#heavy fluff

___

You and Daryl are a thing now–or, well, as close to a thing as Daryl Dixon would ever get. After everything the two of you survived together, the close calls, and the unspoken feelings that had stretched between you, it finally happened. You’d confronted it. Him. Each other.

Not that it looks anything like Glenn and Maggie, or Rick and Michonne. Yours and Daryl’s kind of “official” isn’t something anyone can put a neat label on. It isn’t for show. It’s quieter than that. Private but still real. 

___

It had all started one night when he’d let something slip. Daryl told you how he felt, but it hadn’t been some grand confession – just an unintentional yet intimate slip of words.

You and Daryl had ended up sitting side by side, shoulders nearly brushing, when you’d made some offhand joke. Something about him being real romantic for a guy who’s never dated anyone. You’d meant it to tease. Normally, he would’ve scoffed, but this time he just sat there, fingers fiddling, his eyes fixed on the ground like you’d said something he didn’t know how to answer.

“What?” you nudged his shoulder, smiling. “Didn’t like the compliment?”

He gave a little shrug. “Don’t think I’d be any good at that kinda stuff.”

You were surprised he even said anything at all, especially about this. Whenever you’d jokingly flirt with him or mention anything related to romance, he usually brushed it off with pretended annoyance. Not tonight. Not now. He finally said something about it.

Your heart picked up at his rare vulnerability. You just needed to confirm it somehow before he tried to change subjects. So you reached for his hand, and when he didn’t pull away, though he looked like he might, your chest warmed. 

Truth was, his heart was racing so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. Heat spread across his face, and he could only hope the dim night light did a good enough job at hiding the nervous mess whirling inside him.

You laced your fingers through his, feeling the faint twitch of his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it, of course he didn’t. “You’re better than you think,” you murmured, resting your head lightly against his shoulder. “You don’t gotta try so hard with me.”

For a long moment, he was quiet. You thought maybe he hadn’t heard you. Then his voice finally came, low and almost uncertain.

“Ain’t never felt this way ’bout nobody before.”

You could almost feel your heart stop at that. That was it. A confession from Daryl Dixon. And it was exactly the kind you’d expected from him. “Good,” you whispered back, smiling into his flannel. “’Cause I feel the same way.”

His thumb brushed over the back of your hand. The gesture was shy and uncertain, but it stayed with you long after. That was the night it had become official. Not in anyone else’s way. In yours.

___

Daryl wasn’t someone who showed care through words or soft touches. His love was in what he did, the quiet, unspoken things. That was just him. Still, sometimes you wondered what it would be like to be openly touchy with him, to have that easy kind of affection you craved. Physical touch had always been your language, the way you gave love and the way you felt it in return.

Daryl knew that. He’d known it from the way your hand would always brush against whoever you were talking to. He’d known it the first time your fingers touched his arm without warning, when he unconsciously flinched back. You hadn’t understood his reaction at first, and your apology that followed had been so soft, so sincere, he couldn’t forget it. You learned soon enough, though.

So he’d known it, too, in the way you started being more cautious, more careful with him. But over time, it changed. Your closeness stopped feeling foreign. He’d begun to expect your touch, even if he never quite got used to it. Probably never would. But he’d try. For you.

___

You’re now up on the watch platform at Alexandria’s gate, restless and waiting. You’d traded shifts with Rosita hours ago without even bothering to explain yourself. No one questioned it. You just wanted to be here when Daryl came back.

Then there he is.

The car rumbles down the road, sputtering like it’s about to give out, and you hurry down the ladder to the gate. By the time you’re swinging it open, the vehicle is already rolling through.

Abraham’s the first to climb out, swearing under his breath like the air personally wronged him. “Biggest damn pain in the ass scavenging trip in history,” he grumbles, tossing his hands up. “World’s gone to shit and we still can’t find toilet paper. Civilization really is dead.” Glenn follows out, popping open the trunk until Maggie walks over to greet him with a hug.

Your eyes skip right over to the driver’s seat. Daryl’s still sitting there, arm hanging out the window, turning a crumpled piece of paper over and over in his hand. His brows are drawn, like the thing might bite him if he looks at it too long.

You walk straight toward him, brushing your fingers lightly against his arm where it rests on the window. “How was it?” you ask, smiling in that way you hope comes across as casual.

The reaction is quick, too quick. He stuffs the paper into his backpack and pushes the door open, stepping out as soon as he feels your touch.

Your smile falters, just for a beat, before you paste it back on. You hope he didn’t notice. 

He manages to look at you, shaking his head slightly as a response to your question, and you nod back, the quiet understanding between you stretching a beat longer than it probably should. You both must have been standing like that for a while, because Abraham suddenly pipes up from somewhere behind you, squinting at the two of you like he’s trying to read a map. 

“Y’all gonna stand there all day or actually hold hands or somethin’?” His grin is obnoxious, and you roll your eyes while Daryl mutters something that sounds suspiciously like shut up under his breath. Glenn snorts quietly behind him, and even Maggie shakes her head, grinning. 

When the noise dies down, Daryl shifts slightly, finally starting to tell you about the run in a bit more detail. You hum quietly, letting him speak, waiting for the story to unfold. When he hesitates, you give a small, teasing smile. “It’s okay. We’ll do better next time. If you let me go with you, I mean.”

He chuckles softly at your words, his eyes flicking to yours for a fraction of a second, caught off guard by how easy it is to get lost in your smile. Almost instinctively, your fingers brush against his, lingering there. 

For a heartbeat, he almost lets your hand stay. But then, like he suddenly remembers where they are, he pulls away. Not sharply, not suddenly. Just a subtle, almost nervous retreat, as if the act of holding your hand in front of everyone would make him combust. He leans forward, shifting his attention to Abraham’s rambling, pretending it’s nothing.

But you notice. Of course you notice.

And he notices that you notice.

Shit. The word echoes in his head. His chest feels tight. He didn’t mean to pull away. Hell, he barely even realized he did it until it was too late. He’s not even sure why. Maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s habit, maybe it’s both. All he knows is that your expression flickered for a second, quick enough that no one else would’ve caught it, but it’s burned into him.

___

Later that night, the living room has mostly emptied out, soft laughter drifting from upstairs as people settle into their own corners of comfort. You lean against the doorframe, chatting with Michonne and Eugene. Daryl watches from the couch, pretending not to, eyes flicking up only when you laugh or tilt your head in that way that always gets to him.

When the talk winds down, you do what you always do: hug Michonne goodnight, press a quick kiss to Eugene’s cheek. Nothing new, nothing strange. But Daryl feels his chest tighten anyway. He’s seen it a hundred times and it still gets him every damn time. Still makes his throat go tight, still leaves him cursing himself for not knowing how to let it come as easy as you do.

He shifts, adjusting his body and leans back into the couch like it might make him look casual, like he hasn’t just been sitting there stewing. You come over and sit next to him. Not too close. You already know his boundaries better than he does.

The room is quiet now. Cozy. Feels like home in a way Daryl never thought he’d get to have. But his head is a storm. He can’t stop replaying earlier, the way your fingers had brushed his hand, the way he pulled away like a coward. He didn’t mean to. Didn’t even think, just reacted. And he caught that look on your face, even if you tried to hide it. That tiny falter in your smile.

After a beat of silence, you both start talking at the same time.

“So-”

“Sorry ‘bout-” he cuts himself off, jerking his chin toward you in that way of his. “Go ‘head.”

“No,” you shake your head lightly. “You go.”

Daryl’s gaze drops, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans, while yours stay still at your side. He swallows before finally muttering, “Sorry ‘bout earlier.”

You blink at him, not immediately sure what he means. Then it clicks. Of course it does. You always seem to know what’s rattling around in his head, even when he barely says a word. “Daryl…” your voice softens, caught between surprise and reassurance. “You don’t have to apologize. It was nothing.”

“It weren’t nothin’.” His response comes fast, too fast, like the words are trying to outrun his nerves.

He glances at you then, just for a second, like he needs to make sure you understand. That he knows. That he saw the look on your face. That he wishes he hadn’t done it. His jaw works like he wants to say more, but the words tangle up somewhere between his chest and his throat.

You nod, trying to look understanding. “We don’t have to- like, do anything if… you know, if you don’t want people to know or…” Your words trip over each other, fumbling. You immediately regret saying it, wishing you could pull them back.

Daryl’s quiet, deep in thought, cursing himself over and over. Of course you’d think he didn’t want people to know about you. That wasn’t it at all. If anything, they'd known before you and him even figured it out for yourselves.

“It ain’t that,” he blurts, quicker than it normally takes him to respond. His eyes flick to yours, making sure you’re really listening. “I’m tryin’. Ain’t good at it – the public stuff. But I’m gon’ try.”

“You don’t have to,” you say softly.

“I want to,” he says again, just as quick, almost tripping over the words.

You smile then, a real, warm smile that lights your face. “Thank you.”

The next thing you know, his hand slips into yours. It was warm, rough, and hesitant. His fingers clumsily interlace with yours, like he’s still figuring out how it works. You glance down at the sight and let out a soft chuckle. “You’re getting good at this.”

“Stop.” He ducks his head, hair falling forward to hide the small smile tugging at his mouth. 

You suddenly grin at a thought, your body fully facing his now. “Public stuff.” You say the words slowly, teasing. 

Daryl sees that look on your face and groans immediately, head tipping back a little as if asking the universe for patience. You’re about to say something. Something that never fails to make him feel cornered. He doesn’t hate it, though. 

You lean in slightly, eyes glinting. “Does that mean you’re good at, say… private stuff?” 

He exhales through his nose, half a laugh and half a plea. His shoulders tense, not from discomfort but from the way his body doesn’t quite know what to do with itself when you talk like that. 

A pause. Once the light moment passes, you’re both suddenly aware of your joined hands. You bounce your hand lightly against his, playing with it before stopping to lace your fingers together again. This time, his hold feels a little stronger, maybe you’re imagining it, or maybe he just doesn’t want to let go.

You straighten slightly, your gaze flicking to his arm. “Can I?” you ask, your hand hovering in the air. He nods once.

You touch him, the warmth of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt. His body shifts until it’s angled toward you too. You trace small circles on his arm with your thumb before moving higher, to his shoulder. Just as your hand nears his hair, you pause again. “Okay?”

Daryl nods. When your fingers slide into his hair, his eyes flutter shut. You brush a few stray strands away from his face, letting your touch trail down to his jaw. His stubble grazes your skin, rough and warm, and you swear you feel him shiver. His eyes open again, uncertain where to look.

“Still okay?” you whisper.

When he doesn’t nod, you glance up to meet his eyes. The look he gives you is answer enough, a silent yes. Your thumb sweeps across his cheek once before you start to pull your hand back, and he unconsciously leans into your touch. His eyes close again until you say his name softly. He opens them to see that familiar teasing smile tugging at your lips.

“This okay for private stuff?”

For once, he doesn’t scoff. He just stares, at your mouth, at the way your breath hitches, at how close you suddenly are. Don’t screw this up, his mind whispers, but he can’t move, can’t look away. You’re so close, the air thick between you, both of you waiting for the other to break it.

So when you start to lean in and then hesitate halfway, he gives your hand a small, almost hesitant tug. His wordless way of saying it’s okay.

You close the space. 

It’s clumsy. Neither of you are good at this, Daryl most of all. The kiss is quick, tentative, like neither of you can hold it for long without running out of air, without feeling like your chest might explode. When you pull back, he swallows hard, heart hammering. Foreheads still pressed together, you let out a soft giggle, teeth catching your bottom lip.

Daryl pulls away to look at you and ducks his head again, cheeks burning, suddenly aware of what just happened. Every instinct tells him to get up, to leave this room, this house, Alexandria even, anywhere that’ll give him some distance from that damn glint in your eyes. But he can’t. He won’t. Because even though it terrifies him, it’s also the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

You squeeze his hand lightly, taking the other in yours. “It’s okay,” you murmur. “We can take it slow. Public stuff. Private stuff… We have all the time in the world.” 

Daryl's hands squeeze yours back, as if grounding himself. A real smile tugs at his lips as the thought settles in: he’s never been good with touch, never known how to give it, but it’s your love language, and for you, he’s going to learn how to speak it.

___

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You were being sarcastic, but you couldn't stop yourself from smiling a little at his antics. As you chopped the peaches, Daryl was taking pieces when you looked away and sneaking bites. He thought that he was being stealthy, but you quickly noticed and lightly swatted his hand away.

“Would you stop that? Ain't gonna be able to make a cobbler if you keep eatin' all the fruit.”

“Can't help it, sweetheart. They're real good.”

You were trying to be stern, but the look on his face and his simple answer made you laugh. He was right, though. These peaches came from Hilltop and they were damn good. You looked over at him and saw that he had gotten peach juice in his beard. You grabbed a nearby kitchen towel and wiped his face while playfully scolding him.

“You're fuckin' ridiculous, y'know that? Like havin' a toddler.”

Squirming, he pretended to be offended and gasped softly. “That ain't fair. I ain't nothin' like a toddler.”

“Whatever. Just stop takin' shit. Especially since you ain't even helpin' me.”

At the idea of having to bake something, Daryl groaned and dramatically slumped against the cabinet that his back had been resting on. You just rolled your eyes again and tried to stifle another laugh. Entertaining this little stunt would only encourage him further.

“See what I mean? You're like an overgrown baby.”

“Am not. Just ain't understandin' why I, the man of the house, should have to bake.”

You knew that he didn't actually believe that, and he was just teasing you, but it always riled you up. That's exactly what your man wanted. Shooting Daryl a playful glare, you softly smacked one of his legs and pointed a finger at him.

“Don't you start with that patriarchal bullshit. I ought to make you get down and bake this cobbler yourself.”

“I was just fuckin' with you, sweetheart. You ain't gotta do all that.”

Despite his protests, you grabbed Daryl's hand and pulled him off the counter. He sighed loudly, but allowed you to drag him over to where you'd been standing. You positioned him in front of the cutting board and handed him the knife.

“Get choppin', dickhead.”

For the rest of the afternoon, Daryl begrudgingly helped his wife prepare and bake the cobbler. He bitched and mumbled the whole time, but he did enjoy spending time with you. Part of him even liked baking, but his stubborn ass was would never admit that.

She was perfectly content with wearing the school uniforms growing up. They were simple. It was one less target for the other kids to throw their degrading daggers towards. As long as she followed along with what she was given and expected to do, there were hardly any threats in the way.

When she'd first tried to mimic other girls in an attempt to finally feel something beyond a cold, hollowness in her chest, it was only makeup. Powder. Lipstick. Liners. It was uncomfortable on her skin, and she found that she felt no different when catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Another failure. There was no point in messing with that either.

Still, she would put on light details here and there, hoping to find something that would spark a sense of enjoyment. A bit of blush or eyeliner was typically all she wore. She was never one to care for acne, or blemishes, or eye bags. They were natural parts of a human being's face. What was the point in trying to hide something that had no purpose?

She never understood the fear and insecurities that would contort a girl's features whenever she'd realize her makeup had been smudged. All she could do was watch as they'd bolt out of their seat and make a beeline for the nearest bathroom. Moments later, they'd return, their face once again flawless in the eyes of others.

Maybe that's why they were so desperate to coat their faces in products.

To hide the faults.

To hide their lack of confidence.

For years, she'd assumed that the only ones who would put in an overzealous amount of effort to perfect their appearances were girls. It made sense, after all, considering the high standards set in place by the community and society in general. However, as she started paying more attention once reaching high school, it only took a few quick glances to notice that, no, it wasn't just the other girls.

The boys were all worried about how they looked, too.

As the realization made itself known in her head, an uncomfortable tension began to form in her body. Now, not only was she unlike any of the other girls, she was simply isolated from other people her age, including the boys. Why did they care so much about how others perceived them? It wasn't like their looks held any value when it came to academics or the real world.

No, that wasn't entirely true.

She'd seen it with her own eyes. Many times.

People were treated poorly if they matched the part. If there was even a single flaw prominent on their face, or their hair, or their outfit, they weren't given the same level of respect as those who seemed pristine at any given moment. Some people struggled to keep their jobs and relationships because of something so meaningless. It was ridiculous.

It was all absurd in her mind.

She continued on after her realization, sticking to her plan to wear the least amount of makeup possible and settle for plain clothing.

Perhaps she'd change once she met the one person who would fix her.

The one person who would find her missing pieces and put her together.

The one person who would be hers.

Until that day came, she was more than willing to lurk in the shadows and draw as little attention to herself as possible.

She'd met you entirely by accident.

She was more than aware of you already, given your over-the-top outfits and makeup that coincided with your bubbly personality. Not only had you caught the eye of the boys in your class. You'd attracted the attention of a lot of girls, too. They adored you in every sense of the word.

Ayano had initially assumed that you were yet another copy of every try-hard girl in the school: vain, arrogant, focused only on your looks.

A flatterer.

A doormat.

That's all she thought you were.

From the outside, it was hard to find anything that would suggest you were anything above superficial. Being surrounded by multiple people at once, all trying to keep your attention on them, made it hard for her to form any other possible opinion. She couldn't hear any of your conversations, nor could she get close enough to study the microscopic changes in your expression.

There was a temptation to try and get close to you. It started as a small spark occasionally flickering beneath her skin, but as time went on, it began to spread, lighting every nerve ablaze and making it nearly impossible to think of anyone or anything else. It was a new feeling — one of the only things she could feel — and she could not understand it either.

Had it not been for the constant talk of you throughout the hallways of the school, she wouldn't have even known your name. As the desire to learn more about you grew stronger, it brought forth another new sensation: sheepishness. She knew next to nothing about you, yet she was too afraid of how you'd react if she approached you.

The other students never spoke of her kindly, and given how chatty you were with a large portion of the school, it would be no surprise to her if you had heard all of the rumors and formed a similar opinion yourself.

If she approached you, would you run away?

Would you mock her and tease her for the things entirely out of her control?

A part of her, one she couldn't recognize fully, hoped that you would welcome her. That you'd flash her that charming smile you sent to everyone. That you'd greet her and fill her with a sense of calm and belonging.

As those wishes grew, she found herself becoming increasingly aware of her mother's words. Her advice. She'd find someone who would let her feel and grow. She warned that it would be confusing at first, but with a bit of time and understanding, it would become an addictive feeling, one that she'd never want to rid herself of.

There would be no numbness left. She'd finally be granted the chance to know what it feels like to be normal. To know what it feels like to care. To love. That's all she's ever wanted was to be normal.

But now, as she watches you from afar, there's a new want clawing its way into her soul. Within days, its made itself home in her heart, which she had convinced herself would never feel the warmth of what she wanted most.

You.

She wanted you.

There were so many attempts made to catch your attention, all of which failed or ended with her running off from shame before you could speak to her. Still, she studied you, trying to find a way into your life.

That's when it hit her.

You were into fashion — the one thing she cared so little about. It was your passion. One that you shared with the school. You never tried to lie about what your routine was, or what products you used. Ayano had even caught you handing a few of your favorite products over to the students who had asked about them. There was no hesitation in your aid, either, and it only took a bit of talking herself up before she wrote a letter and stuffed it through the slots of your locker.

Inside, on the neatly folded sheet of paper, rested her phone number, address, and a coy plea to help her experiment with her style and figure out what she was confident in.

To her delight, you agreed, shooting her a quick message to let her know that you had read her letter and were more than willing to help. You told her you'd come over on the weekend, and after she gave you a few of her measurements, you went on a small shopping spree, trying to find things that would suit her the best.

It was your intention to surprise her, although that wouldn't be the case. Not that you knew that. She'd followed you up to the mall, watching with pure fascination and intrigue as you effortlessly spotted and plucked different clothes off the shelves and racks. Each item kept a general color scheme, though there were a few that strayed away from it.

She had said she wanted to experiment, after all. What better way than to try all sorts of colors and styles?

Her eyes were locked on you all the way up until you left the building. Not wanting to get caught, she darted away and took a longer path home.

All she could do then was wait.

It was hard. She wished you were there with her already, but with every hour that built up to Saturday, the fear from before settled in the pit of her stomach. What if she did something that weirded you out? Would you leave if she got too close? If she got a little too open and honest about how much she'd learned about you in such a short amount of time?

She knew she had to keep all of that inside. At least until you were close enough for her to properly gauge how you'd react. Maybe, if she gained your trust fully, you'd find it endearing rather than terrifying.

By the time Saturday finally rolled around, her limbs were practically buzzing with excitement. Her fingers, numb and tingling, tapped away at her phone screen, repeatedly closing out of the messenger app and opening it to see if you had left her any new texts.

She'd informed her mother about what was going on, and after an enthusiastic congratulations, Ryoba promised to make sure she and Jokichi were out of the house to grant her privacy. Ryoba trusted her daughter. She'd taught her well over the years, and now she was finally given the opportunity to prove herself.

True to her word, Ryoba made up some kind of excuse to get Jokichi to follow her out for a few hours, leaving Ayano to prepare herself to finally be alone with you without the worry of interruption or judgment beyond your own.

She'd decided on a pair of black track pants, a white, short-sleeved t-shirt, and a beige cardigan draped loosely across her shoulders, the buttons parted to keep it open for a more casual look. There was no makeup on yet, considering you promised to help her experiment with that as well, and she kept her hair tied up in its usual style.

Eager and desperate to see you, she leaned herself up against the wall by the front door, still checking your messages on repeat until you finally began typing. Her thumb, which had nearly swiped off of the app, froze, hovered above the dim lighting of her screen, hesitant to make another move.

'I think I'm at the right place,' you typed, the sight of your confirmation enough to leave a faint trail of crimson across her skin and get her heart pounding harder against the inside of her ribs. Without taking into consideration just how off-putting it would seem, she spun around and flung the door open, leaving her there with the view of you jolting and staring at her with wide eyes.

After a moment, she cleared her throat, briefly averting her gaze and stepping to the side to let you in. "Apologies," she mumbled. "I'm just very… excited." You offered a gentle laugh, one that she instantly wanted to hear more of. "It's alright. No need to apologize," you replied as you walked past her and into the house.

When she closed and locked the door, she turned to you, finding you standing there, waiting expectantly. It took her a moment to figure out what you were waiting on. "Oh," she blurted after another few seconds. "Sorry, I'm new to this. We can go up to my bedroom." It was then that she registered the bags in your hands. They seemed to be weighing you down.

"Here, let me help you carry those," she offered, already reaching for the bags clasped in your left hand. Huffing out a sigh of relief, you handed them to her without delay, a grin tugging at the corners of your lips. "Thanks. They got really heavy while walking here."

It was almost instinct to mirror your smile.

It was natural.

But how could she not smile back at you?

Your glee was contagious, even to someone like her who had hardly felt anything her entire life.

"You didn't have to find so many things for me to try. I would've been more than content with a few shirts or leggings."

You hummed, trailing behind her as she made her way upstairs to her bedroom. "Well, then there wouldn't really be much to experiment with. Besides, I don't mind. It'll be fun!" She hummed, her head turning briefly to eye you as she climbed the steps before you. "Fun. Yes. I'm sure it will be."

It only took a few more steps to reach her room. The room was everything you'd expected from her, given how distant and reclusive she seemed at school. Bare walls, a desk organized neatly with papers from school, a wardrobe tucked in the corner to hold her few outfits, and her bed, tidy and plain. It wasn't what you were used to seeing when you'd go over to friend's houses, but it wasn't a drab sight either.

It suited her.

You turned to her after setting the rest of the bags down beside her desk, nearly jumping out of your skin at the sight of her staring right back at you with an unrecognizable expression. "Is everything okay?" You asked softly. She nodded with a bit too much force, but you chose not to point it out.

"Yes, of course. I just," she paused, and you watched as her eyes darted around her own room, suddenly holding a mixture of unease and uncertainty. "Is there something wrong with how I've set up my room?" You blinked, surprised. You didn't figure that she cared what others thought — that was one of the main things that drew you to her in the first place: she didn't need the attention or validation of others to thrive.

She did well in all of her classes, and she always looked flawless, regardless of how minimalist her makeup was. She impressed you, honestly.

So for her to ask for your opinion on her bedroom — a space reserved solely for her?

"No, of course not," you finally answered after a beat. "It's very cozy. I'm just not entirely sure where to sit or stand while we mess around with the different outfits." Almost unnoticeably, her shoulders tensed, and she dropped her own handful of bags down with very little consideration of what could be inside.

She walked over and pulled her chair out from her desk, motioning subtly to the seat. "Sorry, I should've let you know sooner that you're free to sit wherever. You could sit here or on my bed, if you'd like." Internally, she hoped you'd choose to sit on her bed, wanting nothing more than to be able to catch your scent on her sheets as she dozed off later that night.

To her dismay, you chose the office chair, though she supposed it wasn't necessarily a loss. Your perfume would surely cling to it as well. It would give her all the more reason to spend her time studying at the desk.

"Thank you," you blurted, snapping her out of her thoughts. She nodded and hummed. "Of course."

She moved to her bed after grabbing the previously discarded bag from the ground. With a grunt, she dropped onto the mattress, took a breath, then peeked inside to see what you had brought. "So," you started while your hands clapped together excitedly. "I wasn't entirely sure if there was a specific style you'd like, and I really only see you at school, so I don't know what casual clothes you already have. That being said, I did take my time to try and find stuff I thought would bring out your features."

A hum was her reply. She nodded along, acting innocent, as if she hadn't watched you hand-select everything for her yourself. She feigned surprise as you began to pull out the different blouses and accessories. She disguised the recognition in her eyes as intrigue.

Even though she'd expected each item you tugged from the bags, she hadn't anticipated the feeling of flattery you'd unknowingly brought her. It bubbled through her veins, drawing her focus away from the clothes, and ultimately left her speechless as she simply watched you.

Not only had you gone out of your way to search for and buy different outfits you thought she would like, you'd also been thinking specifically of the features they would emphasize. "I think this'll really bring out your eyes," you said as you held up one of the blouses. "And if we mess around with your hair and makeup a bit, I'm sure we could find a style that would bring out your lips and nose, too."

You were thinking of her: of her eyes, her lips, her nose — the same parts her mind latched onto whenever she thought of you. Maybe you weren't thinking of those features in the same way as her, but it brought her delight to know you were thinking of her at all.

"I'll leave—" Your words instantly drew her back into the present. She gawked at you, an overwhelming sense of offense and hurt instantly contorting her face. Thankfully, you hadn't noticed.

You were leaving? Already? What had she done?

"—the room," she took a breath, "so you can get changed. Just let me know when I can come back in." Although she didn't want you to leave, she could only nod, then watch as you stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind you.

Her focus landed on the separate piles on her desk. There was no spark of interest in her eyes as they bore into the different fabrics, nor was there any better of an understanding in her mind for the appeal of it all.

Truthfully, she didn't care for any of the outfits. Not for the way they looked, anyway. She only liked them because you were the one who had given them to her. That, and you had put so much thought behind each article. Because you were the one to pick them out for her, pay for them out of your own pocket, and gift them to her, she loved them, every single one.

She thought back on the way you looked at each blouse, each skirt, each pair of pants, and she put on the ones that you seemed the most excited to see her in. With a brief look at herself, she made her way back to the bedroom door, prying it open and peering out to find you waiting a few feet away from the frame. Your head turned at the sound of the door opening, a smile your way of greeting her when you made eye contact.

"You're welcome to come in again," she spoke, then stepped back to let you slip in past her. When you made it in and faced her properly, you let out a small squeal, the grin on your lips once again growing contagious and forcing one to mirror itself on Ayano. "Oh, you look so good!" You said, bouncing on your toes. "So pretty!"

Pretty.

You thought she was pretty?

There was no way for her to hide the crimson creeping over her face at your words, though she wasn't entirely worried about concealing it either. You were far too focused on the way the outfit complimented her to notice.

"Thank you," she managed to murmur.

The next few hours felt like they were all blurred together. She tried on different combinations, all of which you met with pure excitement, and you never failed to shower her in compliments. That kind of praise wasn't something she tended to care for, but hearing you speak so highly of her? It drove her insane.

By the time you left for the evening, her heart throbbed with every recall of your words. She had to make it happen again.

The end of the next week, you once again found a letter in your locker. You recognized the handwriting immediately, barely having to skim over the message inside before you tugged your phone out, shooting her a text and letting her know you were more than willing to help out again.

This time, it was with her hair and makeup.

Feeling your fingers in her hair, nails occasionally grazing over her scalp, and leading different strands into specific directions to style it had her shutting her eyes. A small smile was the only outward indication that she was enjoying it, but she could feel the pleasure and delight coursing throughout each limb.

When you sat in front of her on the bed to apply different makeup products, she was stiff, even with you letting her know she could make herself comfortable. Her body was rigid because of the impulse she felt to pull you into her lap. She had to fight against it, not wanting to upset you or scare you away.

But having one of your hands cradle her jaw to keep it steady helped her ease up a bit. She practically melted into your touch, and beyond a small chuckle, you didn't comment on it. It was clear she liked being around you, even though you'd hardly spent time together. You seemed to bring her a sense of peace.

It was cute.

You liked being around her already, too.

It became a routine thing after that second day to come over to her house on the weekend and help her pick out different outfits and styles for the following week. After a while, though, you wouldn't hide behind that excuse anymore. You started spending time with her just for the fun of it.

Uncaring of the curious — and occasionally disgusted — glares, you began to spend time with her during school as well. You'd meet up with her at lunch, sit with her during study hall, chat with her between classes, and eventually walk with her to and from school.

It was only a matter of time before you caught feelings for her as well and finally became official with her.

To say she was elated would be an understatement. Her plan had worked flawlessly. You were hers now, and it was all thanks to something she paid so little attention to before.

Still, even after dating her for months — and years — you still chose new outfits for her. You'd help her dress, help her apply her makeup, and help her style her hair. She didn't bother hiding how much she loved it anymore. There was no need, to be fair. You got to watch every reaction you could pull from her.

Every sigh and small groan she'd give while your fingers carded through her hair.

Every perk of her lips when you reminded her how beautiful she was.

Every instant her body would fall slack beneath your touch as you put on her makeup for her.

She just loved that you were near her. She still cared very little for the cosmetics and outfits, but now that you were the one helping her experiment with it all?

She had to admit it.

She was warming up to it.

Even though he was the one to take the call and accept the job, Venkman had the week planned with Dana, so he dumped the work on someone else. Winston was with his family, so he couldn’t and wouldn’t take it. While Ray stayed in New York, he was doing his own celebrating with his beloved "Ecto-mobile" and a family of his own.

On the other side of things, Egon was Jewish--but even then, he never really celebrated holidays, so the entire month just felt like a normal month in New York for him. Just a lot more snow and terrible, repetitive music playing on the radio. Work seemed to get busier, the city-people angrier even when they sang of being jolly. He hyper-focused on people’s emotions, always trying to find where it came from… home issues, the cold, he’d never know.

As the last of the gang? You wanted any excuse not to go back home for Christmas. You wanted snow, and you desperately wanted to stay hundreds and hundreds of miles away from your mother asking when you’d get a real job–a desk job–and not some silly performance gig. New York was your new home, ghosts and all. Your family home was left far behind you and forgotten. For the most part.

So, you and Egon were the only two 'busters available for the job. He looked up a hotel near the old lady’s place so that on the way back you two had somewhere to sleep beside the car, and you kept your fingers crossed that it wouldn't be packed when you got there.

 The customer’s name was Gerda, she was a somewhat scary woman in her late 70s–living alone and content as so. She made sure to hammer that into your heads, saying how annoying the surprisingly quiet and low-rank the ghost haunting her was. Ms. Gerda wasn’t exactly the kindest woman, her thick German accent didn’t help much with that, either–but she thanked you after paying cash with weighted appreciation in her mother tongue. Then, she promptly kicked you out.

You left with the ghost trap still smoking, shoving it into the back of the car with the hope that it’d be fine overnight by itself as you drove to the hotel. You packed light, and thankfully neither of you were slimed, so you were mainly clean and sane looking as you entered the very busy lobby. You had stripped to your everyday clothes (plus a few jackets and scarfs for the cold) before walking into the building. It seemed busier inside than out.

You went to the desk ahead of Egon, bitterly cold and overly excited to get into a room with hot tea and a nice shower. And warm sheets, though they wouldn’t be very warm at first. "Sorry, there's only one available at the moment." The young lady at the desk said, blowing a bubble with her pink bubble gum. She didn't seem at all sorry, more annoyed that she had to be working and talking to customers.

Egon raised an eyebrow, noticing your failure to respond fast enough. You were just weighing your options. You and Egon, spending the night in the same room? What would he even think about that? He seemed like he was going to decline, probably offering to drive back to the station while you slept in the passenger seat–he was too nice like that sometimes. You wondered what you did to deserve his kindness.

“We’ll take it,” You said quickly, pulling out your wallet. Egon looked to you as if asking if you were sure, and you just shrugged. “I don’t want to drive all night and I’m sure you don’t either.” You whispered, earning an honest, semi-enthused grunt from the man.

"I'll sleep on the couch. Or the chair. Whatever's there.” Egon said slowly as you made your way down the hallway, your eyes glancing from the number attached to the key, to the room numbers. “You take the bed. I know your back hurts whenever you sleep on anything else," He said as he took the key and opened the door for you. You would’ve laughed at his words had you not fallen victim to his unintentional charm. He was too caring then, it caught you off guard. You simply didn’t spend enough time with the man to warrant such a reaction.

With Venkman, you got flirted with constantly, even when he was in a relationship with Dana. You honestly couldn’t tell if he was genuinely interested, or if he did it for shock factor. Probably the latter, but it was unnerving either way. He’d probably be trying to get you into bed if it’d been Peter who went on this trip with you. Winston, Winston was a good guy and a good friend. But sleeping in the same bed? You’d be embarrassed beyond words. The relationship between the two of you was strictly platonic–the same with Ray. 

But with Egon things were different. Way different. You wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with him, and your big fat crush on him certainly contributed to the idea that made your face turn red. He was gentle, kind. Awkward. But anyone would be awkward if they were as smart yet stupid as him. 

You were also surprised at how composed you were, taking initiative with the keys and the like. You wondered if Egon found it curious, how quick you were to agree to a one-bed situation. But if he was thinking about it, he didn’t say anything–all the words leaving his mouth were about the sleeping situation instead.

As you looked around the room, you both placed your bag on the bed and inspected the quite sad furniture. "You were saying?" You said. It was only the bed, a desk, and a broken chair–it’s back laying in the corner of the room. 

"The floor looks comfortable," He said, you knew he was joking. You snorted.

"Just sleep with me," You suggested, seemingly unphased. Though inside you certainly were not. At times like then, you were glad Egon couldn't read minds. "It's not like you've got another choice." You sighed, placing your bathroom bag on the nightstand beside you. 

"Plus, I'm not the only one with a bad back, Dr. six foot two.." You joked, your hands pointing towards him and wiggling. The eye contact almost made you drop, your knees threatening to buckle and break.

He blushed at your comment, removing his luggage from the bed just to do something with his hands. "Fine, if you're sure you're comfortable sharing with me." He said, face warm, but you didn’t notice as your mind was elsewhere. Aka, being lost in his eyes, which were then looking anywhere but back into yours.

"Well, why wouldn't I be? You're certainly not Venkman." You joked, but it was true. He was respectful in all regards. If he accidentally touched you, he'd apologize. Not many men did that, not many men you knew at least.

"I trust you," You said, quietly removing your bag as well and putting it on the floor to join Spengler’s. You heard a noise from his side, sounding like he was clearing his throat. You looked away, slightly embarrassed at what you’d admitted. "Well, it's not that late yet.. want a drink? They should have a water heater around here somewhere. Teabags too."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, crossing one leg over his knee as he watched you inspect the little kitchen area. "If there are any." He shrugged–a nod somewhere in there as well–an awkward gesture of approval and appreciation. You smiled back.

You found the water heater, put it on, and made the two of you some tea. It wasn't the best tasting tea--they didn't give you any sugar, so you sipped reluctantly the rest of the night just to have something–free–in your stomach.

The hours passed, the clock reached 10 pm. "When do you usually sleep?" You asked as you shimmied your way under the sheets in your pajamas; sweatpants, and a t-shirt. Minus the socks, but you regretted taking them off as it got cold very quickly.

"Not this early," he admitted, pulling the blankets that I stole back over his lap as his eyes fixed on the book in his hand. "You go to sleep at ten, I assume?"

"And wake up at six." You nodded, a yawn escaping your lips. He looked down at you and smiled a bit before closing the book on his bookmark--the one you bought him for his birthday a year ago. He asked for no presents--nothing special, but you couldn't resist. 

"Well, you seem exhausted. Goodnight." You nodded at his words, closing your eyes. A part of you was disappointed at how quick he was to dismiss you to sleep--you had hoped to perhaps talk a bit into the night. But as the lamp light from his side of the bed turned off with the sound of a little click, the room plunged into a quiet darkness.

After a couple minutes you began to shake, you brought your hands to your mouth, hoping your breath would warm you. It took you a couple more minutes before you decided to speak up about it, the cold becoming too much. "Uh. Egon?" 

"Mm?" He didn't sound very tired at all. You felt somewhat silly to sleep next to a man who didn't want to sleep much at all.

"I know you're not big on touching me and stuff--"

"That's not what I meant," He interjected, but you kept talking.

"--but it's like, really, really cold. Can you hold me?" The plea came from your lips quickly, coldly--teeth chattering. You could hear him clear his throat quietly before making an almost inaudible sound of approval.

He turned on his side, bringing you into a hug. A very, very awkward hug. It felt warmer, but it felt a lot more awkward than you expected it to. So, you shifted on your side as well, facing him and pressing your face into him as you snuggled your body into his chest.

He didn't make a sound, but he seemed to have loosened a bit, his arms feeling less robotic around you. "See? Not so hard, now is it?" You giggled into his chest after another nice moment, words muffled into his sleep shirt.

He just tightened his arms around you, one palm laying flat on your back, his thumb rubbing sweet, soothing circles into your shoulder blade.

It felt nice, in that... ‘is this allowed?’ kind of way. You'd liked Egon for a while. Romantically, and not. Beforehand, that was. You were best friends before any real feelings surfaced. And cuddling with him just felt.. so right.

"You feel warm," He commented, causing you to press your hands to his chest, toying with the fabric of his button-up shirt with his matching trousers. God, he was such a silly man. You let yourself breathe, trying to resist the urge to inhale his scent. He smelled like… maplewood and pine. A hint of citrus too, you tried not to lose yourself in his aroma.

You could tell he was trying to see if you were faking it. Perhaps pretending to be cold so you could wrap yourself in his arms. "Mm, you're warmer. You feel so good," You murmured, snuggling closer if it was possible.

He gulped, you felt it, and his heartbeat was beating against your right fist as you balled up his shirt and let it go a few times. 

"Go to sleep," he hissed, and you looked up at him with a scrunched up nose, lightheartedly offended.

"Rude," You said, before scooting up, face closer to him. His eyes seemed to widen, and you couldn't help but chuckle at that.

"You can't sleep with your glasses on, Spengs." You took them off his face slowly before reaching over him to put them on his side of the nightstand. 

"I was not exactly planning to sleep just yet," His voice was nervous again.

"How am I supposed to sleep if you don't? Come on, close your eyes," You sighed, laying your head on his pillow--leaving your own behind in the sake of warmth. Your hands covered his eyes, and once you knew they were shut, you took your hands away. "There,"

"This is not doing much..." Egon chuckled, his thousand-dollar smile being flashed your way. It was beautiful, he was so beautiful.

You pressed your hands to his jaw, cupping his face as he smiled with his eyes closed, laughing at your stupid attempt to get him to sleep.

"Stop being so handsome or I swear I'm going to fall in love with you," The words left your mouth before you could really process them, thumbs caressing his cheeks.

He opened his eyes, meeting yours quickly. He muttered your name. You readied yourself for the worst, shutting your eyes tight to avoid seeing his face in the dark. You didn't want to see his discomfort, if there was any.

"Well, I should continue to be handsome then," He said, quiet, under his breath, but loud enough in the deathly silence that you could very possibly hear it from the damn bathroom. "Because I seem to already in love with you. I’ve just been hoping you felt the same."