him, eyes wide.

“You sure you’re okay?”

The way he said it… low, a little rough around the edges, like he knew. Like he’d seen through you. Like maybe you weren’t as subtle as you thought, staring at his hands and squeezing your thighs together like a fucking pervert.

Yet his eyes were kind. Curious. Patient.

You nodded again, but he didn’t look convinced. He lifted a hand, brushed his fingers over your knee, light as air. “Hey. Talk to me.”

The touch made your skin spark, electricity shooting up your leg. You inhaled sharply, heart pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it.

“I—” your voice cracked. “I just… I can’t focus.”

Kyle propped himself up on one elbow, gaze suddenly sharp. “Why not?”

You swallowed thickly, the heat in your cheeks blooming like wildfire beneath your skin. Your heart pounded loud enough in your chest that it almost drowned out your own thoughts. He was looking at you with that kind of piercing, unwavering attention that made it impossible to breathe right. You couldn’t tell him. You weren’t ready for him to know that you’d spent the last forty-five minutes fantasizing about his fingers slipping under your waistband instead of solving for v₀.

Your gaze dropped, fingers tugging at the hem of your oversized sweater as you lied through your teeth. “I’m still embarrassed you have to tutor me,” you said, forcing the words out with a weak laugh that didn’t sound even remotely convincing. “It just… sucks. Knowing you’re so good at this and I’m… not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t judgmental. It wasn’t heavy or cruel. It was warm. Soft. Thoughtful in the way Kyle always was with you. Still, you didn’t dare meet his eyes, too afraid he’d see the cracks in your lie, the truth bubbling just beneath the surface of your skin.

Kyle sat up fully, his hand moving with sudden certainty as he reached out and wrapped his fingers gently around your wrist. His touch was firm without being rough, grounding, his thumb brushing lightly along the inside of your arm. He held your wrist like it was precious, like he wanted to pull your words straight from your pulse.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he said, his voice quiet but unwavering. He wasn’t teasing. There was no smirk, no sarcastic edge to his tone. He was sincere. Sincere in that painfully tender way he always was when it came to you. “Needing help doesn’t make you dumb. Everyone struggles with something, babe.”

Your chest ached at the nickname. He didn’t use pet names often, not unless he meant them. They felt rare, like little gifts—like he knew exactly when you needed to hear one.

“Babe,” he repeated, his tone softening even further, as though he could sense the hesitation still curling in your gut. “I like helping you. I like being close to you like this. I like that you trust me enough to let me in, even if you’re still scared to look me in the eye when I say you’re smart.”

You let out a nervous giggle, more from the sheer flood of emotions than anything. It escaped before you could bite it back, and your fingers tightened instinctively around the fabric of your sleeve.

Kyle smiled.

God, that smile. That wide, lopsided grin that lit up his whole face and crinkled the corners of his eyes. It hit you like a truck every time. His hold on your wrist tightened, not hard, just enough to jolt you from your thoughts, and he gave it a gentle tug.

Before you could react, he pulled you forward, easing you off the bed with a casual strength that always surprised you. He guided you until you found yourself sitting in his lap.

Your thighs were pressed against his, the denim of his jeans warm beneath you. His hands settled at your waist without hesitation, fingers splaying against your sides as if he’d done this a hundred times before. The proximity stole the air from your lungs. Your body stiffened at first. Your brain trying to catch up with the fact that Kyle Broflovski just pulled you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t dare ruin the moment with your awkward nerves.

His arms were a loose cage around you, heat radiating off his chest as he shifted slightly to grab the textbook and your stationery off the mattress behind you. The movement pressed your body tighter against his, and you caught the soft huff of his breath as his lips nearly brushed your temple.

“Five minutes is up,” he said, clearing his throat in that clipped, academic tone he used when trying to sound professional, even though his voice was a little rougher now, a little more breathy. “Let’s get back to projectile motion.”

He opened the textbook across one knee, flipping back to the page you’d both been working on earlier, the paper rustling loudly in the otherwise quiet room. You could barely hear it over the pounding of your heart. His fingers brushed yours as he handed you your mechanical pencil. 

Your legs were draped over his, your knees tucked snugly along the sides of his thighs. The position was close—too close—and you didn’t miss the subtle way his breathing had changed since pulling you into his lap. He wasn’t unaffected. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, the tension tightening in his arms, the way his voice wavered slightly when he spoke again.

“Okay,” he said, his finger tracing under the next problem, dragging your attention to the question as best he could. “You remember how to break velocity into components?”

You nodded, but it was automatic. Your brain wasn’t even pretending to function right now. All your focus was on the way his thumb rubbed small, unconscious circles against your hip. You weren’t sure he even realized he was doing it.

“Cosine for horizontal,” you murmured, eyes flicking toward the page for the briefest second before returning to the slope of his neck, the faint pink flush crawling along his jawline.

Kyle nodded approvingly. “Good. And sine for vertical. So if we’re launching at 12 meters per second—”

You didn’t hear the rest. You couldn’t. His voice was a low hum in your ear, soothing and slow, but your body was vibrating with tension. His hand at your waist had started moving again, slow strokes that burned through your sweatshirt, the kind of touch that left you dizzy and aching for more.

Your thighs clenched where they pressed against his, involuntarily. You didn’t mean to do it; the tension simply spilled over, tightening through you in a desperate ripple of heat. Kyle’s hand froze the instant he felt it. A soft, startled pause, the kind that came with his brain firing off too many thoughts at once.

You went rigid.

“S–Sorry,” you blurted, the word tangled and breathless. You shifted quickly, folding your legs into a cross‑legged position in his lap, trying to pretend the movement was innocent. Your hands fumbled for your calculator like it was some kind of shield. “I just—I need to finish the next one.”

Kyle didn’t comment. Not on the way your voice shook. Not on the way your cheeks burned. He just sat behind you, steady, silent, warm. Letting you scramble to re‑establish some normalcy.

You typed in the values, double-checked the trig function, tried to remember how to breathe normally. When you finished, you quietly murmured, “Okay. I think… I think that’s it.”

Kyle leaned forward to look. His breath brushed your shoulder—light, absentminded, way too intimate for someone who was supposedly focused on math. His eyes scanned the numbers, and he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “That’s right.”

The pride in his voice hit harder than the numbers ever could. Before you could react, he pressed a tiny, fleeting kiss to the side of your neck. A spontaneous, affectionate spark he didn’t seem to think twice about.

Heat shot through you.

“Kyle,” you squeaked, half laughing, half flustered beyond sanity. You tried to squirm away, nudging his knee with yours. “Stop—that’s—that’s enough studying for today.”

His hands came up, circling your waist automatically when you shifted. He held you gently in place, not trapping, just steadying.

“No way,” he said with a small, breathy laugh of his own. “We only have like… four more questions. You’ll thank me when you pass the exam.”

“Kyle, I’m tired,” you lied, cheeks flaming.

His fingers stilled against your waist.

“You’re not tired,” he replied quietly.

Your breath hitched. You didn’t look at him; you couldn’t. Kyle’s voice wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t accusing. It was soft. Knowing. Gentle in a way that made your stomach twist.

“You’re distracted,” he added, even softer.

You swallowed hard. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” His hand slid up a little, fingertips brushing the hem of your sweater. “I can help with that too.”

Your heart stumbled.

Kyle adjusted you in his lap, carefully, almost nervously, making sure you were still comfortable. His hands stayed respectful, thumbs rubbing tiny circles at your sides like a quiet reassurance.

“Okay,” he murmured, leaning forward to pull the textbook into view again. “Come here. I’m not… stopping the lesson. We’re doing the lesson.”

His voice wavered, just faintly.

He tipped the book against your knees, flipping to the next problem. His other hand drifted slowly beneath your sweater, sliding along the warm skin of your stomach, just above your waistband.

“You still have to work through these,” he said gently, grounding you with the steady cadence of his tutoring voice. “We’re not quitting early.”

You shivered as his fingers slipped beneath the band of your underwear, slow and careful, giving you a chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Kyle took a quiet breath, a thin shaky inhale he clearly didn’t mean to let you hear. His fingertips traced lower, brushing through the heat between your legs with a reverence that made your breath catch.

“You’re gonna finish these last problems,” he whispered, more flustered than seductive, his lips close enough to brush your cheek when he spoke. “I’m just… helping you focus.”

Your hips jerked at the first slow, tentative stroke of his finger. Kyle froze for a split second, checking your face, checking your body language, making sure this was okay. When your breath stuttered but you didn’t pull away, his shoulders loosened and he stroked you again—deeper, steadier, more sure of himself.

“You remember the formula for total time of flight, right?” His voice cracked on the last word. He cleared his throat. “Right?”

You couldn’t think. Not with his finger sliding slowly, gently, through the slick warmth he found there. Not with his other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you anchored against his chest.

“Kyle,” you whispered, breath shaking.

“You can do both,” he murmured, kissing your cheek in a shy, fluttering press. “You’re smart enough. I know you are. So…” His finger circled your clit, and your whole body tensed. “Tell me the equation.”

You shook your head helplessly. “I can’t—”

His breath hitched, like hearing you like that did something to him.

“You can,” he whispered again, his voice soft against your ear, words melting into the quiet hum of the dorm room like they belonged there. “Just try.”

You nodded, the movement almost imperceptible, but Kyle felt it. His curls tickled your jaw where his head rested against your shoulder, and his breath came warm, brushing the collar of your sweater. His hand didn’t stop, didn’t falter for even a second, fingers still moving between your thighs with maddening patience, knuckles pressing in and out of your pussy like he wasn’t methodically unraveling you from the inside out.

Your voice cracked on the first word.

“T—Total time…” you tried, your breath catching when his thumb slid up and made a slow, lazy pass over your clit. Your whole body jolted. “Is two v-naught s-sine theta over… g…”

Kyle smiled against your skin. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it, his cheek lifting against your neck, that subtle shift in his jaw as his fingers curled slightly inside your cunt, stroking deep, intentional, right up against the soft spot that made your thighs clench.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice hushed, like he was impressed and couldn’t help but say so. “God, you’re still going. That’s so impressive.”

You squirmed in his lap, trying to keep your grip on the edge of the notebook, trying to act like you weren’t falling apart one inch at a time. Every slow drag of his fingers made you wetter, your folds slick and swollen, spreading around each stroke like your body wanted more, wanted all of him.

“You’re really trying to be good for me, huh?” he added, the words soft, teasing, and tinged with a crooked smile. “You wanna pass so bad you’re gonna sit here and recite formulas while I’ve got two fingers deep inside your—”

You whimpered, sharp and involuntary, and Kyle laughed under his breath, gentle and warm.

“Okay, okay,” he said quickly, catching himself. “I’ll stop talking. Kinda. Maybe.”

His thumb circled again, featherlight pressure over your clit, and the ragged breath you let out nearly made him lose it.

“You remember how to find the vertical component?” he asked, tone softening again, like he was walking you through a concept instead of working you closer to the edge. “Horizontal’s cosine. What’s vertical?”

You blinked hard, struggling to force the words out through the burn building low in your stomach. “V–v-naught times… sine theta.”

His hand stilled, just for a breath, and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, slow and warm.

“You’re killing it,” he whispered. “Seriously.”

His fingers resumed again, slow at first, the pads of them dragging slick through your entrance and pressing back inside—hot, tight, pulsing around him. He curled them shallowly, feeling the way your cunt clenched around him, like you couldn’t help it.

“You’re so tense,” he murmured, lips brushing the curve of your neck. “You’re holding your breath.”

You hadn’t realized. Not until he said it, and suddenly your lungs felt starved, your chest aching from how hard you were trying to keep quiet.

“Breathe, babe. Just… take it slow. I’m not rushing you.” Kyle murmured, his voice calm. That Kyle kind of calm—almost clinical in its precision, but still so full of care. The kind of calm he used when he helped you with tests, when he explained difficult problems like they weren’t scary, when he sat with you through long nights of frustration and just… stayed. That same voice, now applied to this moment, to your trembling body in his lap, made your heart ache. 

His thumb brushed your clit again, rhythmic now, gently working in tight, teasing circles. His fingers stayed buried, stroking in and out of your pussy with that slow, patient pressure that had you grinding into his lap without meaning to.

“I like this,” he said suddenly, quiet like a secret. “You. Trying so hard. It’s… cute.”

Your face burned, heat flooding your chest. “Kyle—”

“I mean it,” he said, shifting slightly behind you. His thighs spread a little wider under yours, steadying you. “You’re really… god, you’re smart. You’re trying so hard. And you’re still letting me touch you.” 

His tone turned shy halfway through the sentence, like he almost couldn’t believe he said it. But he didn’t pull back. He leaned into your neck, nuzzling just under your ear.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do this,” he admitted, voice dropping just a little. “I always thought if I tried something like this, you’d throw a pillow at my face and call me an asshole.”

You let out a shaky laugh, breath catching as his fingers pushed a little deeper again, the heel of his palm dragging against your clit just right. “I… might still.”

Kyle chuckled, kissing your neck. “Guess I’ll have to make it worth it.”

The way he said it wasn’t cocky. It was honest. A promise.

His fingers moved again, more deliberate now, but still slow, like he had all the time in the world to watch you come undone. You shifted in his lap, body shaking slightly, and he adjusted with you, his free arm tightening around your waist, holding you close without pinning you.

His voice stayed steady, even as his breath turned uneven. “Want me to stop?”

You shook your head, too quickly.

Kyle’s lips brushed your jaw, a smile pressed into your skin. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Your hips rocked again, chasing his hand. He let you, guiding the movement with the hand at your waist, holding you just firm enough to keep you grounded. His fingers curled up inside you on each thrust now—gentle, focused—pressing into your g-spot with practiced intention, the rhythm deep and slow and maddening.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered. “You feel so good.”

You heard the awe in his voice, like it was slipping out without him meaning to. His thumb stayed steady on your clit, pressing with just the right amount of pressure, drawing out slow, desperate little gasps you couldn’t hide.

“You wanna come, don’t you?”

You nodded, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Yeah?” His voice was breathier now. “Okay. Okay…

His fingers picked up their pace just slightly—circling, dragging, pressing exactly where you needed it, and your whole body jerked. You tried to stay quiet. You really did. But a high, broken sound slipped out of you, and Kyle swore under his breath, voice tight. 

“God, that’s… yeah. That’s really hot.” 

You rocked forward once, twice, trying to bite down the sounds building in your throat. Kyle held you still, murmuring low praise against your ear. You weren’t even sure what he was saying anymore, just the hum of his voice and the slow, steady motion of his hand. 

When it hit, it didn’t crash. It bloomed, slow and warm, a spreading wave of heat that made your whole body tremble in his lap. Your hips jerked once, twice, and Kyle’s hand didn’t leave you. He stayed with you through it, holding you gently, rubbing slow circles through the aftershocks.

You were shaking, breath coming in quiet, uneven gasps. 

Kyle didn’t speak at first. He just held you, one hand pressed to your stomach, the other still tucked between your legs, now still and reverent. His cheek rested against your shoulder again, curls tickling your neck. 

After a long moment, he whispered, “You okay?”

You nodded, the world spinning gently.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. “Like. Seriously.”

You managed a laugh. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the person who just came during projectile motion.”

You smacked his arm with what little strength you had, and he laughed, that same bright, nasal chuckle that always made you smile no matter how much of a mess you were.

He kissed your neck again, one last time, sweet and lingering.

“Hey,” he said, quieter now. “You really are doing better at this stuff. I’m proud of you.” 

Your eyes burned a little at the edges again, for an entirely different reason.

“I mean it,” he said, giving your waist a squeeze. “You always try. That’s one of my favorite things about you.”

You turned slightly in his arms, enough to see the soft look in his eyes, so familiar, so open. 

He leaned in and kissed you on the mouth this time—slow, like everything else. No urgency. Just affection. Just Kyle.

And when he pulled back, hand still on your thigh, thumb rubbing softly over the hem of your shorts, he added, “We’ll finish the rest tomorrow.”

He smiled again, lopsided and gentle. 

“You’ve earned a break.”