#introverted reader

He’s hyper-aware of your personal space bubble. The second an overly loud, touchy scout leans in too close, Levi’s hand is on the small of your back, guiding you away without a word. His glare alone is enough to clear a three-foot radius.

Around others, he’s controlled. Blunt. Dry.

Alone? Filthy.

You’ll be avoiding his gaze, pretending to focus on something trivial, and he’ll tilt your chin up with two fingers.

“You gonna keep staring,” he murmurs, voice low and deliberate, “or you gonna do something about it, doll?”

He loves that only he gets to see you open up. The way your voice steadies. The way you tease him back when you’re comfortable. The rare laugh that slips out when it’s just the two of you.

That’s his.

And he guards it like everything else he cares about.

Eren Yeager

At first, he was convinced you didn’t like him.

You avoided eye contact. Your answers were short. You stiffened whenever he got too close. Eren, who has never been subtle a day in his life, took that personally.

It wasn’t until a late-night expedition, both of you stuck on watch while the others slept, that he understood.

The fire was low. The air was quiet. You were softer in the dark.

“Armin and I always wanted to see the sea,” he said, staring into the flames. He paused, then glanced at you, almost shy himself. “I hope you’ll be there the day we do.”

You didn’t say much. Just nodded, cheeks warm, hands tucked into your sleeves. But your eyes were bright, and that was enough.

He fell for the quiet parts of you. The way your face flushed when someone new introduced themselves. The way your laugh slipped out unexpectedly once you felt safe.

He loved that laugh more than anything.

You never did see the sea with him.

And when he stands in front of your grave, wind tugging at his jacket, he closes his eyes and pretends you’re still there beside him, staring out at endless blue.

Armin Arlert

Two shy people accidentally forming the most powerful shy alliance the Scouts have ever seen.

You sit beside each other at meetings. Not speaking. Just existing in the same quiet frequency.

Your friends constantly try to drag you into social situations. Jean will shove Armin forward. Sasha will push you from behind. It’s chaos.

You and Armin developed a system.

When meeting someone new, you both stand there in silence for a beat too long before whispering:

“You go.”

“No, you.”

You’ve even made it a game. Whoever lasts longer without introducing themselves wins.

Armin usually folds first.

But the second he sees you buffering too hard, eyes wide and brain clearly offline, he steps in smoothly.

“Hi, I’m Armin. This is Y/N.”

Later, when it’s just the two of you, he’ll laugh softly about it. Not teasing. Just fond.

With him, you don’t feel pressured to be louder. Or braver. Or different.

You’re just two quiet people, choosing each other anyway.

He corners you after class the next day. He’s terrible at it. He looms in the hallway, arms crossed, jaw tight, and barks, “Oi. You. Why do you keep running away?”

You flinch. The walls are too close. His eyes are too intense. Your pulse skyrockets. You can’t breathe. You shove past him and bolt. Sakura is left staring after you, his scowl more confused than angry. He replays the moment, sees the panic flash in your eyes, and feels a cold twist in his gut. He’s frightening you. He, who knows exactly what it feels like to be cornered and afraid, just did that to someone else.

He doesn’t apologize with words because words aren’t his language. Instead, he changes.

The next time you cross paths, it’s in the empty school garden at dusk. You’re sitting with your back against the shed, staring at nothing. Sakura stops a careful distance away. He doesn’t approach. He just sits, not looking at you, and sets down a carton of strawberry milk. Then he pulls out his own juice and drinks it in absolute silence.

You don’t run.

That becomes the pattern. He exists near you, never demanding anything. You begin to understand that this boy, with his defensive snarl and his ridiculous hair, is respecting a boundary nobody else has even noticed. You learn his silences the way you once learned a second language. The way he nudges a chair out for you. The way he growls at Suo when the teasing edges toward you. The way he somehow intercepts anyone trying to enthusiastically drag you into a crowd.

You start to feel safe. And that terrifies you.

The fighting comes out by accident.

You’re walking home—alone, because you always walk alone—when three guys from a rival school block the alley. They see the Furin uniform and decide to make a point. Your body reacts before your brain does. Years of training, of turning terror into muscle memory, snap into place. You break one man’s wrist with a twist. Your elbow meets a temple. The last one swings a pipe, and you duck, pivot, and drive your palm into his solar plexus so hard he folds. It’s over in twelve seconds.

You look up, breathing hard, and Sakura is at the mouth of the alley. He was following you, he’ll admit later, because he’s an idiot who didn’t like the look of the darkening street. He saw everything.

He’s staring. Not with fear. Not with judgment. He looks like he’s just discovered a hidden door in a house he thought he knew.

“You can fight,” he says. It’s not a question.

You can’t move. Your secret is out. Now he’ll tell everyone. Now they’ll want to see, to test you, to crowd around and watch—

“You’re amazing,” Sakura says, and his voice cracks on the word, like it’s being dragged out of him by force. His ears are bright red. “Why the hell would you hide that?”

No one has ever called you amazing. Not the old, loud you. Not the new, hollow you. The word lands in your chest and explodes.

You don’t answer. You can’t. But Sakura doesn’t push. He just falls into step beside you, a half-pace ahead, shielding you from the stares of passersby. He walks you home that night, and the night after, and the night after that.

Slowly, the story leaks out. Not because he tells anyone—Sakura would sooner die. But you start showing up. Not to the big gatherings, not yet. But when he sits on the edge of the rooftop, you sit beside him. When Nirei approaches with a sunny smile and a question about your hobbies, you stammer but don’t flee. Suo offers you a cryptic compliment, and Sakura yells at him, and you almost—almost—laugh.

The first time you speak more than two words to the group, it’s because someone threatens Sakura. A gang from out of town, looking to make a name by taking down the rising star of Furin. They ambush him in an old warehouse, eight against one. He’s holding his own, blood on his knuckles, but a metal pipe catches him behind the knee and he staggers. You see it through a grimy window. You were searching for him because he was late, and you felt that old, sick dread, the one that says people you care about leave.

You don’t think. You kick the door off its hinges.

The fight is brutal and beautiful. The rival gang has numbers and weapons, and it's the closest either of you has come to losing. But you fight together, back-to-back, and you win. Barely. When the last enemy drops, you're both on the floor. Sakura's leaning against a crate, you're slumped against the opposite wall. There's blood on his temple, a bruise blooming across your jaw. The air reeks of sweat and rust.

Silence. Just ragged breathing.

"You're safe. That's good." Barely a whisper, but he heard it, and that was enough.

Then Sakura moves. He crawls—actually crawls—across the space between you. He's too exhausted to stand. He doesn't stop until he's right in front of you, so close you can see the individual strands of white and black in his hair, the flecks of gold in his mismatched eyes. His hands hover near your shoulders, not touching.

"You—" he starts. His voice is wrecked. He swallows. "You could have died."

You open your mouth to say something—you're fine, he's fine, everyone's alive—but nothing comes out. Because he's shaking. Sakura Haruka, who faced down a gang at the top of Furin, who fought eight people at once without flinching, is trembling like a leaf. His jaw is clamped so tight you can see the muscle jumping.

"You're the only one," he says. The words are dragged out of him, one by one, like he's pulling teeth from his own soul. "The only one who... who gets it. The quiet. The..." He makes a frustrated noise, unable to articulate. His fist hits the floor weakly. "If you were gone, I'd—"

He can't finish.

And you understand. Because you feel it too. This terrifying, unnameable thing between you. It's not just friendship. It's not romance in the neat, clean way people talk about. It's being seen. Fully, unflinchingly seen by another person, and still being chosen.

You reach out. Not for his face, not for his lips. You take his hand—his bruised, bloodied knuckles—and you hold it. Just hold it. Your palm against his. Your fingers laced loosely, a question without words.

Sakura stares at your joined hands. His breath catches. His fingers curl, slowly, like he's learning a new language, and then he's gripping your hand so tightly it almost hurts. His head drops forward, forehead nearly touching your shoulder.

"Idiot," he whispers. It's the fondest word you've ever heard.

You don't talk. You didn't need to. You sit there, in the wrecked warehouse, holding hands and breathing, and it's more honest than any grand gesture could be. This is the confession: not a speech, not a dramatic embrace. A boy who can't say "I love you" saying everything with his trembling grip. A reader who can't find their voice saying everything with their presence.

When the others find you—Nirei frantic, Suo's calm cracking at the edges—you're still sitting side by side. Your shoulders are touching. His hand is still to his side trying hard not to reach yours. Nobody comments. Suo's eyes flicker down to your almost joined hands, and his smile turns knowing but gentle. Nirei starts crying with relief. Umemiya arrives and just beams, like he's seen a flower bloom in the middle of a battlefield.

In the weeks that follow, you begin to step back into the noise. You sit at the edge of the group, then inch inward. You trade a joke with Nirei and watch his face light up. You show Suo your new martial arts form. You help Umemiya plant tomatoes, your sleeves rolled up, soil under your nails, while Sakura sulks nearby because gardening is "stupid" (he waters the tomatoes every morning).

One evening, you're alone with Sakura on the rooftop. The town glows amber below. He's beside you, closer than he used to stand. There's a question hovering in the air—it's been hovering since the warehouse, since you held his hand and didn't let go.

He clears his throat. You look at him. His ears are red, but his gaze is steady.

"I, uh." He stops. Scowls. Tries again. "What I said. In the warehouse. That you're the only one who..." He can't finish. His hand opens and closes at his side.

You wait. You're good at waiting now. You've learned that silence isn't emptiness; it's space you can fill when you're ready.

"I want you to stay," he finally says. "Not just... not just in the group. With me. Near me. If you want." He's staring at the sunset like it personally offended him. "I don't know what to call it. This. Us. But I don't want it to stop."

Your heart is pounding. The old you—the loud one, the one who died in a crowd—would have laughed and hugged him and filled the silence with noise. But you're not that person anymore. You're someone new. Someone who learned that words can wait.

You lean over and rest your head on his shoulder. Lightly. A gift he can refuse.

He doesn't refuse. He goes rigid for one breath, two—then relaxes. His arm shifts, hesitant, and settles around your back. His hand doesn't grip; it rests, warm and careful, on your shoulder blade. Like you're something precious he's afraid to break.

"This," you murmur. Your voice is rusty, but it's there. "I want this."

He exhales. It sounds like relief. It sounds like home.

W E E K O N E // M O N D A Y

The dining hall at Kildare Academy was moderately full. Most students’ classes were already over, and a lot of Kooks went to the restaurants down the street, even though the serving station offered fresh high-quality food.

Okay, fries weren’t exactly healthy but they probably made them from potatoes grown specifically for Kooks (yes, as a Kook yourself, you were their biggest hater).

Whatever. The dining hall wasn’t the reason your heart was about to explode in your chest.

No. You were having lunch.

With. Rafe. Cameron.

If someone had told you this morning, you would’ve laughed.

Because, HELLO??? Rafe had been your crush since you’d first set foot in high school in fifth grade.

Okay, not exactly special—what Figure 8 girl hadn’t had a crush on Rafe at some point?

But that wasn’t the point. This whole ... thing just felt so surreal.

A crush had always been just that—a crush. You weren’t the type to walk up to a guy and say, Hey, you’re cute, let’s go on a date. That would mean putting yourself out there and making yourself vulnerable.

And the last thing you ever wanted was to be seen.

Not in a physical way. That was unavoidable. No, what scared you was someone actually seeing you, the parts of yourself you kept locked away. (Especially the weird parts.)

Good thing I’m not dramatic.

So while your 11-year-old self was doing backflips of joy, your 18-year-old self was having a full-blown existential crisis.

Okay, maybe not that bad.

“You were right,” Rafe said, pulling you from your thoughts. He was sitting across from you, pushing his fork through his quinoa-veggie bowl.

You eyed him confused. “About what?”

Rafe nodded toward your fries, the corner of his lips tugging into a subtle smile. “I am a fries guy. Quinoa tastes like shit and rocks.”

You glanced at his bowl before meeting his gaze again, a knowing smile on your face. “I guess it’s the color. Red and black ones are usually more bitter and firmer than their white counterparts.”

Rafe raised a brow, amused. “As a quinoa expert, you could’ve warned me.”

Your cheeks heated. You kind of had, with that dumb joke outside the gym earlier. “I thought you already knew what it tasted like.”

“I do,” he shrugged, taking a bite of his shit and rocks bowl anyway, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe I just wanted to impress you by picking the healthier option.”

WHATWHATWHATWHATWHAT.

Impress you? BOY NO NEED, YOU ALREADY GOT MY VOTE.

What were you even supposed to respond to that? HELP, I suck at whatever this is.

So you just forced a chuckle and took a sip of your water, trying to act like a normal person.

…

…

...

Shit.

Now there was that awkward silence you always dreaded in conversations.

Okay, okay, stay calm.

Should I say something? Should I offer him my fries?

You almost laughed. Hell no, that’d be so weird. Plus the quinoa part of his bowl didn’t even take up a third of the whole meal.

You wished Cara were here. She’d know exactly what to say and how to act. She went on dates all the time, made out with guys at parties just for fun, and could hold a normal fucking conversation with a guy she was interested in.

“So, you like… a real artist or something?” Rafe asked, breaking the unbearable silence. “Since you picked Art as an elective?”

You looked up, quickly swallowing the bite of fries in your mouth before giving him a nervous smile. “Yeah, I mean—no, I wouldn’t call myself a real artist, not like Da Vinci or such.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I just draw sometimes when I’m bored.”

Jesus Christ, did he have to look at you like that? His blue eyes were drilling into your entire existence.

Rafe nodded. “Digital or traditional?”

You blinked at him, stunned.

How the fuck did Frat Boy Rafe Cameron know the difference between digital and traditional art?

Your expression made him smirk. And as if he had read your thoughts, he said, “My little sister Wheezie draws random shit on her iPad all the time.” His brows furrowed. “Dunno, figured this was a thing—”

“No, I mean—yes, totally,” you blurted out, immediately feeling your face heat up because you just cut him off. “Most people start with pencil and paper but drawing on a tablet or iPad is just as legit.” You awkwardly cleared your throat, nodding. “Um… so, yeah … I do both, to answer your question.”

Help, he would’ve had a more entertaining conversation with a rock.

Rafe barely raised a brow, a lazy smile on his lips. “It’s cool that you draw. Guess I got lucky having you as my partner for this project.”

WHAT.

Okay, everything’s chill.

NO, NOTHING WAS CHILL.

Is he flirting with me??? Is he just being nice ??? WHAT DOES ALL OF THIS MEAN.

What were you even supposed to reply to that?

Hahaha, thanks, did you know I made our Sims get married in eighth grade? Topper was your best man by the way.

WHAT THE FUCK, NO, STOP.

Whatever, just say something. Anything.

“Thanks,” you mumbled with an embarrassed smile, eyes fixed on your fries and salad.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe lean back, pushing his half-eaten bowl aside. “Only sucks for you. Shit’s not really my thing.”

No shit.

Also, what was that supposed to mean? Was he fishing for a compliment? Like Aww, no, come on, I’m sure you’re great at it.

WAIT.

Holy shit. Was Rafe Cameron secretly a pick-me guy? Were all these years crushing on him wasted?

“Yeah, I figured. Most people just take art class thinking it’ll be an easy A”, you said before he could say more and give you the ick.

OH my god, take it back, take it back—

When you saw his expression, you wanted to crawl into a hole and never come back. He looked… surprised? Confused? Maybe a little offended…?

Then the tension in his face eased. His lips twitched slightly before curving into a lopsided grin, making him look unexpectedly boyish.

“Shit, yeah. Guess that makes me most people”, he said with such ease, it was like you hadn’t just called him out.

How the hell did he manage to turn all your miserable attempts at a normal conversation into something so smooth? If you were in his place, you would've already walked out and dropped art class.

Yo, Mr Smith, this chick you paired me up with, she’s got the social skills of a dead fish.

This was so frustrating. It wasn’t like you were socially incompetent—not really—but around him, your brain just seemed to completely shut down.

“That’s not what I meant,” you said, furrowing your brows, annoyed at your own nervousness.

“Nah, it’s true.” Rafe shrugged. A teasing edge shifted into his voice as he said, “So, if your art grade tanks, you know who to blame.”

Okayyy, he was either trying to get on your good side or looking for a smooth way out of this project—and you weren’t sure which was worse.

You swallowed your last fry and gave a chuckle. I sound like a fake ass bitch. “I’m sure you'll manage. Art is not about drawing perfectly — it’s more about the ideas and how you approach them.”

Jesus, you sounded just like Mr. Smith.

Rafe’s lips twitched into a cocky smirk. “Alright, then I guess you’ll have to help me be more creative.”

...

HUH?

OKAY. I MEAN SURE.

Be for fucking real, did he even realize what his words did to you?

Of course, he did—he probably flirted with girls daily. Or was he just lucky to be born with full charisma stats?

Probably both.

God, this was so embarrassing. Your face probably screamed HI CAN YOU MARRY ME, and to him, you were just some random Kook girl he was stuck with for a boring art project.

Okay, wait no.

Now YOU sounded like a pick-me.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” you said, cheeks flushed, before clearing your throat to change the subject. “Okay, so… maybe we should start brainstorming some ideas? Like a mind map or mood board or something?”

Rafe leaned forward, crossing his arms on the table, and you had to fight the BIGGEST urge to glance at his flexing biceps. “Mood board? You talking about Pinterest type shit?”

Okay, wow, Rafe was absolutely not the type of guy you thought he was. Did he know about this stuff from Wheezie? Or some friends-with-benefits girlie?

Um, no, dude, none of your business.

You nodded. “Yeah, something like that. We can also just start by writing stuff down.”

Rafe shrugged in agreement. “Okay.”

Okay.

He looked at you expectantly.

Ugh, did he really expect YOU to be the one taking notes?

Well, crush or not, he was still just a guy, after all.

You reached for the iPad in your bag, grabbed the Apple Pencil, and opened the Notes app.

As you scribbled down today’s date and gave the note a title, Rafe leaned in even closer, glancing at your screen. “Is this the iPad you use for drawing?”

He was so close now, his woody-aquatic aftershave filling your nose, giving you a strange feeling in your chest … and a very special part in your lower body.

“Yeah,” you replied shortly, ABSOLUTELY FREAKING OUT INSIDE.

“Show me something then.”

“No.”

WHAT.

“No?” Rafe’s gaze flicked from the screen to your flushed face, a cocky glimmer in his gaze as his lips curled into a crooked grin.

Good heavens, up close his eyes looked even more beautiful. They were the kind of blue people wrote bad poetry about. To you, they were a pretty contradiction—cold in color, warm in the way they lingered on your own eyes.

Heart racing, you looked away and laughed nervously. “I mean… maybe we should focus on the project first, you know, time pressure and all.”

With an amused scoff, Rafe leaned back again, glancing at his shiny Rolex for a second (wow, rude) before saying, “To the boring part then."

Somehow it felt like you'd scratched his ego.

Girl, how could you mess up this badly? He probably thought you were some pretentious nerd now.

“So… do you have any ideas?”, you asked, twirling the Apple Pencil in your fingers, just praying for this painfully long lunch break to end.

Rafe pressed his lips together, scratching his jaw. The glass of his watch reflected a spectrum of lights under the ceiling’s lights. “Shit, I dunno. What’s the prompt again? A modern take on the Greek gods?”

“A reinterpretation,” you corrected him, then realizing you sounded like a know-it-all, you quickly added, “but yeah, a modern version could definitely count.”

He nodded absentmindedly, fingers drumming on the table. “Okay, so…", he let out a dry breath and ran a hand over his face. "Shit, what a stupid project."

You chewed the inner part of your cheeks. Okay, he clearly had zero interest in spending his free period working on some elective class’ project with a stranger.

But it had been his idea to meet during lunch, you reminded yourself.

Forcing a smile, you offered, “We can always do this later. We still have two weeks.”

Rafe raised a brow. “You got plans or some shit?”

Oh. Guess that didn’t go over well.

You shook your head. “No, but if you’re not feeling it—”

“I’m not,” he cut in, his fingers stopping their steady rhythm against the table. “But we’re already here, so.”

That didn’t sound very motivated.

“Yeah, I guess”, you said, cringing at the sudden bitterness in your tone.

By the shift in Rafe’s expression, he must have noticed but before he had a chance to comment on it, you quickly picked up on what he’d said earlier. “So, a modern version of Olympus sounds fun. Maybe we can make it about the gods’ roles in today’s society or something like that.”

Rafe eyed you quietly, his expression impossible to read. He then tilted his head, scratching his nose. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe Zeus as the CEO of Olympus Industries or some shit. He’s the big boss, right? And everyone else just kinda works for him.”

Your lips curled into a soft smile. A corporate structure? Why were you not surprised.

“What?” He looked genuinely confused.

You shook your head, cheeks heating up again. “Nothing, that’s… that’s good.”

He raised his brows, a challenging tone in his voice. “You think it’s crap.”

“No,” you replied quickly, then adopted a more serious expression. “Really, it’s a nice take. Maybe his wife — Hera I mean — could be his girl boss PR manager, always cleaning up his scandals?”

A grin tugged at his lips, and with that, the weird tension in the air seemed to fade. “Shit, isn’t she also his sister? Well, yeah, guess she’s gotta cover up his dozen affairs. That guy’s a huge player.”

Okay, real talk, where did he get all this knowledge from? He really didn’t seem the type of guy to be interested in greek mythology.

It was cute though.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. “You seem to be an expert in this field.”

He scoffed amused, leaning back into his chair. His eyes mustered you with a strange mix of entertainment and irritation. “You think I'm a fuckboy or some shit?”

You furrowed your brows in confusion. HUH? What did he mean—

…

Did he-- ... OH SHIT.

A revolting feeling spread in your stomach, your cheeks probably inventing a new shade of red.

WHY ON EARTH HAD YOU PHRASED IT LIKE THAT?!

Some evil gods or spirits must be messing with you right now because there was no way this situation could get any more awkward.

Frantically, you shook your head. “What? I… oh my god, no. NO! I was referring to the Greek gods. Not… you don’t give off such vibes. I mean, it’s none of my business anyway.”

Hey, if there’s a sniper out there, please take me out.

In your mind, you already estimated the cost of moving to another country. Canada had pretty landscapes and New Zealand--

A laugh escaped his lips — cocky, yet carrying the same boyish undertone as earlier, making your heart stop and race at the same time.

“Chill the fuck out,” he said entertained, leaning forward with his arms crossed, biceps flexing again. “I was just kidding.”

No, this didn’t sit right with you.

You shook your head again, daring to meet his eyes. “No, I’m serious, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just … surprised about your knowledge of Greek mythology.” You froze, realizing this also sounded stupid. “Not that I took you for clueless…” Shit. You sighed. “It was stupid of me to phrase it like that and I don’t want you to think I take you for a fuckboy. It’s a shitty term anyway.”

Your nerves were going crazy and you fidgeted with the case of your iPad, waiting for his response.

Rafe silently STARING at you didn’t help at all. He seemed … surprised, maybe a little perplexed even.

SAY SOMETHING PLEASE.

“Aight”, he finally said, his usual cocky expression returning to his face. He slightly shifted in his seat, avoiding your gaze as he scratched his jaw. “Guess I picked up a bit from Wheezie when she had to do a presentation for school or whatever. She couldn't shut up about it. Shit was annoying as hell.”

For a moment, you didn't know what to respond. Why wasn't he offended? Why didn't he mock you for being so weird? WHY WAS HE PUTTING UP WITH AWKWARD ASS?

You smiled, trying to relax your nerves by that. “Sounds like we could use her little expert knowledge on this project.”

Rafe chuckled lowly. “Well, I believe we’ve already got a little expert right here”, he said with a crooked smile, his eyes burning a hole into your soul.

OH. MY. GOD.

I’M FUCKING DONE FOR.

The teasing edge in his voice made your brain shut down and let’s not even start on the breakdance the butterflies in your stomach were performing at the moment.

This had to count as flirting, right? RIGHT?!

You chuckled nervously, cheeks so hot, you could probably roast a sausage on them, and placed the Apple Pencil back on the screen. “Then I hope whatever I picked up from reading Percy Jackson will be enough.“

That's it, bro, you are officially banned from making any more jokes.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

In English class, you could finally breathe again.

Your suffering was over.

During the rest of the lunch break, Rafe and you had talked about some more ideas. Gladly, you hadn’t embarrassed yourself any further (if that was even possible because you’d definitely reached your peak today).

At the end of lunch, Topper had picked him up and they’d left for their own English class. Your goodbyes had been a little awkward but you’d managed.

Right now, you were grateful they didn’t attend the same class as you because you certainly didn’t want to listen to them laughing about what a weirdo you were.

Okay, just breathe. I did it, it’s over.

You tried to concentrate on whatever Mrs. Andrade was talking about but only half the students truly paid attention.

Afternoons in the Outer Banks truly were a cruel thing. So you decided to check your phone:

Sighing quietly, you put your phone away and rubbed your temples. A thousand thoughts raced through your mind, yet at the same time, it felt so empty.

Maybe I'm lucky and tomorrow I’ll wake up to a big newsflash: This just came in, Kildare Academy was reduced to ashes by a sudden fire.

But when had you ever been lucky?

Your phone buzzed again but you really didn’t feel like talking and thinking about Rafe anymore.

This guy had thrown you off track in just an hour but in the best and worst way possible.

And even though every part of you wanted to run from the thought of seeing him again — the way that uncomfortable feeling in your chest wouldn’t let up — there was still a small part of you that found yourself oddly eager to talk to him again, work with him on that stupid little project and listen to his stupid little laugh.

Because somehow in just sixty minutes you’d learned more about Rafe Cameron than you had in nearly seven years at school.

For instance, he was a lot more considerate than you’d expected. Not that you’d ever thought he was like a high school movie bully or some shit but his occasional soft smiles and the way he didn't mock you whenever you'd said some stupid shit definitely surprised you.

Plus, he seemed to care about his little sister which was such an attractive attribute (and the bare minimum let's be honest).

All of this was so strange.

It sounded stupid but Rafe Cameron had always been just a concept to you. A crush you enjoyed looking at and maybe making up your own little idea of (and some scenarios to fall asleep to, be for real).

But now he was... real and—

Bzzrt.

Seriously, Cara had class too, and with Ms. Langford, no less. And unlike Mrs. Andrade, she wasn’t exactly chill.

You picked up your phone again, expecting some delusional text messages—but the moment you saw the notification on your lock screen, your heart stopped.

No fucking way.

NO. FUCKING. WAY.

Holding your breath, you unlocked your phone, and the second your eyes landed on the profile picture, your heart took off in a full sprint. You didn’t even register Mrs. Andrade calling your name.

Because by some strange twist of fate, Rafe Cameron had gotten your number and decided to text you, after what you were sure had been your ultimate humiliation today.

You didn’t know whether to grin, cheer, or jump out of your seat—shit, maybe all three—but instead, you just sat there, wondering if there really was a god of luck and if he’d just decided to bless you.

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K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

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T A G L I S T F O R M If you're just interested in this series, it's enough to drop a comment, no need to fill out the form.

You, the gardener, stood near the edge of the garden, tending to a patch of roses, your delicate fingers brushing against the petals as if you were in a silent conversation with them. You had noticed his arrival, but you hadn’t looked up. It was not because you were unaware of his presence—how could you not be? Aventurine was impossible to ignore. But you were not one for grand declarations or dramatic gestures. The idea of speaking your feelings aloud was something that made you shrink back in quiet embarrassment. And so, you had chosen a different path—a quieter one. You had made a silent declaration to him, one he would never hear unless he looked carefully enough to understand the meaning behind your every movement.

Your eyes flickered momentarily toward him, only to quickly return to the flowers in your hands. The “Dream Declaration” was more than just a name for your shop. It was your way of slowly revealing something you couldn’t say out loud. Each flower you cultivated, each arrangement you carefully crafted, held its own secret meaning. And today, you had chosen carefully.

The roses you were tending to were white—a symbol of purity, but also the start of something deeper. To some, it might be a quiet whisper of admiration. To you, it was a declaration of your own silent longing, a longing you were too shy to voice. Your hands trembled slightly as you traced the outline of the petals, your mind running with thoughts of what you’d never say aloud to him. How could you? He, the brilliant strategist, the charming, larger-than-life figure, who could see through the motives of even the most skilled con artists. What would someone like him ever see in you, the quiet, introverted gardener, lost in the language of flowers?

Aventurine, noticing the subtle tremor in your hands, took a slow step closer, his keen eyes studying the way you interacted with the flowers. His usual smile, the one that danced in his eyes and tilted the corners of his mouth, was absent, replaced by a thoughtful gaze. He watched you carefully, sensing there was more to you than just your quiet demeanor. He had seen the book you kept close to you—the one filled with notes and sketches of flowers, each annotated with their meanings. He had seen the pages where certain flowers were marked with delicate precision. The ones related to love. It was hard not to wonder what kind of message you were silently sending, especially when he’d noticed you hadn’t looked up at him once since he arrived.

"You know," Aventurine spoke, his voice smooth like velvet, but tinged with a note of curiosity, "these roses are rather beautiful. But I can’t help but wonder... are you telling them something that I’m not hearing?"

Your breath caught in your throat at his words. You couldn’t meet his gaze, too afraid that the vulnerability in your heart would be exposed. Your hand moved instinctively to cover the pages of your book, the ones where the flowers of love were delicately marked, as though you could hide your feelings as easily as you had hidden your heart.

"You… you’re probably imagining things," you stammered, avoiding his eyes.

Aventurine’s smile remained, though his eyes sharpened with the kind of subtle understanding he reserved for his most calculated moves. He took a small step forward, lowering his gaze to the roses you had been tending to. His fingers brushed the edges of a particularly delicate flower, the soft petals quivering at his touch.

"Perhaps," he said, his voice carrying a layer of gentle amusement, "but I’ve learned that when someone tends to something with care, there’s usually more to it than meets the eye."

The weight of his words hung between you, an unspoken tension that neither of you acknowledged out loud. Your heart thudded in your chest as you realized that, somehow, in his quiet way, he had seen through the facade you had so carefully built. He had read you, not with the sharp, analytical mind that made him one of the Ten Stonehearts, but with the quiet, intuitive understanding that he seemed to possess when it came to people.

You remained silent, but in your mind, you wondered if you could really hide the feelings you had nurtured so carefully in the garden. Did he see through the petals and leaves? Could he truly read the message you had woven into each bloom?

"I suppose…" Aventurine mused, his tone light but carrying an undertone of something more sincere, "that sometimes the best declarations are the ones that remain unsaid."

You looked up at him, your heart skipping a beat as your eyes met his. The hues of his gaze seemed to pierce through you, and for a moment, you saw something other than the confident, calculating strategist that everyone else saw. There was a softness in his eyes, a hint of something buried beneath the surface, something perhaps even more vulnerable than what you were too afraid to admit.

Aventurine’s smile returned, but it was different this time—gentler, with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. "But I think I understand what you’re saying," he continued, his voice quiet and sincere.

Your breath caught in your throat as the weight of his words sank in. He wasn’t just commenting on the roses, was he? No, Aventurine was acknowledging something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable.

"You’ll find," he added with a knowing smile, "that in this game, it’s not always about making a grand declaration. Sometimes, the most powerful ones are the quietest."

And in that moment, you realized that maybe, just maybe, your silent declaration was not lost after all.

Cricket met you in possibility, (def not too lazy to make a whole new scene..) and her being the enthusiastic learner she is, wanted to ask you the hundreds of questions in her head.

after a few questions though, she would realize that you are not really responding (and seeming to trying to find a way to create space between the both of you)

it will take the hivewing a split second to figure out that you are not too social and tones it down a bit.

After about of two weeks of interaction, she started to develop feelings for the introverted icewing.

she by far would be the one to announce her feelings to you. And she was rather excited when you accepted her feelings. She had to hold herself back from bombarding you with questions about your feelings for her which was not very successful.

she would definitely try her best to get you more fine with social interaction but will not push your boundaries too far.

She does decide to properly introduce you to bumblebee. But it ended with the small hivewing dragonet practically attacking you with affections then being startled to realize your cold scales.

Cricket loves how your scales are cold, and finds it amazing that you have frost breath. She often asks you about your tribe and makes it a little friendly research project on how icewing biology works.

in total, Cricket helps you with socializing and you help her with not being accidentally pushy with her questions.

she also asks to meet your family and offers to introduce you to her friends and Katydid