#kressel

Name: Terms of Engagement (mini-fic) Word Count: 22.1k Fandom: Deltarune Pairing: Fem!Reader x Kris Dreemurr Masterlist: The Apple Shop Masterlist Notes: Hello everyone, I hope everyone enjoys this fairly long one-shot; it took an embarrassingly long time to write, time that I will not admit...but let's just say a while. cough. Anyways, Kris might seem slightly "out of character" for this one-shot, as I wanted them to be more talkative, so I made them a little annoying asshole, which I feel fits very well. I also want to mention that I used grammarly to edit this, I did not use any of the ai features just FYI, just the grammar checker as I am disabled and sometimes my english isn't the best. Please feel free to let me know if anything needs to be fixed, I haven't had a chance to full proof-read it, and also request are open! Please feel free to submit them.

The hallways of Hometown High always smell faintly of floor wax, old paper and the kind of stale air that suggests somebody forgot this building was allowed to have windows. Despite spending the better part of two years walking these corridors, that stale dusty smell is still noticeable; someone really ought to open those windows. Today, however, the smell is completely overpowered by something far more irritating.

Rumours.

Because I swear if gossip had a scent, it'd be hanging so thick in the air that it would completely overpower the smell of the stale dust; especially this morning, the stench would honestly be so dense that I'd probably be able to choke on it.

Being one of only two humans attending a school almost entirely populated by monsters is already enough to make people pay more attention than I'd like.

Unfortunately, the only other human just happens to be Kris Dreemurr, and somewhere over the last year the student body collectively decided that sharing a species apparently meant we were destined to fall hopelessly in love.

Nobody seems particularly interested in asking either of us whether that's actually true, with many of the monsters choosing to invent increasingly ridiculous stories every week before spreading them around school like they're publishing the morning newspaper.

I don't even make it halfway down the hallway before I hear my own name.

"That's her," a sophomore whispers to her friend with all the subtlety of a marching band. "That's Kris's girlfriend."

Her friend gasps loudly enough that I almost admire the commitment to being obnoxious. 

"I thought they broke up?" the second girl says. 

"Nah," the first girl replies, sounding far too confident for somebody who has absolutely no idea what she's talking about. "My brother saw them at QC's Diner last Friday. They were sharing a milkshake."

I stop walking.

Very slowly, I turn my head to look at the two girls, both of whom suddenly seem fascinated by literally anything except the fact I've obviously heard every word they've said.

The taller girl cleared her throat awkwardly before glancing toward her friend as though silently hoping she'd take over the conversation instead. When it became painfully obvious she wasn't going to be rescued, she looked back at me with an embarrassed smile that didn't quite reach her face. "...We heard that—" she began hesitantly.

"No, you didn't," I interrupted before she could finish, folding my arms a little tighter across my chest. "You heard somebody else making shit up, decided it sounded believable, and now you're repeating it like it's an established fact."

The shorter girl shifted awkwardly beside her friend before trying again. "...Well, somebody said they saw—"

"They lied," I replied bluntly, cutting her off just as quickly as I'd cut off the other girl. "Honestly, if you're going to spread rumours about me, at least put some effort into them. Tell people Kris and I robbed a bank together or fought God behind the church. Don't tell people we shared a fucking milkshake."

Both girls exchanged an uncertain look before the taller one rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly. "We just thought—"

"And for the record," I continued before either of them could salvage whatever explanation they were desperately trying to come up with, "and, just for the record, you would not catch me dating Kris, I at least know not to date someone whose haircut looks like they lost a fight with a lawnmower."

Neither of them seemed particularly interested in continuing the conversation after that. They muttered hurried apologies under their breath before slipping past me and disappearing into the crowd of students flooding through the hallway, leaving me standing there with nothing but an overwhelming desire to bang my head against the nearest wall.

I let out a long, exhausted sigh before turning back toward the lockers, rubbing a hand over my face as I muttered, "Fucking unbelievable," beneath my breath. At this point, Hometown High had developed an almost supernatural ability to replace one rumour with three more, because every time I managed to convince somebody that Kris and I weren't dating, another handful of students somehow became even more convinced we secretly were. Honestly, I was beginning to suspect half the school would believe we'd gotten married if somebody scribbled it onto a sticky note and slapped it on the noticeboard.

My locker finally came into view near the end of the hallway; it was wedged comfortably between Noelle's locker and some freshman I'd never actually spoken to before. I dropped my bag onto the floor with considerably more force than necessary, then twisted the combination lock open, already running through everything I needed before first period started. History notes. English homework. Pencil case. It should've taken me less than thirty seconds to grab everything and head to class.

Instead, the moment I unzipped my pencil case, I realised something was wrong.

I frowned, staring down into the case for a second before giving it another shake, convinced I'd simply overlooked what I was searching for. Pens rattled against one another as a couple of highlighters rolled into my palm alongside three paperclips, two sticky notes and enough pencil shavings to build a small bird's nest, but my fountain pen was nowhere to be seen.

I searched again anyway, pushing everything aside, one piece at a time, before checking the case a third time, just to be absolutely certain I wasn't losing my mind.

"...Seriously?" I muttered to myself, setting the pencil case aside before unzipping every compartment in my backpack. I dug through notebooks, flipped through folders, checked pockets I'd already looked inside twice, and even searched beneath a packet of gum that had absolutely no business hiding a fountain pen, but the more I searched, the more obvious it became that the pen genuinely wasn't there.

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me," I groaned, crouching down to check beneath the locker even though there wasn't nearly enough space underneath for the pen to fit.

I emptied another pocket. Then another. Then I searched the pencil case again out of pure desperation before leaning back against the open locker with another frustrated sigh.

That wasn't just any pen, it was my pen.

A heavy midnight-blue fountain pen with silver trim that I'd spent three months saving up for because, apparently, I lacked both financial responsibility and the ability to resist overpriced stationery.

I'd been using it in English yesterday afternoon. I remembered putting it back into my bag afterwards. I remembered zipping the pocket shut.

So where the hell had it—

"Lose something?"

The voice came from directly behind me, close enough to make me jump hard enough that the back of my head smacked against the inside of the locker door.

"Ow— Jesus Christ," I hissed, rubbing the sore spot as I spun around, already knowing exactly who I was about to find before I'd even finished turning.

Kris was leaning lazily against the locker beside mine with both hands buried comfortably inside the pockets of their green and yellow sweater, watching me with an expression so painfully innocent that it immediately made me suspicious.

Most people probably would've looked at them and seen someone quietly checking on a classmate. I, unfortunately, had spent long enough around Kris to recognise the tiny twitch threatening to pull at the corner of their mouth.

They were enjoying this, which meant they almost certainly had something to do with whatever had just happened.

"You know," I said, narrowing my eyes at them while still rubbing the back of my head, "one day you're going to scare the wrong person and they're are going to punch you."

Kris gave an unconcerned shrug before replying, "Probably."

"And today might be that day," I warned, pointing a finger toward them.

"I'll take my chances," Kris replied, sounding entirely unbothered as they glanced past me into my completely dismantled locker before looking back at me again. "So," they continued, tilting their head ever so slightly, "did you find whatever you were looking for?"

I let out another sigh before turning back toward the locker. "No," I replied, continuing to rummage through my bag despite already knowing it was pointless.

"Shame," Kris said.

"It is." I said in a sighing tone. 

"What'd you lose?" Kris asked, their voice carrying just enough curiosity to sound believable.

I hesitated for a moment, another notebook halfway out of my bag as I debated whether telling Kris was actually a good idea. Every instinct I possessed told me that Kris asking questions almost always ended badly for me, but after searching the exact same pocket for what felt like the tenth time, frustration eventually won out over common sense.

"My fountain pen," I admitted with another weary sigh as I shoved the notebook back into my bag. "The midnight-blue one."

Kris hummed thoughtfully, tilting their head ever so slightly as though they were genuinely trying to picture it. "The expensive one?" they asked, sounding almost conversational.

"Yes," I replied, continuing to rummage through my backpack. "The expensive one."

"The one with the silver clip?" Kris asked again, watching me carefully.

"Yes," I answered, finally looking back over my shoulder at them. "Why do you suddenly know so much about my pen?"

Kris simply shrugged one shoulder before replying, "You've used it enough. And you also couldn't stop talking about it for three weeks after you bought it," Kris replied, sounding far too certain of themselves.

"Well, yeah....I was excited!" I say, shaking my head as I unzipped yet another pocket. 

I sighed through my nose and continued searching anyway, checking pockets I'd already searched twice because, by this point, I was running out of logical places for the pen to be. Kris, meanwhile, hadn't moved an inch.

They remained leaning comfortably against the neighbouring locker with both hands tucked inside the pocket of their sweater, quietly observing me dismantle the contents of my bag one compartment at a time.

They weren't offering suggestions anymore, they weren't leaving, and they weren't saying much of anything either. They were simply standing there watching, and somehow that was becoming even more irritating than the missing pen itself.

After another thirty seconds of accomplishing absolutely nothing, I stopped searching long enough to glance back over my shoulder with an exhausted sigh.

"...Are you planning on standing there staring at me all morning?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at them. "Because if you are, I'd really appreciate it if you at least pretended to be helping."

Kris looked thoughtfully toward my open locker before their eyes drifted back to me. "Have you checked every pocket?" they asked.

"Yes," I replied immediately.

"The pencil case?" Kris asked again.

"I've checked it three times," I answered, gesturing vaguely toward the open case sitting on the shelf.

"The bottom of your bag?" Kris continued, sounding almost suspiciously thorough.

"Twice," I replied with another sigh. "I've also checked underneath the locker, emptied every compartment, looked through every notebook and searched places that physically couldn't fit a fountain pen, so unless it's somehow vanished into another dimension, I think I've covered everything."

Kris nodded slowly, their expression remaining almost impossibly neutral as they quietly considered everything I'd just told them. "...Huh," they murmured after a moment.

I frowned immediately.

"...What do you mean, 'huh'?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

Kris looked back at me with that same innocent expression they'd been wearing since they'd wandered over. "Nothing," they replied a little too quickly.

"No," I said, shaking my head as I folded my arms across my chest. "You don't get to 'huh' and then say 'nothing.' What was that supposed to mean?"

Kris's lips twitched almost imperceptibly before they gave another small shrug. "Just thinking," they replied.

"That's never reassuring," I muttered.

"It wasn't supposed to be," Kris answered, and there was something about the way they said it—too casual, too amused, too pleased with themselves—that finally made me stop searching altogether.

I slowly turned to face them properly, studying the tiny smile they were very obviously trying and failing to hide beneath that curtain of dark hair. We'd spent far too much time annoying each other over the last year for me not to recognise that expression by now. It was the look Kris wore whenever they knew something I didn't, and it almost always meant I was about to become the punchline.

"...Kris," I said slowly, refusing to break eye contact.

"Yeah?" Kris replied, tilting their head ever so slightly.

"You know where my pen is, don't you?" I asked, watching their face carefully for even the smallest crack in that infuriatingly innocent expression.

Kris didn't answer immediately. Instead, they simply held my gaze for a long moment, the corners of their mouth twitching just enough that I knew they were fighting back a smile. Most people would've missed it entirely, dismissing Kris's expression as the same unreadable look they wore around everyone else, but I'd spent enough time arguing with them over the last year to recognise the warning signs. Whenever they looked that innocent, it almost always meant they were about to become completely insufferable.

Finally, Kris gave a small shrug before replying, "Maybe."

I frowned at them. "...Maybe?" I repeated, folding my arms across my chest. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means maybe I know where your pen is," Kris replied, sounding infuriatingly calm, "and maybe I don't."

"You're such an asshole," I muttered, shaking my head.

Kris's smile widened ever so slightly. "I've been called worse," they replied.

"I have absolutely no doubt about that," I answered, letting out another sigh. "Now stop screwing around and give me a straight answer."

"I haven't said I have your pen," Kris replied innocently.

"You also haven't said you don't." I say. 

"No," Kris admitted with another tiny shrug, "I haven't."

For a few seconds, neither of us said anything. Students continued filing past in both directions, conversations echoing through the hallway as lockers slammed shut one after another, but I barely noticed any of it. I simply stood there watching Kris, while Kris stood there watching me, and the longer the silence stretched between us, the more convinced I became that they were enjoying every second of this.

Eventually, my eyes drifted downward almost by accident, landing on the oversized pocket stitched across the front of Kris's sweater. There wasn't much inside it, but there was definitely something pressing against the fabric.

Something long, something suspiciously familiar, I slowly looked back up at Kris.

"...Empty your pocket," I said.

Kris blinked once before tilting their head. "Why?" they asked.

"Because I asked you to," I replied.

"You asked," Kris corrected, "but you didn't say please."

I stared at them for a second before letting out another long sigh. "Kris," I said, forcing every ounce of patience into my voice, "would you please empty your pocket?"

Kris pretended to think about it before eventually smiling to themselves. "...No," they replied.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, taking one long, steady breath through my nose before opening them again. Somewhere, buried beneath the overwhelming urge to throttle the person standing in front of me, was the tiny, rational part of my brain reminding me that assaulting a classmate before first period was generally frowned upon.

"...You're unbelievable," I muttered, shaking my head.

"I've heard that one before, many times (Y/N)," Kris replied, sounding almost pleased with themselves.

"Yep, I am sure you have, probably mostly from me," I answered, letting out another sigh before holding my hand out expectantly. "Now stop being a smartass and give me my pen."

Kris glanced down at my outstretched hand before looking back up at me. They didn't move for a second, letting the silence drag on just long enough to make me wonder whether they'd actually listened, before they slowly slipped one hand into the front pocket of their sweater.

"There we go," I said, already reaching forward. "See? Was that really so—"

My sentence died in my throat as Kris casually pulled my midnight-blue fountain pen from their pocket, twirling it lazily between two fingers while the silver trim caught the morning sunlight streaming through the hallway windows.

For a moment, I simply stared at it, then I looked at Kris, then back at the pen.

"...Dreemurr," I said slowly, my voice dropping into the sort of calm tone that usually came immediately before I lost my temper, "tell me you did not steal my fucking pen."

"I didn't steal it," Kris replied, examining the pen as though they'd never seen it before. "I borrowed it." they said. 

"You borrowed it?" I repeated incredulously. "Without asking?"

"You would've said no," Kris replied, their tone so matter-of-fact that they almost sounded as though stealing my pen had been the only reasonable option available to them.

"Yes, of course I would've said no," I answered, staring at them as though the obviousness of that statement might somehow penetrate their skull. 

I let out a sound somewhere between an exhausted groan and a disbelieving laugh before reaching for the pen, fully expecting Kris to surrender it now that their stupid little joke had finally reached its conclusion.

The second my fingers came close, however, Kris smoothly lifted their arm above their head, moving the fountain pen out of reach with such casual ease that it took my brain a moment to catch up with what they had done.

"...Seriously?" I asked, blinking up at them in disbelief as my outstretched hand closed around nothing but empty air.

"Seriously," Kris replied, looking down at me with that same maddeningly innocent expression, although the growing curve at the corner of their mouth made it painfully obvious they knew exactly how irritating they were being.

"Kris, give me the pen," I warned, stepping closer and holding my hand out again as though giving them one final opportunity to behave like a normal person.

"No," Kris replied, lifting the pen another fraction higher when I tried to reach for it again.

"Kris," I repeated, drawing their name out slowly as my patience continued to wear thinner.

"No," Kris answered again, sounding entirely too pleased with themselves.

"Oh, for the love of God Kris," I groaned, stretching onto the tips of my toes and reaching as high as I could manage, only for Kris to extend their arm another few centimetres with barely any effort at all.

The difference in our heights had never annoyed me quite as much as it did in that moment, because standing at five-foot-three against someone who insisted on being ridiculously tall should have counted as an unfair advantage and probably an instant disqualification. 

"Dreemurr, seriously, you are the fucking worst human in this goddamned town," I complained, grabbing a fistful of the front of their oversized sweater with one hand while reaching desperately for the pen with the other.

I gave the fabric a frustrated tug in an attempt to drag them closer to my height, but Kris barely moved, remaining rooted to the spot as they looked down at me with obvious amusement.

"I don't know about that," Kris replied, glancing thoughtfully toward the ceiling as though they were genuinely reviewing the town's population before looking back down at me. "I mean, you still live here, so the competition is pretty strong."

"It's kind of hard for me to win that contest when EVERYONE knows you are the worst human", I say, tightening my grip on their sweater before making another useless attempt to reach past their raised arm.

Kris finally stopped pretending they weren't smiling, lifting the fountain pen a little higher while watching me claw unsuccessfully at the front of their sweater. "I think you're making this harder than it needs to be," they said, their voice carrying the kind of smug amusement that made me want to wipe the expression straight off their face.

"I am not the one holding stolen property above my head like a badly behaved toddler," I shot back, refusing to release their sweater even as my shoes slipped back flat against the floor. "Now give it back before I decide to climb you like a fucking tree."

"I'm thinking about it," Kris replied, lazily twirling the fountain pen between their fingers while keeping it safely beyond my reach.

"You've supposedly been thinking about it for the last five minutes," I said, glaring up at them as I gave their sweater another sharp tug. "At this point, I think you're just enjoying watching me struggle."

"I'm a very thoughtful person," Kris answered, somehow managing to deliver the obvious lie with a completely straight face.

"No, you're an absolute menace," I replied, and the quiet laugh that escaped Kris made it clear they were taking the accusation as a compliment rather than the insult I intended.

“No, you’re an absolute menace,” I replied, glaring up at Kris as I gave the front of their sweater another frustrated tug, while the quiet laugh that escaped them made it perfectly clear they were taking the accusation as a compliment rather than the insult I intended.

Before I could make another attempt at reaching the pen, a familiar gravelly voice cut through the noise of the hallway. “What the hell are you two doing now?” Susie asked, sounding exhausted despite the fact that the school day had barely started.

I froze with one hand still twisted into the front of Kris’s sweater and the other stretched uselessly toward the fountain pen above my head. Susie stood a few metres away with her school bag hanging from one shoulder, staring at the two of us with an expression that shifted from confusion to immediate understanding the moment she noticed the pen dangling between Kris’s fingers.

“They stole my pen,” I explained, loosening my grip on Kris’s sweater without stepping away from them. “I’ve been trying to get it back for the last five minutes, but apparently Dreemurr woke up this morning and decided to become even more insufferable than usual.”

“I borrowed it,” Kris corrected, still holding the fountain pen safely beyond my reach.

“You stole it yesterday without asking,” I argued, looking back up at them. “That is quite literally the definition of stealing.”

Susie let out a heavy sigh before rubbing one clawed hand over her face. “Come on, Kris, just give her the pen back,” she said, glancing between us. “You’ve annoyed her enough, and people are already staring.”

Kris briefly looked toward the students moving through the hallway, several of whom had slowed down to watch us with far too much interest, before lowering their arm at last. “Fine,” they replied, although the small smile still tugging at their mouth suggested they had already gotten everything they wanted out of the situation.

“Thank you,” I muttered, immediately reaching for the fountain pen, but Kris held onto it for one final second after my fingers closed around the other end.

“You should take better care of your things,” Kris said, looking down at me with another infuriatingly innocent expression.

“You took it out of my bag,” I replied, tightening my grip until they finally released it. “The only thing I need to take better care of is making sure you stay at least five metres away from my belongings.”

Susie snorted as I inspected the fountain pen for scratches before sliding it securely into the inside pocket of my bag. “Yeah, because you two are famously good at staying away from each other,” she remarked, her eyes dropping briefly to my hand, which was still gripping the front of Kris’s sweater.

I followed her gaze and immediately released the fabric, smoothing my skirt with both hands as I stepped back. Kris glanced down at the wrinkled front of their sweater before looking toward Susie, while that irritating little smile returned to their face with renewed force.

"By the way, from where I was standing, it looked more like you were climbing them in the middle of the hallway", Susie said.

“I threatened to do that,” I admitted, pointing accusingly toward Kris, “but I hadn’t actually reached that stage yet.”

Kris slipped both hands back into the pockets of their sweater before adding, “She also threatened to break my fingers.”

“After you stole my pen,” I reminded them, narrowing my eyes. “You keep leaving out the part where every threat I made was completely justified.”

Susie shook her head as she began walking toward the classrooms. “This is exactly why everyone thinks you’re dating,” she said, gesturing lazily between us. “Nobody else puts this much effort into annoying one person before first period.”

“We are not dating,” I replied firmly, grabbing my bag and closing my locker with a metallic slam.

“Whatever you say,” Susie answered, glancing back at us with a wide grin. “Now hurry up before Alphys marks all three of us late.”

Kris pushed away from the lockers and followed her without another word, although they deliberately bumped their shoulder against mine as they passed.

I glared at the back of their head before falling into step beside them, already knowing the students who had witnessed the entire scene would have a new version of our imaginary relationship circulating through the school before lunch. ⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆── ⊰

By the time I barely even make it through first period, there is already two separate people asking whether Kris and I had some kind of argument in the hallway, one girl even congratulating us on apparently getting back together, and another monster, which by the way I have literally never spoken to in my life gives me a supportive thumbs-up before telling me that relationships are “all about compromise.”

I briefly consider asking what part of Kris stealing my property and holding it above my head constitutes a relationship, but doing so would require engaging with the insanity instead of pretending it does not exist, so I settle for staring at him until he becomes uncomfortable enough to walk away.

Kris, of course, experiences absolutely none of the embarrassment that comes with being one half of Hometown High’s favourite fictional couple. They sit two rows ahead of me throughout English with their head resting against one hand, occasionally turning just far enough to glance over their shoulder whenever another whisper spreads through the classroom.

Every time our eyes meet, the corner of their mouth curls upward, and every time that happens, I respond by narrowing my eyes and pointing meaningfully toward the fountain pen now safely clipped inside the front pocket of my blouse.

Kris only looks more entertained by the gesture, which confirms my belief that they stole the pen purely for the love of the game of watching me become increasingly irritated over things that could have been avoided if they behaved like a normal person for five consecutive minutes.

The rest of the morning passes without any further theft, although Kris still manages to make themselves irritating from a distance. During mathematics, a folded scrap of paper lands on my desk while the teacher is writing equations across the board, and when I unfold it, I find a badly drawn picture of what appears to be me attempting to climb a tree while a stick figure wearing Kris’s striped sweater holds a fountain pen above one branch.

Beneath the drawing, they have written skill issue in blocky handwriting. I turn around slowly enough to catch Kris watching for my reaction, and after confirming that the teacher is still facing the board, I crumple the note into a ball and throw it directly at their head.

The paper bounces harmlessly off their hair, but Kris catches it before it can fall to the floor and places it carefully inside their notebook as though I have returned something sentimental rather than evidence of their inability to take anything seriously.

By the time lunch finally arrives, I am more than ready for thirty minutes in which I can sit down, eat something and avoid hearing Kris Dreemurr’s name for longer than a few seconds.

I collect my tray from the cafeteria line and make my way toward the table Noelle and Berdly have already claimed near the windows, silently grateful that neither Susie nor Kris is anywhere nearby.

Noelle has arranged her lunch neatly across her tray and is flipping through a small stack of flashcards between bites, while Berdly has brought an entire history textbook into the cafeteria and is reading it with the deeply serious expression of someone who believes lunchtime is another opportunity to prove his intellectual superiority.

“You look tired,” Noelle says as I lower myself into the seat beside her, her expression shifting from concentration to concern when she notices the way I drop my forehead briefly into one hand. “Did something happen this morning?”

“Nothing happened,” I reply, setting my tray down and reaching for my drink. “Kris stole my fountain pen, watched me tear my bag apart looking for it, held it over my head when I tried to take it back, and then half the school apparently decided we were having some kind of lovers’ quarrel, but besides that, my morning has been completely peaceful.”

Noelle blinks at me for a moment before carefully setting one of her flashcards down. “They held it over your head?” she asks, and although she tries to sound sympathetic, the tiny smile pulling at the corners of her mouth makes it obvious she is picturing the scene.

“Yes, Noelle, they held it over my head,” I answer, unwrapping my cutlery with more force than the thin paper deserves. “They also stood there smiling while I tried to drag them down by their sweater, because apparently being tall has finally given them a reason to feel superior about something.”

Berdly looks up from his textbook at that, adjusting his glasses before adopting the kind of thoughtful expression that usually precedes an unsolicited lecture. “Technically, Kris’s greater height does provide them with a significant mechanical advantage in that particular situation,” he explains, gesturing with his fork as though presenting a scientific discovery. “Their increased reach allows them to maintain control of the contested object while forcing you to expend considerably more physical energy, which means your attempt was strategically flawed from the beginning.”

“I appreciate the analysis, Berdly,” I reply, giving him a flat look across the table. “Next time Kris steals something from me, I’ll make sure to ask whether they can wait while I calculate the optimal angle of attack.”

“You joke now,” Berdly says, apparently missing the sarcasm entirely, “but an understanding of leverage would have significantly improved your chances.”

Noelle glances between us before offering me a small, apologetic smile. “At least Kris gave the pen back eventually,” she says, clearly attempting to redirect the conversation before Berdly begins drawing diagrams.

“Only because Susie told them to,” I explain, picking up one of the chips from my tray. “If she hadn’t arrived, Kris probably would have carried it around all day just to see how long it took me to commit an actual crime.”

“Who’s committing a crime?” Susie asks from behind Noelle, arriving at the table with a tray piled so high with food that it seems physically impossible for her to have paid for all of it.

“No one,” I reply immediately, although my answer does nothing to stop Susie from dropping into the empty chair beside Noelle with enough force to make the table shake.

“Y/N threatened to break Kris’s fingers this morning,” Susie tells Noelle and Berdly, wearing a wide grin as she steals one of Noelle’s fries without asking. “She also said she was going to climb them like a tree, which was probably the weirdest part.”

“The tree comment was taken completely out of context,” I argue, pointing my fork toward Susie. 

Berdly lowers his textbook and looks toward me with renewed interest. “As I was just explaining, climbing Kris would have been an inefficient approach because their centre of gravity—”

“Berdly, please don’t analyse me climbing Kris,” I interrupt, closing my eyes briefly as Noelle covers her mouth to hide a laugh. “There is no version of this conversation that improves if we start discussing their centre of gravity.”

“I wasn’t aware you were discussing mine,” Kris says from directly behind me, their voice close enough to make my shoulders tense before they casually slide into the remaining chair beside mine.

I turn my head and find them setting their tray down with the same quiet confidence they display every afternoon, as though the seat beside me was reserved for them despite the fact that nobody has ever formally invited them to join us.

Their hair still looks exactly as messy as it did that morning, the front of their sweater is slightly stretched where I had been gripping it, and they are wearing the smallest possible smile as they glance between Berdly and me.

“We weren’t discussing you,” I tell them, shifting my tray slightly farther away when I notice their hand resting suspiciously close to my food. “Berdly was attempting to explain why I failed to get my pen back, and I was attempting to make him stop.”

“I was explaining the role of mechanical leverage,” Berdly corrects, straightening in his seat. “Your failure was merely a useful example.”

Kris nods slowly, apparently taking Berdly’s analysis seriously. “She should’ve gone for the knees,” they suggest, reaching across the narrow space between us before stealing one of the chips from my tray.

I stare at their hand, then at the chip, before finally looking up at their face. “Did you learn absolutely nothing this morning?” I ask, keeping my voice measured despite the familiar irritation already beginning to crawl beneath my skin.

“I learned that you can’t reach very high,” Kris replies before calmly eating the stolen chip.

Susie lets out a loud snort from across the table, while Noelle lowers her head and tries unsuccessfully to disguise her laughter as a cough.

Berdly, meanwhile, appears to consider Kris’s response with genuine academic interest, which only makes me feel as though I have somehow become trapped in a conversation designed specifically to destroy my patience.

“You are genuinely the most irritating person I have ever met,” I tell Kris, moving the rest of my chips to the opposite side of the tray.

Kris glances toward the newly relocated food before looking back at me. “You said I was the worst human in town this morning,” they remind me, their voice carrying just enough amusement to make it clear they have been waiting for another opportunity to mention it. “Have I been promoted?”

“You are both,” I reply, shielding my tray with one arm when their hand starts moving again. “You contain multitudes, and every single one of them is insufferable.”

Noelle smiles as she looks between us, her gaze lingering on the way Kris’s shoulder rests against mine despite there being enough room for them to move farther away. “You two really do this every day,” she observes, sounding more amused than surprised.

“We do not,” Kris and I answer at exactly the same time, and the moment the words leave our mouths, the entire table becomes quiet.

Berdly slowly lowers his fork, his eyes moving between us with the sort of concentration he usually reserves for difficult equations. “Fascinating,” he murmurs, adjusting his glasses before leaning forward slightly. “Your behavioural synchronisation has become remarkably consistent, which could indicate prolonged social exposure, shared cognitive patterns or an unusually strong interpersonal attachment.”

“It indicates that we are both tired of everyone repeating the same stupid accusation,” I explain, although Susie’s grin continues widening as I speak.

“No, it indicates that you two are freakishly in sync for people who supposedly can’t stand each other,” Susie says, pointing lazily between us with one claw. “You argue every morning, Kris steals your food every afternoon, and somehow you still end up sitting beside each other wherever we go.”

“Kris chooses this seat,” I reply, gesturing toward them. “I am already here when they arrive, which means I have no control over the situation.”

Kris looks down at the chair as though seeing it for the first time. “It’s a good seat,” they explain.

“There are six identical chairs at this table,” I tell them.

“This one is better,” Kris replies, glancing at me from beneath their hair before reaching across and successfully stealing another chip while I am distracted.

I look down at the empty space on my tray, then slowly turn toward them as the rest of the table watches in growing anticipation. “Kris,” I say, forcing myself to remain calm, “I want you to understand that when I stab you with this fork, every person here will testify that you brought it upon yourself.”

“I won’t,” Susie replies immediately, taking another fry from Noelle’s tray as she watches us with obvious delight. “I’m telling everyone you attacked your partner during a romantic lunch.”

“They are not my partner,” I insist, while Kris quietly eats the second stolen chip and leans back in their chair as though none of this concerns them.

Noelle glances at Kris before looking back at me with a hesitant smile. “You have to admit that you spend a lot of time together,” she says gently. “Even when you aren’t assigned to sit beside each other, you usually end up talking.”

“We don’t talk,” I reply, gesturing toward Kris with my fork. “They provoke me, I respond, and then everyone else incorrectly decides that irritation is a form of courtship.”

“It can be,” Berdly adds, apparently deciding that his contribution is necessary. “Many species display antagonistic social behaviour as part of their mating rituals.”

The entire table goes silent for a brief moment before Susie starts laughing so hard she nearly chokes on her food. Noelle’s face turns bright red as she tells Berdly that he probably should not have phrased it that way, while I stare at him in complete disbelief and Kris lowers their head, their shoulders trembling with the quiet laughter they are trying unsuccessfully to hide.

“Berdly,” I say once Susie’s laughter has quietened enough for anyone to hear me, “I need you to promise that you will never compare my conversations with Kris to a mating ritual ever again.”

“I was speaking in broad biological terms,” Berdly replies defensively, lifting both hands as though I am being unreasonable. “There was no implication that you and Kris personally—”

“There absolutely was,” Susie interrupts, still grinning as she wipes at the corner of one eye. “And it was probably the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”

“It was the worst thing he has ever said,” I correct, taking a long drink in the hope that it will somehow erase the conversation from my memory.

Beside me, Kris leans slightly closer until their shoulder presses more firmly against mine, and when I glance toward them, they are still wearing that tiny, irritating smile. “Antagonistic courtship,” they murmur quietly enough that only I can hear them. “Has a nice ring to it.”

“Say those words to me again,” I reply under my breath, keeping my eyes fixed on my tray, “and I will finish what I started in the hallway.”

Kris’s smile widens as they shift back into their own space. “There she is,” they reply, sounding entirely too pleased to have provoked another threat from me.

The warning bell rings before I can respond, sending chairs scraping across the cafeteria floor as students begin gathering their trays and heading toward the bins. I quickly finish the last of my drink and collect my belongings, relieved that the noise gives me an excuse to avoid whatever comment Susie is preparing next.

Kris rises beside me and picks up their tray, while Noelle carefully reorganises her flashcards and Berdly closes his textbook with obvious reluctance.

As we leave the cafeteria, Susie falls into step beside Noelle, while Berdly walks ahead of us and begins explaining why bringing a textbook to lunch demonstrates superior time management.

Kris remains beside me without being asked, their shoulder brushing mine every few steps as the five of us make our way back toward the classroom wing. I tell myself the hallway is crowded and there is nowhere else for them to walk, although the fact that they continue matching my pace even after the crowd begins to thin makes that explanation considerably less convincing.

The final class of the day is History with Alphys, and by the time we reach the oldest wing of the school, all I want is to sit down, avoid Kris and make it through the remaining hour without inspiring another rumour.

Unfortunately, the moment I step into the classroom and notice the thick stack of assignment sheets arranged across Alphys’s desk, I get the immediate and deeply unpleasant feeling that the universe has already made other plans.

⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆── ⊰

Alphys waits until most of the class has settled before gathering the stack of papers against her chest, nervously tapping the edges against the desk while the final few students wander into the room.

The classroom gradually quietens, although Susie continues whispering something to Noelle behind me until Alphys clears her throat and adjusts her glasses with one hand.

“O-Okay, everyone,” Alphys begins, offering the room a nervous smile as she looks down at the sheet on top of the pile. “So, um, before we start today’s lesson, I have your major assignment for this term, and it’s worth thirty-five percent of your final grade, which sounds like a lot because it is a lot, but it should also be kind of fun. Or, well, I thought it sounded fun when I planned it.”

A collective groan travels through the classroom, prompting Alphys to shrink slightly behind the papers before she begins passing them down each row. When the assignment sheet reaches my desk, I take one and skim the bold heading printed across the top: The Living History of Hometown.

Beneath it is a list of requirements involving local research, historical records, photographs and interviews with residents who have lived in town long enough to remember what it was like before most of us were born.

“For the project, you’ll be researching a part of Hometown’s history and comparing the official records with the memories of people who actually lived through it,” Alphys explains, her confidence returning slightly now that she has something prepared to read from. “You’ll need to interview at least three older residents, visit one important location in town and put everything together in a written report. You can research local businesses, the church, the school, the hospital, the town festival, or anything else that has changed over time, as long as you check the topic with me first.”

“Does QC’s Diner count as an important historical location?” Susie asks from behind me, sounding far more interested than she usually does during class.

“Yes, actually,” Alphys replies, blinking in mild surprise before nodding enthusiastically. “QC’s has been open for a really long time, so you could interview the owner, compare old menus and photographs, and look at how the business changed alongside the town.”

Susie leans toward Noelle with an approving grin before saying, “Nice. We can do half the assignment while eating burgers.”

“You’re assuming we’re partners,” Noelle points out softly, although the hopeful smile appearing on her face suggests she would not object to the arrangement.

Alphys glances back down at the papers in her hands before adding, “That’s actually the other important part. This is a partner assignment, and I was going to assign the pairs myself so nobody gets left out or spends the entire lesson trying to decide.”

Before Alphys can unfold the list resting on her desk, someone near the back of the room calls out, “Kris and Y/N,” with enough confidence to make several nearby students laugh.

Another voice quickly repeats our names, and within seconds a scattered chant begins moving through the classroom as more students join in, apparently delighted by the opportunity to interfere in my life for academic credit.

“No,” I object immediately, turning in my seat to glare at the growing collection of idiots behind me. “Absolutely not. You people have already invented an entire relationship between us, and now you’re trying to force us into joint custody of a history assignment.”

Kris looks over from the desk beside mine, their expression remaining calm even as the chanting grows louder. “I also vote no,” they say, although the faint amusement in their voice makes their objection sound considerably less sincere than mine.

“You don’t get a vote after stealing my pen,” I tell them, pointing toward the inside pocket where I have kept it safely hidden since that morning. “You’ve already demonstrated that you can’t be trusted with shared property.”

“I gave it back,” Kris replies, glancing meaningfully toward the pocket.

“After Susie intervened,” I remind them, while several students around us begin laughing all over again.

Alphys pushes her glasses higher on her nose and looks from Kris to me, then toward the class, whose chanting has now become loud enough to spill into the hallway. “O-Okay, okay, everyone, please settle down,” she says, raising her voice with limited success before releasing a tired sigh. “I was actually going to pair you two together anyway, because your grades balance each other well and you both live close enough to meet outside school.”

The room erupts into laughter before Alphys has even finished speaking, and I lower my forehead into one hand while Kris calmly turns their assignment sheet over as though this outcome has nothing to do with them.

“Wonderful,” I mutter, keeping my eyes fixed on the desk. “I’m being academically punished for living within walking distance of a menace.”

“You’ll survive,” Kris replies, leaning slightly closer to inspect the topic list on my sheet despite having an identical copy in front of them.

“I might,” I tell them, shifting the paper away from their side of the desk. “You, however, are going to depend entirely on how many of my belongings you steal while we’re working.”

Alphys waits for the laughter to settle before quickly reading through the remaining partnerships, assigning Susie with Noelle and pairing Berdly with Jockington. Once everyone has been placed, she gives the class the rest of the period to choose a topic and begin planning their interviews, which immediately fills the room with conversation and the scraping of desks being dragged together.

Kris moves their chair toward mine without asking, the legs dragging noisily across the floor before they settle beside me with their shoulder resting against the edge of my desk. “We should do the town festival,” they suggest, pointing toward one of the approved topics on the sheet. “A lot of people remember the older ones, and Mom probably has photographs.”

I glance at the topic before looking toward Kris, mildly irritated that their first suggestion is both sensible and difficult to argue with. “We’d still need two more people to interview,” I reply, picking up my pen and beginning a list in the margin. “Your mother can cover the school and the festival, but we should talk to someone who remembers the town before either of our families moved here.”

“Asgore’s lived here for years,” Kris says, watching as I write his name beneath Toriel’s. “He keeps old photographs at the flower shop, and he’ll talk for as long as we let him.”

“That sounds useful until you remember we have to transcribe the interview,” I point out, already imagining several hours of Asgore wandering through unrelated stories while we desperately try to find anything relevant. “Although he’d probably feed us while we work, so I’m willing to accept the risk.”

Kris nods before tapping the final blank space on the list. “Rudy,” they suggest. “He knows everyone, and he remembers when the Holiday family first opened their business.”

I pause with the tip of my pen resting against the page before reluctantly writing Rudy’s name beneath the others. Between Toriel, Asgore and Rudy, we already have three interviews, access to old photographs and enough personal stories to fill the report without spending weeks chasing people around town. It is annoyingly efficient, especially considering Kris has contributed most of the plan within the first few minutes.

“You’ve thought about this suspiciously quickly,” I tell them, glancing sideways as I underline the proposed topic. “Were you secretly excited about the assignment?”

“No,” Kris replies, reaching across my desk and taking the worksheet before I can stop them. “I just want a good grade.”

“That almost sounded responsible,” I say, watching them add a note about visiting the library archives after school. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably,” Kris answers, sliding the paper back toward me with a small smile. “We should start today.”

I look down at the library note before checking the clock above Alphys’s desk, realising there are fewer than twenty minutes left in the school day. “Fine,” I agree, recapping my fountain pen and placing it securely beside my notebook. “We’ll go to the library after class, find whatever records they have on the festival and make a proper list of questions before we start bothering half the town.”

Kris’s gaze drops briefly toward the pen before returning to my face. “Are you going to let me use that?” they ask.

“No,” I reply without hesitation, moving it farther from their side of the desk. “You have permanently lost fountain-pen privileges.”

“I didn’t know they were privileges,” Kris says, their expression remaining perfectly serious.

“They became privileges when you committed stationery theft,” I explain, while Kris leans back in their chair with another barely concealed smile.

By the time the final bell rings, we have a topic, three possible interviewees and a rough plan for the report, which is significantly more progress than I expected to make while sitting beside Kris.

I gather the assignment sheets and tuck my pen safely into my bag before standing, only to find Kris already waiting beside the door with their own bag slung over one shoulder.

“You look eager,” I remark as I approach them, while students stream around us into the hallway.

“I want to see whether the library has photographs of our alleged milkshake date,” Kris replies, stepping aside to let me through the doorway.

“I hate you,” I tell them, walking past before they can see the reluctant smile threatening to appear on my face.

“I know,” Kris answers as they fall into step beside me, sounding far too pleased with themselves while we head toward the library.

⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆── ⊰

The library section should shift them from public bickering into something slightly quieter and more comfortable, while the rumours continue in the background without dominating the entire scene.

The school library is nearly empty by the time Kris and I arrive, with most students having already escaped through the front doors the moment the final bell rang.

Afternoon sunlight filters through the tall windows overlooking the car park, casting warm rectangles across the carpet and illuminating the dust drifting lazily between the shelves, while the only sounds come from the distant humming of the ventilation system and the quiet tapping of the librarian’s keyboard behind the front desk.

Compared to the constant chatter of the hallways, the silence should feel peaceful, although having Kris walking beside me makes it difficult to believe that peace will last for longer than a few minutes.

I lead us toward one of the larger tables near the local-history shelves before dropping my bag onto the chair beside me and spreading our assignment papers across the wooden surface.

Kris takes the seat directly beside mine rather than choosing any of the five other empty chairs surrounding the table, although I decide not to comment on it because doing so would only encourage whatever answer they have prepared. Instead, I pull out my notebook, place the assignment sheet in the centre of the table and retrieve my fountain pen from the innermost pocket of my bag, keeping one hand protectively over it when I notice Kris watching.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn them, narrowing my eyes as I uncap the pen.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Kris replies, placing both hands flat against the table in an exaggerated display of innocence.

“You were looking at it,” I tell them, beginning to copy our proposed topic into my notebook. “Considering what happened this morning, looking counts as suspicious behaviour,” I say. 

Kris glances toward the fountain pen again before returning their attention to me. “You’re becoming paranoid,” they say, although the small twitch at the corner of their mouth makes it obvious that they are enjoying the fact they caused it.

“I’m becoming appropriately cautious,” I correct, moving the pen to the other side of my notebook when Kris shifts their hand even slightly closer. “There is a difference, and the difference is that you have already proven yourself to be an active threat to my stationery.”

Kris leans back in their chair and folds their arms across their chest before replying, “You make me sound dangerous.”

“You stole a pen, Dreemurr,” I remind them as I underline the words Hometown Autumn Festival. “You’re hardly an international criminal, although you do possess the same complete lack of remorse.”

Kris looks down at the title for a moment before saying, “You compared me to a criminal before you compared me to a decent research partner.”

“You haven’t proven you’re a decent research partner yet,” I reply, sliding the assignment sheet toward them. “Find the archive section and prove me wrong.”

Kris gives me an unimpressed look from beneath their hair, although they rise from the chair without arguing and wander toward the shelves marked Local Records. I remain at the table and begin drafting a list of questions for our interviews, trying to focus on practical things such as when the festival began, how it has changed and which traditions have disappeared over the years.

It is surprisingly easy to settle into the work once Kris is no longer deliberately distracting me, and by the time they return several minutes later, I have almost filled an entire page.

Kris places two large books and a thin binder on the table before lowering themselves back into the chair beside me. “The librarian said these are all they have on the festival,” they explain, opening the binder carefully. “Most of the photographs are newspaper clippings, but some have names written underneath.”

“That was suspiciously helpful of you,” I say, glancing toward the materials they collected. “Did you steal anything while you were over there, or are we attempting a new record for good behaviour?”

“I considered taking a stapler,” Kris replies with complete seriousness, “but I knew you’d get jealous.”

I stop writing and slowly turn my head toward them. “Why would I be jealous of a stapler?” I ask, already regretting giving them the opportunity to explain.

Kris looks toward the fountain pen resting beside my hand before replying, “You might think I replaced you.”

For several seconds, I simply stare at them while attempting to determine whether the response is too stupid to deserve acknowledgement.

Kris holds my gaze with a perfectly straight face, although the faintest hint of a smile appears when I finally release an exhausted sigh and turn back toward the notebook.

“I need you to understand that you’re not funny,” I tell them, continuing to write despite the reluctant amusement tugging at my own mouth.

“You almost smiled,” Kris points out, leaning closer to inspect the questions I have written.

“I was experiencing a facial spasm caused by prolonged irritation,” I reply, shifting the notebook slightly when their shoulder presses against mine. “It’s a serious condition, and you are personally responsible for every symptom.”

Kris hums as though considering the diagnosis before directing their attention toward the first archive book. They flip through the old pages carefully, stopping whenever they find an article mentioning the festival, while I copy dates and names into the notebook beside our interview questions.

For once, the silence between us is not tense or deliberately awkward. Kris occasionally taps a photograph they think might be useful, and I write down the accompanying information without needing to argue about it, while our shoulders remain pressed together because neither of us bothers moving our chairs farther apart.

The arrangement feels strangely natural, which is probably why it takes me several minutes to notice how close we have become. Kris is leaning over the open book with one arm resting against the table, their hair falling forward as they read the faded text beneath an old photograph, while I am close enough to feel the warmth of their shoulder through both of our sweaters.

There is enough space around the table for us to spread out comfortably, yet we have somehow ended up sharing the same small section of it, passing the notebook and archive binder back and forth without ever discussing the arrangement.

I tell myself it is more efficient this way, although I refuse to examine why the explanation sounds so weak even inside my own head.

“This one has Mom in it,” Kris says, drawing my attention back toward the binder as they point to a photograph dated nearly twenty years earlier.

I lean closer to examine the grainy image and find a much younger Toriel standing behind a festival bake-sale table alongside several other familiar faces.

Asgore is beside her holding what appears to be an enormous tray of cinnamon rolls, while Rudy stands a few feet away wearing an embarrassing hat and grinning directly at the camera.

“Oh my God,” I whisper, immediately recognising the younger versions of everyone in the photograph. “Your mother looks exactly the same, but your father’s hair is somehow worse than yours.”

Kris studies the image before replying, “He had more of it then.”

“That isn’t necessarily a good thing,” I say, pointing toward the ridiculous volume surrounding Asgore’s face. “He looks like someone glued an entire carpet to his head.”

Kris lets out a quiet laugh before turning the binder slightly closer to me. “Rudy’s hat is worse,” they say, tapping the photograph again.

“Rudy’s hat is a crime against vision,” I agree, leaning farther over the table as I try to read the handwritten names beneath the image. “We absolutely have to show Noelle this before the project ends.”

“We could use it in the presentation,” Kris suggests, their voice carrying enough mischief that I immediately understand what they are proposing.

“You want to put an embarrassing photograph of Noelle’s father in front of the entire class?” I ask, looking toward them with raised eyebrows.

Kris gives a small shrug before replying, “It’s historically relevant.”

“That is the weakest justification you have offered all day,” I tell them, although I cannot stop myself from smiling as I copy the date into my notebook. “We are definitely using it.”

Kris’s gaze lingers on my face for a moment longer than necessary, and when I notice, I turn my attention back toward the photograph before they can comment on the smile I failed to hide.

The library suddenly feels warmer than it did when we arrived, although that could easily be blamed on the afternoon sunlight pouring across the table rather than the person sitting close enough that their knee has begun resting lightly against mine beneath it.

We continue working for nearly an hour, gradually building a rough timeline of the festival and marking several photographs we want to copy later. Kris turns out to be an annoyingly competent partner when they are not stealing my belongings, and although they contribute fewer written notes than I do, they notice details I would have skipped and remember names connected to several older businesses around town.

By the time the librarian announces that the building will close in fifteen minutes, our assignment has developed from a vague topic into something that might actually earn us a decent grade.

“We should interview your mother first,” I say, looking over the list while beginning to organise the papers scattered across the table. “She’s in the photograph, she worked at the school during several of the older festivals, and she probably remembers enough details to help us refine the questions before we talk to anyone else.”

Kris closes the archive book before replying, “She’ll make you stay for dinner.”

“I didn’t say we had to interview her tonight,” I point out, slipping the binder back into its protective sleeve.

“You don’t have to say it,” Kris answers as they begin stacking the books. “She’ll see us working together, decide you haven’t eaten enough and start cooking before either of us can leave.”

I glance toward them, unsure whether they are warning me or simply stating an unavoidable fact. “Is that what happens every time you bring someone home?” I ask as I recap my fountain pen and return it to my bag.

“I don’t bring people home,” Kris replies, their attention remaining fixed on the stack of books as they straighten the edges.

The answer is casual enough that I almost miss the implication, but something in the way they avoid looking at me makes my hand pause against the zipper of my bag. Before I can decide whether to ask what they mean, the librarian reminds us that we have ten minutes remaining, and Kris immediately gathers the archive materials before carrying them back toward the desk.

I watch them go for a second longer than I should, wondering why the idea that Kris does not usually bring people home makes the invitation feel more significant than a simple dinner with a classmate.

It should not matter, especially when we are only going there because of an assignment, but my mind has never been particularly cooperative where Kris is concerned.

By the time they return, I have packed the rest of our notes and convinced myself that the strange feeling in my chest is irritation rather than anything worth examining.

“The librarian says we can photocopy the photographs tomorrow,” Kris tells me as they pick up their bag. “We need to bring money.”

“Fine,” I reply, slinging my own bag over one shoulder before glancing through the library windows. The autumn light has begun fading into a deep orange beyond the car park, and the temperature has dropped enough that condensation is starting to gather faintly along the glass. “We should probably head home before it gets properly dark.”

Kris looks toward the windows before turning back to me. “Mom’s picking me up,” they explain. “She said she’d be here when the library closes.”

“That’s convenient,” I say as we begin walking toward the entrance. “I can interview her another day, though, because I’m not inviting myself into your house without warning.”

“You won’t have to,” Kris replies, pushing open the library door and holding it for me. “She’ll invite you.”

The certainty in their voice makes me suspicious, but before I can question them, we step into the nearly empty hallway and hear the faint sound of the school’s main doors opening in the distance.

Toriel appears a moment later, her purple cardigan wrapped closely around her as she looks down the corridor and immediately smiles when she spots us approaching together.

“Kris, there you are,” Toriel says warmly, adjusting the handbag resting over one arm before turning her attention toward me. “And Y/N as well. Were you two working on something together?”

“We’ve been partnered for a history assignment,” I explain, holding up the folder containing our notes. “We’re researching the old Hometown festivals, and Kris mentioned that you might have photographs and remember some of the earlier ones.”

Toriel’s expression brightens almost immediately. “Oh, of course,” she replies, clasping her hands together with obvious enthusiasm. “I still have several albums at home, and I believe there may even be an old festival programme in the attic.”

Kris looks toward me with an expression that very clearly says I told you so, although I ignore them and return Toriel’s smile.

“That would be really helpful,” I tell her. “We can organise a time to look through them whenever you’re free.”

“Nonsense, dear,” Toriel says, already turning toward the exit as though the decision has been made. “You may come over now, and the two of you can look through everything before dinner. I was planning to make butterscotch-cinnamon pie tonight, and there will be far too much for Kris and me alone.”

I glance toward Kris, who has the decency to keep their expression mostly neutral despite the unmistakable satisfaction in their eyes. “You knew she was going to say that,” I accuse quietly.

“I warned you,” Kris replies, stepping past me to follow their mother toward the doors.

“You predicted it with suspicious accuracy,” I mutter as I fall into step beside them.

Kris glances down at me before replying, “You’ll still come.”

The confidence in their answer should annoy me, and it does, although not enough to make me refuse. Toriel is already holding the main door open for us, the cold afternoon air slipping into the hallway around her, and the thought of warm food after spending an hour buried in dusty archive books is considerably more appealing than walking home alone.

“Fine,” I tell Kris as we follow Toriel into the fading autumn light. “But only because your mother has photographs we need, and because I have been promised pie.”

“Obviously,” Kris replies, their shoulder bumping lightly against mine as we cross the car park. “No other reason.”

I narrow my eyes at them, although the smile threatening to appear on my face makes the glare significantly less effective than I intended.

⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆── ⊰

Toriel’s car is parked near the far end of the car park, an older red vehicle that looks almost comically small beside her when she unlocks it and opens the driver’s-side door.

Kris circles around to the passenger side without saying anything, but before they can reach for the handle, Toriel glances over the roof of the car and gives them the sort of pointed maternal look that immediately makes them pause.

“Kris, dear, perhaps Y/N should sit in the front,” Toriel suggests, resting one hand against the open door. “She is our guest, after all.”

Kris looks through the window toward the front seat before glancing down at me. “She’s shorter,” they reply, apparently deciding this is a reasonable objection. “She fits in the back better.”

“I am standing right here,” I remind them, folding my arms across my chest as Toriel covers a quiet laugh with one hand. “Besides, you spent half the morning using your height to torment me, so you can suffer through ten minutes of limited legroom.”

Kris considers the argument for a moment before opening the rear door with an exaggerated sigh. “This is discrimination,” they say as they lower themselves into the back seat and immediately have to angle their knees to avoid pressing them against the seat in front.

“This is justice,” I correct, slipping into the passenger seat and fastening my seat belt while Toriel settles behind the wheel. “There is an important difference.”

Toriel glances between us through the rear-view mirror before starting the car, her expression carrying the patient amusement of someone who has already decided that whatever is happening between Kris and me is both obvious and none of her business. “I am glad to see the two of you getting along,” she says warmly as she guides the car out of the school grounds.

“We aren’t,” Kris and I answer at exactly the same time, and the synchronised denial earns a soft laugh from Toriel while I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat.

Toriel smiles to herself as she turns onto the road leading through the centre of town. “Of course not,” she replies, choosing a tone so politely agreeable that it somehow sounds far less convincing than if she had openly argued with us.

The drive to the Dreemurr house takes less than ten minutes, although Toriel uses nearly all of them to ask about the assignment, the interviews we have planned and whether Alphys has given us enough time to complete everything.

I explain our idea of tracing the history of Hometown’s autumn festival while Kris occasionally adds some small detail from the back seat, and by the time we pull into the driveway, Toriel has already volunteered several boxes of old photographs, a collection of programmes and what she claims might be an original recipe book from one of the earliest bake sales.

Her enthusiasm is infectious enough that I almost forget I am voluntarily spending the evening at Kris’s house until I open the car door and find them standing beside it, holding out one hand with an unnecessarily courteous expression.

“Careful,” Kris says, glancing toward the perfectly flat driveway. “The ground is very far away from you.”

“I hope your knees are permanently damaged from sitting back there,” I reply, ignoring their offered hand as I climb out of the car without assistance. “Maybe then you’ll finally understand how it feels to live at a normal height.”

“My knees are fine,” Kris answers as they close the car door, although the way they stretch one leg before following Toriel toward the house suggests otherwise.

The Dreemurr home is warmer than I expect when Toriel opens the front door, carrying the familiar scent of cinnamon, old wood and whatever has been simmering in the kitchen long enough to fill almost every room.

The interior is tidy without feeling staged, with family photographs arranged along the walls, knitted blankets folded across the back of the couch and a collection of mismatched shoes gathered beside the entrance.

I have passed the house dozens of times and even stood on the porch once or twice while waiting for Kris, but I have never actually been invited inside, which makes stepping across the threshold feel strangely more significant than it should.

“You may leave your shoes here, dear,” Toriel tells me, gesturing toward the small mat beside the door before hanging her handbag on a nearby hook. “Dinner will not be ready for a little while, so perhaps you and Kris could begin looking through the photographs while I finish cooking.”

“That sounds perfect, thank you,” I reply as I remove my shoes and place them neatly beside Toriel’s, resisting the urge to comment when Kris kicks theirs off without bothering to line them up.

Toriel looks down at the abandoned shoes before turning toward Kris with a patient expression. “Kris,” she says, placing enough emphasis on their name that the request does not need to be explained.

Kris glances toward the shoes, then toward their mother, before reluctantly nudging them into something resembling a pair. “They were close enough,” they reply.

“They were facing opposite directions,” I point out, adjusting the strap of my bag over one shoulder. “One of them was practically trying to leave the house.”

Kris looks at me before glancing down at their shoes again. “It knew what was coming,” they answer, and Toriel shakes her head fondly before walking toward the kitchen.

The moment she disappears through the doorway, Kris reaches for my bag without warning, catching the strap near my shoulder before I can move away. “I’ll take that,” they say, already sliding it free.

“You will absolutely not take that,” I reply, tightening my grip on the strap as the memory of my stolen fountain pen returns with alarming clarity. “Everything I own is in there, and your history with unattended property is questionable at best.”

“I’m putting it upstairs,” Kris explains, giving the strap another light tug without actually trying to force it from my hand. “Unless you want to carry it around during dinner.”

“I can put it upstairs myself,” I tell them, although I release the strap after another moment because Toriel’s house seems like a particularly embarrassing place to begin wrestling with Kris for the second time that day. “If anything goes missing, I’m searching your room first.”

“You’d need a warrant,” Kris replies, slinging my bag over their shoulder beside their own.

“I have reasonable suspicion,” I argue as I follow them toward the staircase. “You have already been caught in possession of stolen goods.”

Kris starts climbing the stairs before looking back over one shoulder. “You got the pen back,” they remind me.

“That does not erase the crime,” I answer, keeping one hand against the railing as I follow them. “It only means the victim successfully recovered her property.”

Kris’s bedroom is at the end of the upstairs hall, and the moment they push the door open, I find myself slowing near the threshold despite every effort to appear casual. The room is messier than the rest of the house without being completely chaotic, containing an unmade bed, a desk crowded with books and loose papers, and several shelves filled with old games, CDs and objects that look as though Kris picked them up outside and decided they were important.

A worn red wagon sits partly beneath the bed, while a birdcage has been shoved into one corner beneath a dark cloth, although I decide immediately that asking about either of those things will probably lead to an answer I do not want.

Kris drops both bags beside their desk before turning to find me still standing near the doorway. “You can come in,” they say, leaning one shoulder against the wall. “The room doesn’t bite.”

“I’m considering whether you do,” I reply as I step inside, letting my gaze travel across the shelves while attempting not to look too curious. “Your habits suggest you might.”

“I only bite people I like,” Kris says, delivering the comment with such a perfectly straight face that it takes me a full second to process it.

I turn toward them sharply, but Kris has already crossed the room and crouched beside the bottom shelf of their bookcase as though they have said nothing unusual. “Was that supposed to be a threat?” I ask, folding my arms while heat begins creeping inconveniently toward my face.

Kris reaches behind a stack of old magazines before replying, “You can decide.”

“I’ve decided it was weird,” I tell them, watching as they pull out a large photo album with a faded green cover. “You’re weird, the sentence was weird, and I’m choosing not to examine it any further.”

“That sounds healthy,” Kris replies as they straighten up and pass the album toward me.

I accept it carefully, brushing a thin layer of dust from the cover with my sleeve before noticing the words Hometown Festivals written across the front in Toriel’s neat handwriting. “Your mother labels everything,” I observe, opening the album to a page filled with photographs from an autumn parade.

“Everything except me,” Kris answers, moving toward the bedroom door. “She already knew my name.”

“That might be the worst joke you’ve made today,” I tell them as I follow, although Kris’s quiet laugh suggests they consider the reaction worth it.

We carry the album downstairs and settle at the dining table near the kitchen, where Toriel has already placed two mugs of hot chocolate beside a plate of small cinnamon biscuits.

The entire arrangement is so welcoming that I hesitate before sitting, suddenly conscious that I am being treated less like a classmate who followed Kris home for an assignment and more like someone Toriel has been expecting for months.

“I thought you two might like something warm while you work,” Toriel explains from the kitchen, where she is stirring a large pot on the stove. “Please help yourselves, and do not worry about spoiling dinner. There is plenty.”

“Thank you, Mrs Dreemurr,” I reply as I take the chair nearest the album, wrapping both hands around the mug and immediately feeling the warmth seep into my fingers.

“You may call me Toriel, dear,” she says, looking over her shoulder with a gentle smile. “Mrs Dreemurr sounds terribly formal, especially when you have known Kris for so long.”

“I’ve endured Kris for a long time,” I correct lightly, glancing toward them as they lower themselves into the chair beside mine. “I’m not certain that counts as knowing them.”

Kris reaches for one of the cinnamon biscuits before replying, “She knows my haircut.”

Toriel pauses with the spoon still in her hand, her expression shifting into mild confusion. “Your haircut?” she asks, looking between us.

“Apparently it looks like I lost a fight with a lawnmower,” Kris explains before taking a bite of the biscuit, sounding far too pleased to repeat the insult in front of their mother.

I close my eyes for a moment before turning toward Toriel. “There were rumours at school again, and I may have used Kris’s hair as evidence that I possess standards,” I explain, attempting to make the situation sound less ridiculous than it is. “In my defence, they later stole my pen and watched me search for it, so I don’t feel especially guilty anymore.”

Toriel’s eyes drift toward Kris with the unmistakable look of a mother hearing an accusation she already believes. “Kris,” she says gently, although the disappointment contained in their name is enough to make them stop chewing.

“I gave it back,” Kris replies after swallowing, glancing toward me as though hoping I will confirm the technically accurate statement.

“Susie made you give it back,” I clarify, lifting my mug toward Kris in a mock toast. “You receive no credit for complying under social pressure.”

Toriel sighs softly before turning back toward the stove. “Please leave Y/N’s belongings alone, Kris,” she says, returning her attention to dinner. “You know how upsetting it can be when someone takes something without permission.”

Kris’s amusement fades slightly at that, their fingers becoming still against the edge of the plate before they nod. “Yeah,” they reply quietly. “I know.”

The change in their tone is small, but it is noticeable enough to make me look toward them. Kris keeps their gaze lowered toward the photo album, the usual hint of mischief disappearing from their expression for the briefest moment before they turn the page and point toward one of the photographs.

“This was the year the parade float broke,” Kris says, clearly redirecting the conversation as they tap an image of Asgore standing beside a collapsed structure covered in paper flowers. “Dad tried to fix it during the parade.”

I allow the subject to change without pushing, leaning closer to examine the picture while filing away the strange shift in their mood for later. “He looks far too pleased with himself for someone standing beside a destroyed float,” I remark, studying the enormous smile on Asgore’s face.

“He said it became an interactive exhibit,” Kris explains, and the faint amusement returning to their voice reassures me more than it probably should.

“That sounds exactly like something your father would say,” I reply before pulling my notebook from the folder. “All right, we should probably start acting like we came here to work before your mother realises we’re only here for the biscuits.”

“I already realise that,” Toriel calls from the kitchen, her voice warm with amusement.

I glance toward Kris while they reach for another biscuit, and they offer me a tiny shrug as though being caught has never stopped them before. We begin working through the album one page at a time, writing down dates, locations and names while Toriel occasionally corrects a caption or explains who someone is from across the room.

The interview starts informally, with me asking questions whenever a photograph raises one, but it gradually becomes more structured as Toriel joins us at the table and begins describing how the festival has changed since she and Asgore first moved to Hometown.

Toriel explains that the event used to be smaller and centred mostly around the church and school, with handmade stalls replacing the newer commercial booths and nearly every family contributing food or decorations.

She tells us about the year a storm destroyed half the stalls, the parade Asgore attempted to lead while wearing the wrong costume, and the time Rudy convinced several adults that releasing live birds inside the town hall would make the closing ceremony more memorable.

I write as quickly as I can while Kris fills in names and dates I miss, and before long, the assignment feels less like schoolwork and more like listening to stories that everyone in Hometown knows except me.

“You remember a lot of this,” I tell Kris after they correct the date of a photograph for the third time, glancing toward them as I finish the note. “Were you secretly attending festivals before you were born?”

“Mom tells the same stories every year,” Kris replies, reaching over to turn the page. “Usually while showing the same photographs.”

“And yet you still brought me here to hear them again,” I point out, watching their hand remain near mine against the edge of the album.

Kris glances toward me before answering, “It’s different when you’re here.”

The response is quiet and simple, spoken without the usual smugness that would give me something easy to mock. For a moment, I cannot think of anything to say, and Kris seems to realise what they have admitted at exactly the same time because they turn their attention abruptly toward the next photograph.

“They changed the decorations after this year,” Kris adds, pointing toward a row of paper lanterns while avoiding my gaze. “You should write that down.”

“Right,” I reply, lowering my eyes toward the notebook even though the sentence in front of me has suddenly become difficult to focus on. “The decorations changed.”

The kitchen timer rings before the silence can become uncomfortable, prompting Toriel to rise from the table and announce that dinner is ready. Kris immediately begins gathering the loose photographs and closing the album, while I recap my pen and organise the notes into a neat stack.

The domestic ease of the moment catches me off guard again, because there is something strangely natural about sitting at their dining table while Toriel prepares food and Kris reaches across me to collect the empty mugs.

“You can leave the notes here for now, dear,” Toriel says as she carries a large dish toward the table. “There will be plenty of time to continue after dinner.”

“I don’t want to impose for too long,” I reply, standing to help her with the plates. “You’ve already given us an interview, photographs and food, which is considerably more than the assignment requires.”

“You are not imposing,” Toriel assures me as she places the dish in the centre of the table. “It is lovely having another person here, and Kris seems quite happy to have you.”

Kris nearly drops one of the mugs into the sink.

I turn toward them before I can stop myself, but they keep their back to the table as they carefully place the mug down and reach for the next one. “Kris seems thrilled,” I say, attempting to keep my voice casual despite the warmth rushing toward my face. “They’ve only stolen from me once today.”

“Twice,” Kris corrects from the sink, finally looking back over their shoulder. “I took your chip at lunch.”

“That was more than one chip,” I remind them, grateful for the familiar argument because it gives both of us somewhere safer to direct our attention. “You committed repeated theft across multiple locations.”

Toriel looks between us with a fond smile before taking her seat. “Then perhaps you should sit where Y/N can keep an eye on you,” she tells Kris, gesturing toward the chair directly beside mine.

Kris obeys without complaint, taking the seat so close that their knee brushes mine beneath the table as they settle. Neither of us moves away, although I tell myself it is because Toriel has already begun serving dinner and shifting now would only draw attention.

The meal consists of a warm vegetable bake, fresh bread and roasted potatoes, all of which taste significantly better than anything I had planned to buy on the way home. Toriel asks about school, our plans for the remaining interviews and whether I have lived in Hometown long enough to remember any festivals myself, while Kris contributes occasional comments between quietly stealing pieces of crust from the edge of my bread.

I notice the theft after the second piece but decide not to say anything, partly because Toriel is watching and partly because, for reasons I cannot explain, the behaviour no longer feels quite as irritating as it did at lunch.

Halfway through dinner, Kris’s phone vibrates against the table. They glance toward the screen before turning it facedown, but not before the message preview catches my eye.

Susie: tell ur girlfriend i said hi

I stop with my fork halfway to my mouth.

Kris’s hand moves quickly over the phone, locking the screen before they slide it beneath the edge of their plate. Their expression remains carefully neutral, although the faint colour appearing across the tips of their ears suggests they know exactly what I saw.

Toriel continues discussing the history of the school without noticing anything, leaving Kris and me trapped in a silence that feels considerably louder than the conversation surrounding it.

I lower my fork slowly and look toward them, while Kris becomes intensely interested in cutting one of their potatoes into increasingly smaller pieces.

“Your girlfriend says hello,” I murmur quietly enough that Toriel cannot hear, unable to resist turning Susie’s message back on them.

Kris glances toward me from beneath their hair before replying in the same low voice, “She was talking about you.”

“I gathered that,” I answer, keeping my attention fixed on my plate as heat crawls steadily up my neck. “I was hoping you might enjoy the accusation for once.”

Kris’s mouth twitches before they lean a fraction closer. “I don’t mind it,” they admit quietly.

The words settle between us with enough weight that I forget whatever response I had prepared. Kris turns back toward their dinner before I can study their expression, leaving me staring at the edge of their sleeve where it rests against mine on the table.

Toriel looks toward us a moment later, apparently noticing the sudden silence without understanding its cause. “Is everything all right?” she asks, her gaze moving curiously between us.

“Everything’s fine,” Kris and I reply at exactly the same time, which earns another knowing smile from Toriel and makes me seriously consider crawling beneath the table until dinner is over.

Toriel’s knowing smile remains for several seconds before she politely returns her attention to her dinner, although the slight curve of her mouth makes it obvious that she believes approximately none of what we have just told her.

I lower my gaze to my plate and concentrate on cutting one of the roasted potatoes into smaller pieces, hoping that looking occupied will stop me from thinking about the quiet certainty in Kris’s voice when they admitted that they did not mind being mistaken for my partner.

Unfortunately, the words continue circling through my head regardless, and the warmth of their sleeve resting against mine only makes it harder to dismiss the comment as another stupid attempt to embarrass me.

Kris does not bring it up again, which should make the rest of dinner easier, but their silence somehow manages to feel more noticeable than their teasing. They occasionally answer one of Toriel’s questions or reach across the table for another piece of bread, yet they keep their gaze mostly fixed on their plate, as though avoiding eye contact will prevent either of us from acknowledging what they said.

I tell myself that I am grateful for the reprieve, although every time their knee shifts against mine beneath the table, my thoughts stumble over themselves all over again.

Toriel eventually sets her fork down and folds her hands neatly beside her plate before asking, “Would either of you like another serving? There is still plenty left, and I would hate for it to go to waste.”

“I’m all right, thank you,” I reply, leaning back slightly as I glance at the nearly empty plate in front of me. “Everything was really good, but I think another serving might actually kill me.”

Kris looks toward the remaining vegetable bake before replying, “I’ll have more.”

“You have eaten enough for three people,” I tell them, watching as they hold their plate toward Toriel without the slightest trace of shame. “You also stole half of my bread, so I’m not sure where you’re planning to put any of that.”

“It wasn’t half,” Kris corrects, waiting patiently while Toriel adds another spoonful to their plate. “It was the crust.”

“You took several pieces of crust,” I reply, pointing toward the bare edges left on my plate as evidence. “At some point, repeated theft becomes half.”

Toriel glances down at my plate before looking toward Kris with gentle disapproval. “Kris, dear, there is an entire loaf in the centre of the table,” she reminds them. “There is no reason to take food from Y/N’s plate.”

“It tastes different,” Kris replies, their expression remaining perfectly serious as they begin eating again.

I stare at them for a moment before asking, “How could it possibly taste different when it came from the exact same loaf?”

Kris gives the question enough consideration to suggest they might provide a genuine answer before replying, “It was yours.”

The comment is delivered with such calm simplicity that I cannot immediately decide whether it is supposed to be another joke.

Toriel looks between us with the sort of fond expression that makes my face grow warmer, while Kris continues eating as though they have not just made stealing from my plate sound strangely personal.

“Well, that certainly explains everything,” I mutter, reaching for my drink so I have something to do with my hands. “I’m glad we finally established that my food possesses magical qualities once it touches my plate.”

Kris glances toward me before answering, “I’ll test the theory again tomorrow.”

“You’ll lose a finger tomorrow,” I warn them, although my voice lacks enough conviction to make the threat believable.

Toriel laughs quietly before rising from the table and beginning to gather the empty dishes. “Perhaps the two of you should continue your assignment while I prepare the pie,” she suggests, collecting my plate before I can offer to carry it myself. “The photographs may be easier to spread out upstairs, and I believe Kris has a desk large enough for both of you.”

“We can work down here,” I reply quickly, my gaze flicking toward Kris before returning to Toriel. The suggestion of going back upstairs to Kris’s bedroom should not feel particularly different from sitting beside them at the dining table, especially when we have an actual assignment to finish, but the thought of being alone with them after what they said makes my stomach tighten in a way I would rather not analyse.

“The kitchen will become rather noisy while I clean,” Toriel explains, balancing the plates against one arm as she gives me a reassuring smile. “You will be more comfortable upstairs, and I will call you when the pie is ready.”

Kris pushes their chair back and stands before I can come up with another objection. “Come on,” they say, gathering our notebook and the festival album from the end of the table. “We still need to organise the interview notes.”

I watch them tuck the album beneath one arm before looking toward Toriel, who has already begun filling the sink with warm water and appears entirely unconcerned by the decision she has made for us. Refusing now would look far stranger than simply following Kris upstairs, so I collect the remaining papers and my fountain pen before rising from the table.

“If you steal this again, I’m telling your mother immediately,” I warn Kris as I hold the pen up between us.

“You’re becoming a snitch,” Kris replies, turning toward the staircase while keeping the album safely beneath their arm.

“I’m adapting to my environment,” I correct as I follow them. “Living around you apparently requires both heightened vigilance and adult supervision.”

Kris looks back over their shoulder before replying, “You followed me upstairs willingly.”

“I’m following the assignment,” I tell them, although the faint smile appearing across their face suggests they are not convinced by the distinction.

When we return to Kris’s bedroom, they move several books and loose papers from the desk before dropping them onto the unmade bed, creating barely enough room for the album, our notes and two chairs. I retrieve my bag from beside the desk and pull the second chair closer, while Kris sits in their usual seat and opens the album to the pages we had marked downstairs.

The desk is wide enough for both of us, but the chairs are close together, and when I settle beside them, our knees immediately brush beneath the wooden surface.

I shift my leg slightly, expecting Kris to do the same, but they remain exactly where they are. Their attention stays fixed on the interview notes as they organise the pages into chronological order, although the faint lift at the corner of their mouth tells me that they have noticed the contact and made a deliberate decision not to move.

“You have plenty of space on your side,” I tell them, nudging their knee lightly with mine. “There is no reason for you to be occupying half of mine.”

Kris looks beneath the desk before replying, “Your side is warmer.”

“That does not give you the right to annex it,” I say, nudging them again with slightly more force. “Move your ridiculously long legs before I make you.”

Kris shifts their knee away just far enough to satisfy the literal wording of my request, although their shoulder remains pressed lightly against mine as they lean over the notes. “Better?” they ask, glancing toward me.

“Marginally,” I reply, placing my pen against the page and beginning to rewrite Toriel’s answers into something more organised. “You still have the spatial awareness of someone raised in a barn.”

“Dad owns a flower shop,” Kris reminds me.

“That has nothing to do with anything.”

“He keeps gardening tools in a shed,” Kris explains, as though the additional detail somehow strengthens their argument.

I look toward them with an exhausted expression before asking, “Are you genuinely trying to claim that your father owning a shed makes you barn-raised?”

Kris gives a small shrug before replying, “Close enough.”

I shake my head and return to the notes, although the quiet laugh threatening to escape makes it difficult to maintain the level of annoyance they deserve. We settle into a steady rhythm after that, with me rewriting the interview while Kris checks the photographs for dates and adds small corrections whenever I misremember something Toriel said.

The work proceeds faster than I expect, partly because Kris is genuinely helpful and partly because neither of us is arguing enough to derail the assignment completely.

As the evening grows darker outside the bedroom window, the room becomes illuminated almost entirely by the small lamp on Kris’s desk. Its warm light pools across the scattered papers and catches against the silver trim of my fountain pen while the rest of the room fades into soft shadows, making the space feel smaller and more private than it did earlier.

The sounds from downstairs become distant, reduced to the occasional clatter of dishes and the muted hum of Toriel moving through the kitchen, while Kris’s breathing and the scratch of my pen against the page fill the silence between us.

I finish rewriting the final answer before leaning back in the chair and flexing my aching fingers. “That should be enough for tonight,” I say, looking over the pages we have completed. “We’ve already done more work in one afternoon than most of the class will manage this week, and my hand is starting to feel like it might fall off.”

Kris glances toward my fingers before closing the photograph album. “You could’ve let me write,” they point out.

“With what?” I ask, immediately moving my fountain pen closer to my chest when their gaze drops toward it. “You didn’t bring anything except one pencil with bite marks all over it, and I’m not letting you touch this after what happened this morning.”

Kris reaches toward the desk and lifts the chewed pencil between two fingers before replying, “It still works.”

“It also looks like it survived an animal attack,” I tell them, watching as they turn it over in their hand. “Were you hungry during maths?”

“I was thinking.”

“You chew stationery when you think?”

Kris nods once before answering, “Sometimes.”

“That might be the most normal thing I’ve learnt about you,” I admit, recapping my pen before sliding it carefully into my bag. “I’m almost disappointed.”

Kris places the pencil back on the desk before asking, “What were you expecting?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, leaning farther into the chair as I glance around their room. “Maybe you sharpen your pencils with your teeth or keep stolen pens in a trophy case beneath your bed.”

Kris looks toward the space beneath their bed before turning back to me. “You haven’t checked.”

“I’m not looking beneath your bed,” I tell them, narrowing my eyes when their expression remains suspiciously neutral. “There are some things I’m happier not knowing.”

“You’ve been staring at the birdcage since we came upstairs,” Kris says, nodding toward the covered object in the corner.

“I have not been staring at it,” I reply, although my gaze immediately drifts toward the dark cloth before I force it back to Kris. “I’ve looked at it several times because it’s a covered birdcage sitting ominously in the corner of your room, which naturally raises questions.”

Kris rests one elbow against the desk before asking, “Do you want to know what’s inside?”

“No,” I answer immediately, and the smile that spreads across their face confirms that refusing was the correct decision. “Whatever is inside can remain between you and whatever authority eventually investigates this house.”

Kris lets out a quiet laugh, and for a moment, the familiar ease returns between us. The strange tension from dinner has not entirely disappeared, but it has softened enough that I can almost pretend everything is normal again.

Almost, because when Kris’s laughter fades, neither of us returns to the assignment, and the quiet that follows feels different from the comfortable silence we shared while working.

I glance at the clock beside their bed and realise it is later than I expected, which gives me a practical reason to start packing before the silence becomes something I have to confront. “I should probably head home after the pie,” I say, gathering the loose notes into a single stack. “It’s getting late, and my family will assume I’ve been murdered if I disappear into the Dreemurr house for the entire evening.”

Kris watches me slide the papers into our folder before asking, “Would they suspect me?”

“You would be the obvious suspect,” I reply, looking toward them as I zip the folder closed. “You spent the morning stealing from me and the afternoon luring me home with pie.”

“I didn’t make the pie,” Kris points out.

“You knowingly used your mother’s pie as an incentive,” I correct, placing the folder inside my bag. “That makes you an accomplice.”

Kris remains quiet for a moment, their fingers tracing absently along the edge of the closed album before they ask, “Do you really hate being here?”

The question catches me off guard, partly because of how quietly they ask it and partly because there is no teasing hidden beneath the words.

Kris keeps their gaze lowered toward the desk, their hair obscuring most of their expression, but the careful stillness in their posture tells me the answer matters more than they want to admit.

“I never said I hated being here,” I reply, my hands pausing against the zipper of my bag.

“You said I lured you here,” Kris reminds me, finally glancing toward me from beneath their hair.

“That was a joke,” I explain, turning in the chair so I can face them more directly. “Your mother invited me, and I agreed because we needed the photographs. Also because of the pie, obviously, but mostly the photographs.”

Kris gives a small nod, although their eyes return to the album. “Right,” they reply, and something about the flatness of the word makes guilt twist unexpectedly through my chest.

I study them for another moment before releasing a quiet sigh. “I don’t hate being here, Kris,” I say, softening my voice enough that the statement no longer sounds like part of our usual argument. “Your mother is lovely, the food was good, and your room is significantly less horrifying than I expected. I’ve actually had a nice time, despite being forced to spend most of it with you.”

The final remark earns the faintest hint of a smile, but Kris still does not look entirely convinced. “Despite me?” they ask.

“You know what I mean,” I reply, nudging their knee lightly beneath the desk. “You’re annoying, but you’re not always terrible company.”

“That’s almost nice,” Kris says, looking toward me again.

“Do not get used to it,” I warn them, although the words come out gentler than intended. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

Kris’s gaze remains fixed on mine, and the smile at the corner of their mouth slowly fades into something quieter. For once, they do not make another joke or use the opportunity to provoke me.

They simply watch me beneath the warm light of the desk lamp, and the longer the silence lasts, the more conscious I become of how close our chairs still are and how little space remains between our shoulders.

Eventually, I look away first and begin adjusting the strap of my bag, mostly because doing anything else feels less dangerous than continuing to hold their gaze. “Besides,” I add, forcing a lightness into my voice that does not quite feel natural, “someone has to make sure you contribute to the assignment instead of spending the entire month stealing my belongings.”

Kris leans back slightly before replying, “You’d notice if I wasn’t there.”

The statement is simple, but it lands with enough precision that my hands become still against the strap. I glance toward them again and find Kris watching me with that same unreadable calm they wear whenever they say something deliberately difficult to answer.

“I would notice because the room would be significantly less irritating,” I reply, reaching for the safety of sarcasm even though the response feels weak before I have finished saying it.

Kris tilts their head slightly before asking, “Would it be better?”

I open my mouth to answer, but the automatic denial refuses to come. The truthful response sits somewhere uncomfortable beneath my ribs, tangled with every stolen pen, shared lunch and pointless argument that has become part of my routine without my permission.

Kris seems to read the hesitation on my face, because their expression shifts almost imperceptibly, the confidence in their posture giving way to something more uncertain.

Before either of us can say anything else, Toriel calls from downstairs that the pie is ready, her voice breaking through the tension with enough force to make both of us look toward the bedroom door.

“We should go downstairs,” I say, standing too quickly and nearly catching my knee against the underside of the desk.

Kris rises more slowly before replying, “You didn’t answer.”

“I heard the pie,” I tell them, lifting my bag onto my shoulder as I move toward the doorway. “Everything else has temporarily become irrelevant.”

Kris follows behind me, although I can feel their gaze resting against my back as we step into the hallway. They do not repeat the question, and I do not answer it, but the silence between us carries it all the way downstairs.

Toriel has already arranged three slices of pie on the dining table by the time Kris and I return downstairs, each one still warm enough for thin curls of steam to rise from the golden filling. The sweet scent of butterscotch and cinnamon fills the kitchen, mixing with the lingering warmth from dinner and making the house feel even more comfortable than it did when I first arrived.

I place my bag beside the chair and sit down across from Toriel, while Kris lowers themselves into the seat beside mine without mentioning the conversation we abandoned upstairs.

“I hope you were able to finish what you needed,” Toriel says as she slides one of the plates toward me. “You were both very quiet up there, so I assumed the assignment must have been progressing well.”

“We finished organising your interview,” I explain, picking up my fork and cutting carefully through the soft crust. “We also made a list of what we still need from Asgore and Rudy, so we’re actually ahead of schedule now, which is an outcome I did not expect after being partnered with Kris.”

Kris glances toward me before replying, “I did most of the work.”

“You turned pages and corrected two dates,” I tell them, lowering my fork before they can rewrite the entire evening in their favour. “I wrote several pages by hand while you sat beside me chewing on a pencil and making ominous comments about whatever you keep beneath your bed.”

“I found the photographs,” Kris reminds me, taking a bite of their pie.

“And I acknowledged that you were suspiciously useful,” I reply as Toriel hides a smile behind her mug. “Do not become greedy, Dreemurr. You have already received more praise today than you deserve.”

Kris continues eating, although the faint curve of their mouth tells me they are satisfied with the answer. Their knee presses against mine beneath the table again, lighter than before but unmistakably deliberate, and I shift my attention toward the pie rather than giving them another reaction.

The filling is sweet without being overwhelming, and the crust practically falls apart beneath my fork, giving me something safe to concentrate on while the unanswered question from upstairs continues lingering between us.

“This is genuinely amazing,” I tell Toriel after another bite, looking toward her with what is probably the first completely sincere expression I have managed all evening. “Kris failed to exaggerate how good it would be, which may be the only time they have ever understated anything.”

“Thank you, dear,” Toriel replies warmly, clearly delighted by the compliment. “You are welcome to visit whenever you like. There is usually more pie than the two of us can finish, especially now that Asriel is away at university.”

“You shouldn’t tell her that,” Kris says, glancing toward their mother before looking at me. “She’ll start appearing at the door whenever she smells cinnamon.”

“I have more dignity than that,” I reply, although I pause long enough to take another bite before adding, “but not much more, so Toriel should probably avoid testing me.”

Toriel laughs softly, and the remainder of dessert passes more comfortably than I expect. She asks whether I need a lift home, but I explain that I live close enough to walk and would prefer not to make her drive again after she has already spent the evening feeding us and helping with the project.

Toriel objects at first, mentioning the darkness outside and the dropping temperature, although she eventually accepts my answer after I assure her that the streets between our houses are well lit and that I will message when I arrive safely.

Kris remains unusually quiet throughout the conversation, finishing their pie while occasionally glancing toward the darkened window behind me. I assume they are simply tired until Toriel begins gathering the plates and Kris rises from the table at the same time, reaching for my bag before I can collect it myself.

“I’ll walk her,” Kris says, lifting the strap from the back of my chair and slinging it over one shoulder.

I look toward them before asking, “Was that an offer, or have you already decided for me?”

“I decided,” Kris replies, sounding completely unapologetic as they adjust my bag beside their own.

“You have a very unhealthy relationship with other people’s belongings and personal autonomy,” I tell them, although I make no real attempt to take the bag back. “We should probably address that before it develops into something worse.”

Toriel smiles as she carries the plates toward the sink. “I think it would be sensible for Kris to walk with you,” she says, apparently siding with them without hesitation. “It is already quite late, and I would feel better knowing you were not alone.”

“Fine,” I reply, realising immediately that arguing against both Dreemurrs would be pointless. “Kris can walk me home, provided they understand that this does not give them permission to inspect, steal or mysteriously ‘borrow’ anything inside my bag.”

“I already looked through it,” Kris says as they begin walking toward the front hall.

I stop beside the table and stare after them. “You did what?” I ask, raising my voice enough that Kris looks back over their shoulder.

“I’m joking,” Kris replies, although their expression remains neutral enough that I cannot tell whether they are telling the truth.

“You are going to cause me permanent psychological damage,” I mutter as I follow them, while Toriel’s quiet laughter trails after us from the kitchen.

Kris places my bag beside the front door while I retrieve my shoes from the mat, and I sit on the lowest stair to pull them on as Toriel joins us in the hallway. She has wrapped a slice of pie in foil and placed it inside a small paper bag, which she presses into my hands before I can politely refuse.

“This is for tomorrow,” Toriel explains, smiling as she folds the top of the bag closed. “You may take it to school, although I suggest keeping it somewhere Kris cannot reach.”

“That eliminates most places within the school building,” I reply, glancing toward Kris as they pull on their shoes. “I may have to carry it in a locked container.”

Kris straightens before saying, “I can still reach locked containers.”

“That statement is precisely why nobody trusts you,” I tell them, carefully placing the pie inside my bag once they return it.

Toriel opens the front door, allowing a wave of cold autumn air to enter the warm hallway. The street outside is already dark, illuminated by porch lights and the orange glow of the lamps lining the pavement, while dry leaves scrape softly across the road whenever the wind shifts.

I step onto the porch and turn back toward Toriel, suddenly aware that I have spent nearly the entire evening inside her home despite intending to stay only long enough to arrange an interview.

“Thank you for everything,” I tell her, adjusting the bag over my shoulder. “The photographs, dinner and pie were all really helpful, and I’m sorry we appeared without much warning.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Toriel replies, reaching forward to give my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “It was lovely having you here, and you are welcome again whenever you and Kris need to work on your project.”

Kris steps out beside me before adding, “She’ll be back.”

I glance toward them and ask, “Are you trying to sound threatening again?”

“I’m predicting,” Kris replies as they pull the door partly closed behind us.

“Goodnight, you two,” Toriel says, apparently choosing not to involve herself in the argument. “Please be careful, and Kris, do not stay out too late.”

“I won’t,” Kris answers before Toriel closes the door, leaving the two of us standing together beneath the porch light.

For several moments, neither of us begins walking. Kris keeps their hands tucked inside the pockets of their sweater, while I adjust the strap of my bag and listen to the muted sounds of Toriel moving around inside the house.

The question from upstairs still hangs between us, and the quiet expression on Kris’s face makes it obvious they have not forgotten it simply because pie interrupted the conversation.

“We should go,” I say eventually, turning toward the short path leading away from the house. “Unless your plan is to stand here until your mother comes outside and asks why we’re behaving strangely.”

“She already thinks we behave strangely,” Kris replies as they fall into step beside me.

“She thinks we’re getting along,” I correct, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jacket as the cold air settles against my face. “That may be worse, considering how wrong she is.”

Kris walks beside me for several steps before asking, “Did you have a bad time?”

I glance toward them and find their gaze fixed on the pavement ahead. Their tone is casual, but the question echoes the one they asked in their bedroom closely enough that I know they are not actually talking about the food or the assignment.

“No,” I reply, watching a cluster of dry leaves tumble across the road before continuing, “I didn’t have a bad time. Your mother is lovely, the assignment went well, and the pie was good enough that I’m willing to overlook several of your personality defects.”

“That isn’t what I asked,” Kris says, finally looking down at me from beneath their hair.

“It is exactly what you asked,” I argue, although the response lacks its usual sharpness because we both know I am avoiding the actual point.

Kris slows near the end of the driveway, forcing me to stop a few steps ahead before turning back toward them. The porch light catches against the edges of their dark hair and leaves most of their expression hidden in shadow, but I can still see the uncertainty in the way their shoulders have gone strangely still.

“You didn’t answer upstairs,” Kris reminds me, their voice quieter now that there is no one nearby to interrupt us. “Would it be better if I wasn’t there?”

I stare at them for a moment, my fingers tightening inside my jacket pockets as every sarcastic response I could give passes through my head and immediately feels wrong. Kris waits without prompting me again, although the careful blankness of their expression makes it obvious they are preparing for an answer they may not want.

“No,” I admit eventually, releasing a breath that clouds faintly in the cold air. “It wouldn’t be better.”

Kris’s posture loosens slightly, but they continue watching me as though they are waiting for the rest of the explanation. “Why?” they ask.

“Because it wouldn’t,” I reply, already feeling uncomfortably exposed by the admission. “You’re irritating, you steal my food, you steal my stationery, and you seem to dedicate a frankly concerning amount of your time to making my life more difficult, but I would still notice if you suddenly stopped.”

Kris tilts their head before asking, “Would you miss me?”

“That is not what I said,” I answer quickly, although the warmth rising toward my face makes the denial considerably less convincing.

“It sounded like it,” Kris replies, taking one slow step closer.

“It sounded like I have become accustomed to a recurring inconvenience,” I correct, refusing to move even as the distance between us narrows. “People notice when recurring inconveniences disappear. If the school bell stopped ringing, I would notice that too, but it wouldn’t mean I was romantically attached to the bell.”

Kris’s mouth begins to curve upward again. “You compare me to school bells often?”

“Only when you force me into conversations that should not be happening,” I tell them, although the return of their small smile makes the tension in my chest ease slightly.

We resume walking after that, but the space between us feels different. Kris remains close enough that the sleeve of their sweater occasionally brushes mine, and neither of us speaks until we have passed the end of their street and reached the quieter road leading toward my house.

The shops in the centre of town have mostly closed, leaving dark windows reflecting the streetlights, while the cold air carries the distant smell of smoke from someone’s fireplace.

“I swear the entire school thinks we’re dating,” I say after several minutes, partly because the silence has become too heavy and partly because the subject is easier than acknowledging what I have already admitted. “Those girls from this morning probably told everyone they saw me practically hanging off you in the hallway, and Susie is definitely making it worse.”

Kris glances toward me before asking, “Does it bother you?”

“Obviously,” I reply automatically, although my answer comes too quickly to sound entirely honest.

Kris looks ahead again, their expression disappearing behind their hair as they ask, “Because people are talking about you?”

“Yes,” I answer, then hesitate before adding, “and because it isn’t true.”

The words leave my mouth with more finality than I intend, and Kris’s steps falter for the briefest moment before they recover. They turn their gaze toward the road, withdrawing one hand from their pocket only to rub absently at the sleeve covering the opposite wrist, while something in their posture closes off so subtly that I might not have noticed if I had not spent all day watching them.

A sharp twist of guilt catches beneath my ribs.

I had meant that the rumours were annoying because they were lies. I had meant that I hated having strangers discuss my personal life and invent things that had never happened.

I had not meant to make the possibility itself sound disgusting, but the way Kris looks away tells me that is exactly how they heard it.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, slowing until we both stop beneath one of the streetlights.

Kris glances toward me before asking, “Like what?”

“Like the idea of dating you would be the worst thing anyone could imagine,” I explain, pulling one hand from my pocket and rubbing my thumb nervously across the side of my index finger. “The rumours are annoying because everyone acts like they know something we don’t, and because people keep talking about us as though we’re characters in whatever stupid story they have invented.”

Kris remains quiet for a moment before asking, “What if they do know something?”

I let out a nervous laugh, although there is nothing particularly funny about the question. “That would be deeply embarrassing for both of us,” I reply, looking away toward the darkened houses lining the street.

“They figured Susie and Noelle out,” Kris points out.

“Susie and Noelle are obvious,” I argue.

Kris raises an eyebrow before saying, “Right.”

“Do not look at me like that,” I warn them, although the heat spreading across my face makes it difficult to sound threatening. “We are not obvious, because there is nothing to be obvious about.”

Kris takes another step closer, leaving barely enough room between us for the cold air to pass. “You said it wouldn’t be better without me,” they remind me.

“That doesn’t automatically mean I want to date you,” I reply, forcing myself to hold their gaze even as my heartbeat begins behaving like I have just run the entire distance from their house.

“No,” Kris agrees quietly. “It doesn’t.”

The answer should make the tension ease, but the disappointment hidden beneath it only makes my chest tighten further. Kris shifts as though they are preparing to continue walking, and the thought of letting the conversation end there feels suddenly unbearable.

“Can I ask you something?” I say before they can move past me.

Kris stops and gives a small nod. “Yeah,” they reply.

I take a breath, already regretting the question before I manage to force it out. “If everyone stopped saying it tomorrow,” I begin, glancing toward the empty street because looking directly at Kris feels impossible, “if the rumours disappeared and nobody ever called me your girlfriend again, would you actually care?”

The silence that follows seems to stretch across the entire town. Kris does not answer immediately, and when I finally look toward them, their expression has become unusually open despite the hair still falling across their face. Their fingers flex once at their side before they speak.

“Maybe,” Kris admits quietly.

The familiar answer should irritate me after hearing it so many times that day, but there is no teasing in their voice now. They are not smiling, and they are not trying to make me guess for their own entertainment. The word sounds like an admission they are afraid to make any clearer.

A nervous laugh escapes me as I look down at the pavement. “Shit,” I mutter, pushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I think I would too.”

Neither of us says anything after that, because there is suddenly nothing left to hide behind. I do not tell Kris that I like them, and they do not offer me some dramatic confession beneath the streetlight, but the way they step closer makes the truth feel obvious enough without either of us having to say it aloud.

Kris’s hand moves between us, their fingers brushing tentatively against mine before curling lightly around them. The contact is so careful that I could easily pull away, but I do not. Instead, I turn my hand and lace our fingers together, feeling their grip tighten when they realise I am not going to make a joke or pretend it happened accidentally.

“This is going to make the rumours worse,” I whisper, looking down at our joined hands before lifting my gaze toward them.

“They were already bad,” Kris replies, the smallest smile returning to their face.

“That is not a good reason,” I tell them, although I move closer until the front of my sweater brushes their sweater.

Kris tilts their head and asks, “Do you need a better one?”

I look up at them, suddenly conscious of every detail I have spent the entire day pretending not to notice: the uneven hair falling across their eyes, the faint pink colour touching the tips of their ears, the way their thumb moves nervously against the back of my hand despite their otherwise calm expression. My gaze drops toward their mouth for half a second before returning to their eyes, and Kris notices, because of course they do.

“No,” I admit, my voice barely louder than the wind moving through the trees. “I think that one will do.”

Kris leans down slowly enough to give me every opportunity to change my mind. Their free hand lifts toward my face but hesitates before making contact, and when I do not pull away, their fingers settle lightly against my jaw. The touch is unexpectedly gentle for someone who spent the morning holding my pen hostage, and the contrast makes my chest ache with an emotion I am not prepared to name.

I close the remaining distance myself.

The kiss is quiet and slightly awkward, our noses brushing before we manage to angle our faces properly, but the moment Kris’s lips meet mine, every argument I have rehearsed against this possibility disappears.

Their hand remains warm against my cheek, while mine catches instinctively in the front of their sweater, gripping the same fabric I had clawed at in the hallway that morning for an entirely different reason.

Kris smiles against my mouth, and I pull back just enough to glare at them. “Do not laugh,” I whisper, still holding their sweater.

“I’m not laughing,” Kris replies, although the curve of their lips makes the denial completely useless.

“You are absolutely laughing,” I accuse, my face burning as I begin to release their sweater.

Kris catches my wrist before I can move away, keeping me close as they ask, “Can I do it again?”

The question is so unexpectedly direct that my irritation softens before I can maintain it. “You can,” I reply, tightening my fingers in their sweater again, “but if you tell Susie before I do, I will deny everything and throw you into the lake.”

“I believe you,” Kris says, and then they kiss me again before I can decide whether their agreement is sincere. ⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ⊰⊱ ── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆── ⊰

A Monday-morning bonus scene fits best here, with the rumours finally becoming true and the entire class being unbearable about it.

By Monday morning, I have spent the entire weekend convincing myself that walking into school will be completely normal, despite the fact that Kris kissed me beneath a streetlight on Friday night, walked me the rest of the way home while holding my hand, and then sent me a message less than ten minutes later asking whether throwing them into the lake was still a possibility now that they had technically broken my rule by telling Susie.

Apparently, Kris had not told her anything directly, but Susie had sent them eight messages in a row after noticing they were still outside long after they should have returned home. Kris had responded with a single smiling face, which Susie somehow interpreted as a full confession, because of course she did.

By Saturday afternoon, Noelle knew, and by Sunday evening, Berdly had sent me a paragraph explaining that our relationship confirmed several of his earlier observations regarding behavioural synchronisation. I blocked his number for three hours on principle, although I unblocked him later because Noelle asked me to and because he had included the History assignment schedule at the end of the message.

Still, only four people know the truth, and none of them has any reason to announce it to the entire school, which means I should be able to reach my locker without anyone staring, whispering or asking intrusive questions about a relationship that has existed for approximately two days.

That comforting belief survives until I step into the main hallway and see Susie leaning against my locker with Noelle beside her, both of them wearing expressions that make it immediately obvious they have been waiting for me.

“Good morning,” Noelle greets me warmly, although the excited smile spreading across her face makes the innocent tone entirely unconvincing.

“Don’t,” I warn them, continuing toward the locker without slowing. “Whatever either of you planned to say, keep it inside your heads until after I have survived first period.”

Susie pushes away from the locker and falls into step beside me before saying, “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but now that you’re acting weird, I feel like I have to.”

“I am not acting weird,” I reply, stopping in front of my locker and beginning to twist the combination dial. “I am behaving exactly as I always do, which is tired, irritated and increasingly tempted to transfer schools.”

Noelle exchanges a quick look with Susie before asking, “Did Kris really walk you all the way home?”

“They were already walking with me,” I answer, pulling open the locker and hiding behind the metal door while I search for my books. “It would have been considerably stranger if they stopped halfway and turned around.”

Susie leans one shoulder against the neighbouring locker before asking, “Did they kiss you halfway home?”

I freeze with one hand around my history textbook, while Noelle quietly tells Susie that she could have approached the question with slightly more tact.

“I am not discussing this in the middle of the hallway,” I say, pulling the textbook free before shutting the locker harder than necessary. “Especially not with either of you, because Susie has the volume control of a fire alarm and Noelle will turn red enough to alert everyone within a fifty-metre radius.”

“I can be subtle,” Susie argues, sounding offended by an accusation that is objectively true.

“You did shout ‘finally’ when Kris texted you on Friday,” Noelle says.

Susie grins before replying, “Well, yeah, duh, because you two finally stopped acting like idiots.”

Noelle turns away from Susie and gives me a gentler smile and says, “We really are happy for you, though. Kris seemed happy too, even if all they sent was that one little face.”

“That one face was practically a written confession for Kris,” Susie adds, and although I hate agreeing with her, she is not entirely wrong.

Before I can respond, Kris appears at the far end of the hallway with their hands buried in the pockets of their green-and-yellow sweater, moving through the crowd with the same quiet, unhurried confidence they always carry.

Several students glance between us the moment they notice Kris approaching, but that is hardly unusual, and I tell myself the sudden tightening in my stomach has nothing to do with how different everything feels now that the rumours are technically accurate.

Kris stops beside me and looks first at Susie, then Noelle, before turning their gaze toward my face. “Morning,” they say, their expression remaining calm despite the faint smile hidden at the corner of their mouth.

“Morning,” I reply, suddenly aware that Susie is watching both of us with the intensity of someone expecting a live performance.

Kris glances toward the textbook in my arms before asking, “Did you bring the assignment notes?”

“Yes,” I answer, patting the side of my bag. “Unlike some people, I can be trusted with important stationery and documents.”

“I gave the pen back,” Kris replies, repeating the defence they have apparently decided will remain valid forever.

“You stole it first,” I remind them, and the familiar argument settles around us so naturally that the nervousness in my chest begins to loosen.

A monster passing behind Kris slows just enough to look between us before asking, “Wait, are you two still pretending you aren’t dating?”

I open my mouth automatically, already prepared to deliver the denial I have repeated hundreds of times over the last year, but the words do not come.

Kris looks toward me from beneath their hair, saying nothing as they wait to see what I will do, while Susie presses both lips together in a visible effort to stop herself from interfering.

“We are not—” I begin, but my voice falters when Kris’s hand brushes lightly against mine beside my skirt.

They do not grab me immediately or make some dramatic declaration in front of the hallway. Instead, Kris hooks one finger cautiously around mine, giving me enough time to pull away if I want to preserve the lie a little longer.

The contact is small enough that most of the hallway probably cannot see it, but Susie notices immediately, and the grin spreading across her face becomes almost unbearable.

I glance toward Kris and find them looking straight ahead, although the colour spreading faintly across the tips of their ears gives them away. Their finger tightens around mine, and something warm settles beneath my ribs as I turn my hand and lace our fingers together properly.

“Actually,” I say, looking back toward the student who asked the question, “we are dating now.”

For half a second, the hallway becomes strangely quiet, as though everyone within hearing distance needs a moment to process the fact that the longest-running rumour in Hometown High has finally become true.

The reaction arrives all at once, with several nearby students gasping, somebody farther down the corridor shouting that they knew it, and a monster near the drinking fountain immediately pulling out their phone to message someone.

Susie throws both hands into the air before yelling, “Took you idiots long enough,” loudly enough that the celebration echoes along the entire hallway.

Noelle laughs beside her before gently pulling one of Susie’s arms back down. “Congratulations,” she tells us, her smile bright enough that I cannot bring myself to be annoyed by the attention.

“This is exactly what I wanted to avoid,” I mutter, tightening my grip on Kris’s hand as more students begin turning toward us. “By lunch, somebody will have planned our wedding.”

“Already happened,” Susie replies, reaching into her pocket before showing me a folded sheet of paper with what appears to be a betting chart written across it. “Catti had November, but Jockington guessed this weekend, so he wins the pool.”

I stare at the paper in complete disbelief before asking, “There was a betting pool?”

“There were two,” Noelle admits apologetically. “Berdly started the other one, but his had a complicated points system.”

“I am going to kill every person in this school,” I say, while Kris quietly takes the betting sheet from Susie’s hand and studies it.

“Jockington gets forty dollars,” Kris observes, sounding almost impressed.

“You are not allowed to be impressed by this,” I tell them, attempting to pull the paper from their hand. “You are one of the people being treated like a competitive sporting event.”

Kris lifts the sheet slightly out of my reach, and I stop immediately, narrowing my eyes as the memory of Friday morning returns.

“Do not start,” I warn them, keeping my voice low while Susie begins laughing again. “We have been dating for less than three days, and I am fully prepared to end it over another height-related incident.”

Kris hands the paper back without resistance before replying, “You’d miss me.”

The confidence in their voice should irritate me, but the statement carries the memory of our conversation beneath the streetlight, making my response catch somewhere behind my teeth.

“I would miss having someone nearby to blame for everything,” I reply instead, trying to sound dismissive despite the smile threatening to betray me.

Kris looks down at our joined hands before saying, “Close enough.”

The warning bell rings before the crowd can grow any larger, sending students moving reluctantly toward their classrooms while several continue whispering and glancing back at us.

Susie walks ahead with Noelle, already explaining how she intends to collect part of Jockington’s winnings for “emotional labour,” while Kris and I remain near the lockers for another moment.

“This is going to be unbearable,” I tell them, watching the last few students disappear around the corner.

Kris gives my hand a gentle squeeze before asking, “Do you regret it?”

I glance up at them and find no teasing in their expression, only the same quiet uncertainty they showed on Friday night. The answer comes more easily this time, even with the entire school buzzing around us.

“No,” I reply, squeezing their hand in return. “I regret admitting it in front of Susie, but I don’t regret the rest.”

Kris’s expression softens into a small smile before they lean down and press a quick kiss against the top of my head. The gesture is so brief and unexpectedly affectionate that I remain frozen beside them for a second after they pull away.

“What was that for?” I ask, looking up at them while heat spreads across my face.

Kris begins walking backward toward the classroom before replying, “Rumour control.”

“That is the opposite of rumour control,” I call after them, quickly following as their smile widens.

By the time we enter the classroom together, everyone is already staring, and Susie has apparently announced the news before even reaching her seat.

I consider turning around and leaving Hometown forever, but Kris quietly slips their hand back into mine beneath the desk, hidden from the rest of the class by our bags and the edge of the table.

You stole it from me.

(No text under the cut)

We are connected

more ramblings below