#semi fluff

a/n: some of the times are screwed since i only discovered how to change them later on.. yes a little shirabu obsessed rn oopsie daisy

tag: @akaashiit, @an1ki3gai, @blythmourning, @immortalblazethief, @kagstobioisthelightofmylife, @qrxswan, @wave2cal, @velvetaya, @oceanaesthete, @tdntu0, @kaykayo8, @n0vawrit3s, @haniipie, @skz143nstuff, @lsirria, @bakugosgrenade, @bookworm-center, @levisotakugf, @wellitseugi, @badtzmai, @returntothefae, @noyamlv, @charukii, @amisuh, @z9mbo, @s1ckntw1st3d, @imagoodwriter, @jinshigooner, @venusdreamr, @carlitapp, @st3rdust7, @cwinxclub

No one here knows that the guy they're gushing about was the same guy that tried countless times to take you out when you were both in your high school days, even though you've ignored him countless times, giving him an eye roll and leaving him hanging.

The same guy that got insanely red when you showed up to one of his high school volleyball games for the first time, he almost fainted right there even though he wasn't even sure if you were here for him or not.

The same guy who freaked out when you finally agreed to go out with him 'don't think too much about this semi.' you warned right after agreeing, then involuntarily smiling a little after turning around and making sure he couldn't see.

And you were the same girl he wrote all his sickeningly sweet love songs about, and no one in this room knew a damn thing.

He kept playing, guitar pick placed between his fingers and moving rapidly across the strings, he looked so captivating like this, all in his element and doing what he loves so beautifully, it had your head going all woozy.

And unfortunately, everyone else was feeling the same. But luckily for you, your man always knew how to read your expressions, walking up to you right before the beat-drop of his latest release.

You look up at him, having to turn your neck all the way up because of the high stage he was on. He kneels down right in front of you and your eyes widen, the cheers get louder, though they seem to drown from around you little by little.

You smile up at him and roll your eyes when you feel him start to lean in, he was never a subtle person and you have no idea how your relationship was kept a secret for this long.

His face is right in front of yours when he whispers against your lips 'this one's for you' a promise and a confession heard by no one but you two. your heart melts a little at the confession and you just can't resist the urge to grap his shirt and push your lips against his, right as the loud music push against everyone's eardrums.

He kisses you back with all his might, skilled hand still going and going over the guitar and everyone can't seem to stop screaming.

He pulls back with a sick grin on his face, going back to hold the mic stand for his bridge, staring at you while backing away, you just grin back as you fix up your now smudged lipstick.

Later that night, when you were all showered and ready to drift off, you hear eita calling from next to you.

"rockstar semi and the mystery girl are trending on twitter babe," he chuckles out, while shoving his phone in your face.

"Mystery girl my ass, I'm gonna start posting all your ugly pictures from high school so everyone knows I've been here since day one." you scoff and look away, frowning.

"Shit baby, is that jealousy i see?" he gets up from his laying position, suddenly way too energetic for someone who had a whole show a few hours ago, grinning an evil grin in the process.

Your frown deepens as you smack him with a pillow, "shut up, semi." you hear him wince, then he tries to throw the pillow back at you.

"You're totally jealous." he cheers once again.

"Do you want to get hit again?"

"No I'm sorry."

You come back from practice, skin still damp with sweat, and find her exactly where she always is: cross legged on her bed, laptop balanced on her knees, headphones half on like armor. The RGB lights paint her face in shifting pinks and blues, catching on her piercings like warning signals she never heeds.

You don’t say hello.

You kick the door shut, drop your bag, and snap your fingers once, crisp and commanding.

Her body reacts before her brain catches up, laptop shoved aside, headphones yanked off. She slides to the floor without a sound, crawling the last few feet until she’s kneeling between your legs, eyes down, hands resting palms up on her thighs like an offering.

You don’t waste time on words.

You shove your shorts and underwear down in one motion, grab a fistful of her dark hair, and pull her mouth to you. She opens for you instantly, her tongue soft, lips warm, no hesitation. You ride her face rough and fast, grinding against her until your thighs tremble and your fingers bruise her scalp. When you cum it’s with a low, satisfied hiss, hips jerking before you push her away like she’s furniture.

She stays on her knees, breathing hard, chin slick, eyes glassy. You don’t thank her. You don’t touch her. You just step over her, strip the rest of your clothes, and climb into your own bed.

She doesn’t move until you’re under the covers. Then, she rises slowly, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and returns to her bed like nothing happened.

It happens again the next night. And the night after.

Sometimes you don’t even let her finish you with her mouth.

You straddle her lap while she’s still in sweats, feeling the instant, helpless throb of her cock through the fabric. You grind slow at first, then harder, faster, chasing your own release while she whimpers beneath you, hips twitching uselessly, hands clenched in the sheets because you haven’t given permission to touch.

When you cum you climb off without a glance back, leaving her leaking through her pants, trembling, untouched.

She never begs for relief. She never complains. She just lies there afterwards, face flushed, breathing ragged, cock softening against her stomach.

You never kiss her on the mouth.

You bite her throat until she whines. You suck bruises into the hollow of her collarbone. You drag your nails down her back hard enough to leave red lines she’ll feel for days. But your lips never meet hers. That would be too soft. Too dangerous. Too equal.

You don’t talk.

Not once.

No “how was your day?” No “what are you doing?” No “are you okay?”

The only sounds she makes are the ones you force out of her - high, broken whimpers when you edge her for forty minutes straight, shattered gasps of your name when you finally let her cum inside you, soft sobs when you overstimulate her until tears streak her cheeks and her whole body shakes.

You still don’t even know what her voice sounds like outside of sex.

Not the quiet, hoarse way she said your name that first night. Not the cracked “okay” when you claimed her. Those moments feel like fever dreams now, unreal and embarrassing. You’ve rewritten them in your head until they don’t exist.

This is cleaner.

This is power.

You use her whenever the urge hits - mid afternoon when the dorm is silent, late at night when the hallway lights dim, once in the shared bathroom with the shower running to drown out her muffled cries as you pin her against the tile and jerk her off until she’s sobbing your name into your shoulder.

She complies every single time. Eyes averted. Body pliant. Waiting. And every time you finish, you leave her wrecked, cum leaking from her, hoodie rucked up, face tear-streaked and flushed as you walk back to your side of the room like she’s invisible.

She never follows or reaches for you. She just pulls her blanket over herself, curls small, and waits for the next time you decide you want her.

You tell yourself this is exactly what you wanted. You tell yourself the hollow ache behind your ribs when you catch her sitting alone at her desk with her headphones on, staring blankly at a paused game is just boredom. You tell yourself the way your stomach twists when she flinches at a slammed door down the hall is irritation, not something softer. You tell yourself the silence between your beds isn’t heavier than it was before.

You tell yourself you’re in control.

Late at night, when the RGB lights cycle through colors and you’re alone under your covers, you listen for her breathing across the room.

Steady. Soft. Patient.

And something inside you twists so hard it hurts.

You roll over and face the wall, pretending you don’t feel it, pretending the quiet isn’t starting to feel like the loudest thing you’ve ever heard.

Today the quad is buzzing with midday energy - students sprawled on the grass, frisbees slicing overhead, someone’s bluetooth speaker thumping bass from a picnic blanket twenty feet away. You’re sitting on the low stone wall with your usual group: three cheer girls in matching hoodies, iced coffees in hand, scrolling through tiktoks and gossiping.

But you’re only half listening. Your eyes keep drifting across the open space, past the fountain, to the shaded path that cuts between the library and the science building.

Semi’s there.

She’s walking alone like always, black hoodie zipped to her chin, backpack slung over one shoulder, head slightly down and dark hair falling across her face. She’s got her sketchbook tucked under one arm, the way she does when she’s heading to the art building to draw or whatever it is she does when she’s not waiting for you in the dorm. She doesn’t look up, just moves through the flow of people like she’s trying to be invisible.

You watch her anyway.

The way her shoulders hunch a little when someone brushes past too close. The way her free hand fiddles with the strap of her bag, a nervous habit you’ve noticed more than you should. The way the sunlight catches the silver hoops in her ears and makes them flash a little.

Your stomach does a stupid little flip.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Junhee, sitting right next to you, follows your gaze and snorts.

“Ew, what are you looking at?”

The other two turn, and cruel laughter bubbles up immediately.

“Oh my god.” Jiyeong says, voice pitched high with mock horror. “Is that the creepy anime girl?”

They all crane their necks, giggling. You snap your eyes away too late, and heat floods your cheeks.

“No.” You mutter quickly. “I wasn’t looking at anyone.”

Junhee smirks, nudging your shoulder. “Bullshit. You were full on staring. What, you into weirdos now?”

The laughter gets louder.

Jiyeong leans in, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Wait, don’t tell me… Is that your secret girlfriend? The mute perv who stares at your tits in the dorm?”

They dissolve into cackles, and someone even fake gags. You force a laugh, sharp and practiced, the one you use when you need to shut something down fast.

“Stop being assholes.” You say, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “As if. I would never go for a creep like that. She’s literally always hiding in her hoodie like she’s allergic to sunlight. Gross.”

You keep your voice light. Casual. Mean in the exact way they expect. And they buy it. The teasing shifts. Someone starts imitating Semi’s hunched walk, another makes exaggerated “staring” eyes, and the conversation moves on to safer territory: some frat guy who ghosted after a hookup, weekend plans, who’s hooking up with who.

You laugh along. Nod. Throw in a sarcastic comment when it’s your turn.

But your face is burning.

The blush won’t fade. It creeps down your neck, hot under your collar, and you can feel it. You tug your ponytail tighter and cross your arms over your chest like that’ll cool the flush. It doesn’t.

Across the quad, Semi disappears around the corner of the building. She never looked up. Never saw you watching.

You sit there for another twenty minutes, nodding at the right times, smiling when you’re supposed to, while your pulse hammers in your ears and your mind replays the exact second Semi’s hand twitched on her bag strap.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You tell yourself the flush is just embarrassment from their teasing. You tell yourself you don’t care where she’s going, or what she’s drawing in that sketchbook, or whether she’ll be waiting quietly in the dorm when you get back.

You tell yourself a lot of things.

None of them stick.

That night the dorm feels smaller than usual.

The RGB lights are off. Semi must have powered down her PC earlier. The only light comes from the faint streetlamp bleeding through the blinds. You walk in without turning on the overhead, letting the door click shut behind you like a period at the end of a sentence you don’t want to finish.

Semi’s already in bed, sitting up against the headboard with her knees drawn up, manga open on her lap. She looks up the second you enter, eyes wide behind her glasses, then drops her gaze immediately, like she’s been trained to.

You don’t speak.

You kick off your shoes, strip out of your jeans and top in one fluid, impatient motion, leaving yourself in just the black thong and bra you wore all day. The air feels cold against your skin but you barely register it. Your pulse is too loud, too fast, drowning everything else.

The girls’ voices keep looping in your head.

Ew, what are you looking at?

Is that your secret girlfriend? The mute perv?

As if. I would never go for a creep like that.

You cross the room in three steps.

Semi’s breath catches when you climb onto the bed without preamble. She doesn’t move, just watches you with that familiar mix of awe and terror.

You grab her by the front of her hoodie and yank her forward, hard enough that her manga tumbles to the floor. She makes a small, startled sound but doesn’t resist.

“On your knees.” You say, voice flat. “Behind me.”

Semi blinks once, confused, then scrambles to obey.

She’s never been the one setting the pace before. You’ve always been on top, always dictating every angle, every rhythm. This is new. Different.

You turn away from her and drop to your hands and knees on her bed, ass up, back arched the way you know makes her lose her mind. You don’t look back. You can’t. Somewhere in your soul you know if you see her face - those big, wet puppy eyes - you’ll crack.

You hear the rustle of fabric as she shoves her sweats down, the mattress dipping behind you. The heat of her body looms close, then closer.

Her hands hover uncertainly over your hips, and you snap.

“Jesus, just fuck me. Now.”

Semi makes a tiny, panicked noise in her throat. Her cock is rock hard against your thigh, but her movements are clumsy and hesitant. She lines up wrong the first time, bumps against you awkwardly, tries again and misses the angle completely. Her breathing is fast, shallow, almost hyperventilating.

You grit your teeth.

This isn’t working.

You don’t want her fumbling. You don’t want her in control at all, not tonight, not when the word girlfriend is still echoing in your skull like a bad joke.

You reach blindly behind you, fingers closing around the silk sleep mask you keep on your nightstand. You twist and shove it at her.

“Put it on.”

Semi freezes.

You don’t repeat yourself.

She takes it with shaking hands and slips it over her eyes. It makes her look even more vulnerable - lips parted, cheeks flushed, breathing uneven.

Better.

You turn back around and push her flat on her back before straddling her hips. One smooth, punishing drop, and you sink down onto her, no prep, no teasing, just the thick stretch of her filling you completely. Semi’s head snaps back against the pillow, a raw, choked whimper tearing from her throat.

You ride her hard.

Fast. Merciless. Hands braced on her chest, nails digging through her hoodie, hips slamming down again and again. You keep your eyes on the wall, on the ceiling, anywhere but her face. You don’t want to see the way the blindfold darkens with tears, don’t want to see how her mouth opens on silent pleas.

But it’s not the same.

The rhythm feels off now, hollow. You’re chasing the high you usually get from breaking her, from watching her shatter under you, but tonight there’s nothing to watch. No glassy eyes to lock onto. No trembling lip to mock. Just her body responding - hips jerking instinctively, cock throbbing inside you, whimpers muffled against her bitten lip - but it’s distant. Mechanical.

Your stomach drops.

This isn’t control. This is avoidance.

And you hate it.

You hate how much you miss seeing her face.

You stop moving.

Semi’s hips stutter once, twice, then still, confused, terrified she’s done something wrong.

You reach down slowly, fingers finding the edge of the sleep mask, and you pull it off. She blinks against the sudden dim light. Her eyes are wide, wet, pupils blown. Tears track down her temples into her hair. She looks up at you, unguarded, like she’s waiting for the next blow.

You hold her gaze, really hold it. No mockery. No cruelty. Just you and her.

Your hips roll once again, slow this time. Deliberate. Deep.

Semi’s breath hitches. Her hands twitch at her sides but don’t rise. She keeps them flat on the mattress, palms up, like she’s still waiting for permission even now.

You lean down.

Closer.

Closer.

Until your forehead rests against hers. Until you can feel every shaky exhale against your lips.

And you ride her like that, slow and deep, eyes locked on hers the whole time. No words. No commands. Just the wet slide of your bodies, the hitch of her breath every time you clench around her, the way her pupils dilate wider with every roll of your hips.

You feel her start to tremble when her cock swells inside you, pulsing, so close. You don’t speed up. You just keep that steady rhythm, forehead pressed to hers, breathing the same air.

When she cums it’s quiet this time, almost silent. A broken, shuddering gasp against your mouth, hips jerking up, flooding you with heat. Tears slip from the corners of her eyes but she doesn’t look away.

The sight of her tips you over.

You cum with a soft, punched out sound, walls fluttering around her, thighs shaking as you grind down one last time.

Afterwards you slump forward, collapsing onto her chest. Her heartbeat thunders under your ear, fast and unsteady, dangerously alive. Her arms stay at her sides. No embrace. No clinging. Just open palms against the sheets, fingers curling slightly like she wants to touch but doesn’t dare.

You lie there. Sweaty. Spent. Breathing hard. Neither of you moves. Neither of you speaks.

You close your eyes, feeling her heartbeat eventually slow under your cheek, the warmth of her body seeping into yours.

For the first time in a long, long time, the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like anger.

It feels like something else.

Something you’re too scared to name.

The following night sees you at a frat house two blocks away, the house raging with noise, sweat and cheap beer.

You came because Mia dragged you, insisting, “You’ve been weird lately, come blow off steam.” You also came because staying in the dorm with Semi’s quiet waiting felt too heavy tonight.

You’re in the short black dress you know turns heads, the one with thin straps and a hem that rides up when you move. It felt powerful when you put it on. Now it just feels like a target.

You’re three drinks in when he finds you.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Frat letters across his chest. The kind of smile that says he’s used to getting what he wants.

“Hey, cheer girl.” He says, voice cutting through the music. “Saw you at the last game. You’re fire on the field.”

You give a polite half smile. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t take the hint, stepping closer. Too close. His hand brushes your arm like it’s casual. When you shift back, he follows.

“You look good tonight.” He says, eyes dragging down your body slow and obvious. “That dress is doing things to me.”

You attempt to laugh it off. “Yeah, well, I’m just here to dance.”

He grins wider. “Dance with me then.”

“I’m good.”

“Come on. One song.”

You turn toward the crowd, trying to melt into the bodies, but he’s right behind you. His hand lands on your lower back. You twist away.

“Don’t touch me.”

He laughs, loud, like it’s funny.

“Chill, babe. Just dancing.”

His friends are watching now, smirking like this is entertainment.

You step back again. “I said no.”

He crowds you anyway, back against the wall now, nowhere to go. “You’re in that dress, shaking your ass all night. I mean, you’re practically asking for it. What’d you think was gonna happen?”

You shove him, hard, and he stumbles back a step, more surprised than hurt. His friends explode into laughter.

“Damn, she’s feisty!”

“What a tease.”

He recovers fast, straightening up. He grins again, but it’s meaner now.

“Whatever. Your loss.”

He turns away like you’re the one who embarrassed herself. His friends keep laughing, loud and mocking, as they slap him on the back and disappear into the crowd, while you stand there, breathing hard, hands shaking.

The music keeps pounding.

No one checks on you.

No one asks if you’re okay.

You push through bodies until you hit the front door, cold night air hitting your face like a slap. You walk fast, heels clicking on the sidewalk, arms wrapped tight around yourself even though it’s not that cold.

The whole way back to the dorm, the words loop in your head.

Asking for it.

Tease.

Your loss.

By the time you reach your floor, your throat is tight and your eyes burn.

You don’t cry yet. You just need to get inside. Get safe.

Get to her.

You push open your door.

The room is dark except for the faint blue glow of Semi’s PC sleep mode. No RGB cycling. No soft lamp on her desk. Her bed is empty, blanket smoothed, pillow untouched, manga volume closed on the nightstand like she left in a hurry.

She’s not here.

Your stomach drops harder than it did when that guy crowded you against the wall. You stand in the doorway for a long second, chest heaving, waiting for her to appear from the bathroom or the common room or anywhere. Nothing.

The silence presses in.

You kick the door shut behind you. It closes too loud. Your bag hits the floor, shoes follow. You don’t bother with the light.

Instinctively, you cross to her bed instead of yours and collapse face down onto her pillow, burying your face in it. Her scent hits you instantly - vanilla body spray, clean laundry, the faint metallic tang of her piercings or solder or whatever it is that always clings to her skin. It’s familiar. Safe. The first real thing that’s felt safe all night.

A sob rips out of you before you can stop it.

Muffled against the pillow at first, then louder, uglier, shoulders shaking so hard the mattress creaks. Tears soak the fabric immediately, your fingers twisting in the comforter like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

Why does this feel safer?

Why does the thought of Semi, of all people, make the panic in your chest loosen just a fraction?

You can still feel that guy’s breath on your neck, the way his grip tightened when you tried to pull away, the way he called you a tease like it was your fault for existing in a short dress. And yet here you are, on the bed of the girl who’s spent weeks staring at your tits, the girl you’ve called a creep to her face, whose bulge you’ve mocked and teased and ridden until she cried.

And you feel… safe.

Safer than you did surrounded by “normal” guys who know how to talk, how to smile, how to pretend they’re not animals.

You hate that realization, how it sits in your gut like lead.

You don’t know how long you cry like that, alone in her bed, in the dark, dress rucked up around your thighs, makeup streaking down your face.

Until the door opens quietly.

You freeze mid sob, breath hitching.

Footsteps stop just inside the room.

Semi.

You feel her staring. That heavy, careful gaze you know so well. She doesn’t move for a long moment. You can hear her breathing, uneven, confused, like she’s trying to process why you’re here, in her bed, crying like this.

Slowly, you sniffle, and lift your head just enough to look over your shoulder through watery, swollen eyes.

She’s standing frozen in the doorway, backpack still slung over one shoulder, sketchbook tucked under her arm, hoodie zipped to her chin. Her lips part like she wants to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Her eyes are wide behind her glasses, shining with something raw and heartbroken. She glances at the floor for a heartbeat, throat working hard, then back to you.

She looks like her heart is breaking just from seeing yours in pieces.

She closes the door softly, then drops her bag to the floor with slow, deliberate movements, like she’s afraid any sudden noise will shatter you further.

She shuffles over until the mattress dips behind you. You tense, waiting for questions, for awkwardness, for anything that will make this worse.

She doesn’t give you any of it.

She settles slowly, really slowly, curling her body around yours from behind. Tentative at first, barely touching, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t.

You press back into her warmth instead.

Her arm slides around your waist, the most gentle touch you’ve felt all night, thumb beginning to stroke slow, shaky circles on your bare arm.

You break again.

Soft, hiccuping sobs this time, quieter, but deeper. Your whole body trembles. Semi tightens her hold just enough, chin tucking against your shoulder. No words, just steady breathing against your neck, heartbeat thudding fast against your back like she’s scared too.

You cry until your throat is raw and your eyes burn and there’s nothing left but shaky inhales.

She doesn’t let go. She doesn’t ask. She just holds you. Silent. Safe.

And in the quiet space between your sobs and her steady breathing, a realization shifts inside you, slow, terrifying, undeniable.

You’re falling for her.

Not the control. Not the power. Not the way she whimpers when you use her. Just… her.

The girl who freezes in doorways when she sees you hurting. The girl who doesn’t ask why because she knows it doesn’t matter. The girl who holds you like you’re something precious she’s terrified of breaking.

The girl who’s been waiting, patiently, quietly, devotedly, while you’ve spent weeks pretending you don’t need her.

You close your eyes, feeling her thumb still moving in those slow circles, her heartbeat under your back.

You don’t know when you fall asleep, only that at some point the sobs fade to hiccuping breaths, then to nothing. Her thumb keeps moving in those slow circles long after you stop shaking.

When you wake, the room is dimmer. Streetlight filters through the blinds in thin gold stripes. The clock on her monitor says it’s been a few hours.

Semi isn’t beside you.

But you’re not cold.

Her thick black comforter has been tucked around you carefully, edges smoothed, cocooning you from shoulders to feet. Your chest does something painful and warm.

You sit up groggily, blanket pooling around your waist. Mascara is crusted on your cheeks, hair a disaster, dress twisted and wrinkled from sleep. You don’t care.

Semi is at her desk, back to you, headphones half on, controller in her lap. The screen glows, her character inactive mid round. She must have heard you stir because she begins to turn in her chair, and her eyes meet yours.

For a second neither of you moves.

Her lips press together in that awkward, sheepish way she does when she’s nervous. A small, polite smile flickers across her face, hesitant, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to look relieved that you’re awake. Her glasses are slightly crooked. Hair mussed from where she must have run her hands through it earlier.

She just sits there. Waiting. Not pushing. Not asking.

You swallow. Voice raspy, small.

“…What are you playing?”

Semi blinks, startling like you shocked her. For a heartbeat she looks like she’s forgotten how to speak. Then, very quietly, almost a whisper, she answers.

“Overwatch.”

The sound of her voice - low, hoarse, soft around the edges - hits you like a wave. Butterflies erupt in your stomach so violently you almost gasp.

You curse yourself internally. What the fuck? She’s the one who used to stare like a creep. She’s the one who whimpers and blushes and waits. You’re supposed to be the one in control.

But your palms are suddenly sweaty. Your heart is tripping over itself just from hearing her say a video game name.

Semi’s still watching you, careful, like she’s waiting for the punchline.

You clear your throat and force words out.

“…Can I try?”

Her eyes widen behind her glasses, genuine surprise flickering across her face. Then the tiniest quirk lifts the corner of her mouth, not quite a full smile, just… something warm.

She nods, rolling her chair closer to the bed so you don’t have to get up. She sets up a new game and hands you the controller. When you take it from her, your fingers brush. Both of you freeze for half a second but neither pulls away first.

Semi leans in slightly, voice still quiet but steadier now.

“Okay. Left stick moves. Right stick aims. Triggers shoot. This one’s jump, this one’s sprint. You’re Soldier, he’s good for beginners. Just… try not to die in the first ten seconds.”

She sounds almost apologetic.

You’re terrible at first.

You die in under fifteen seconds, running straight into crossfire because you forgot which way is forward. Semi doesn’t laugh or tease, she just murmurs, “It’s okay. Happens to everyone,” while you respawn.

Second round you hide behind a box for thirty seconds before someone flanks you. Her voice stays soft. “Just peek left. Don’t hold it. There. Good.”

Third round you hit someone. Not a kill, just damage. But Semi makes a tiny approving hum.

Then, by some miracle, you line up a shot, click, and the enemy actually drops.

Kill confirmation pops on screen.

You bounce on the bed, one happy little wiggle, a genuine squeal slipping out before you can stop it. “Oh my god, I did it!”

You whip your head toward Semi, seeking approval like a kid with a gold star.

She’s already looking at you, and she’s beaming.

A full, bright, unguarded grin, cheeks rounded, eyes crinkling behind her glasses. It’s the cutest, most disarming thing you’ve ever seen. Pure pride. No hesitation. No fear.

Something inside you snaps taut like a string pulled too hard.

You feel it all at once: warmth flooding your chest, a stupid flutter behind your ribs, your throat closing up like you’ve swallowed something too big.

It’s too much. Too soft. Too real.

You’re still holding the controller, mid bounce from that kill, but the joy quickly curdles fast into panic.

You force a polite smile, the one you use when you need to exit a conversation without explaining why.

“I, um… I need to shower.” You say, voice coming out quieter than you mean it to as you gesture to your mascara streaked face.

Semi’s smile falters, just a flicker, then she nods quickly, like she’s afraid to make it worse.

“O-okay.” She whispers.

You hand her the controller, and your fingers brush hers again. This time you pull back too fast.

You grab your towel and shower caddy from your side of the room without even looking at her, and the bathroom door closes behind you with a soft click. You lock it.

You turn the shower on hot, letting the water run until steam clouds the mirror. When you strip out of your dress and step under the spray, the heat hits your skin like a slap. You stand there for a second, head tipped back, eyes closed, letting the water pound against your face, your shoulders, your chest.

Then the tears come.

Quiet at first. Silent. Mixing with the shower spray so no one could tell the difference. But then they aren’t quiet anymore.

You press your palm to your mouth to muffle the sobs, but they keep coming, deep, aching tears, the kind that hurt your ribs. Your knees buckle, and you slide down the tile wall until you’re sitting under the stream, arms wrapped around yourself, forehead against your knees.

You cry for the guy at the party who wouldn’t listen.

You cry for the way your friends laughed like it was funny.

You cry for the way you laughed with them, calling Semi a creep to their faces while your cheeks burned just from the sight of her.

You cry because Semi, quiet, awkward, devoted Semi, looked at you like you’d just won the world when all you did was click a button and get a kill in a game you barely understand.

You cry because that look felt better than any orgasm you’ve milked from her in the last three weeks.

You cry because you’re falling and you hate it. Because you’ve spent months building walls of control and cruelty so no one could get close enough to hurt you, and she slipped right through without even trying. Because she held you tonight without asking why, without demanding anything, and it felt like coming home in a way nothing else ever has.

The water runs cold eventually. You stay under it until your teeth chatter and your skin is pruned.

When you finally shut off the tap, the bathroom is thick with steam. You wrap yourself in a towel, wipe the mirror with your forearm and stare at your reflection.

You look wrecked.

You feel worse.

You pull on cozy pajamas. Nothing sexy or teasing tonight, just comfort. Just you.

When you open the bathroom door, the dorm is still dim. Semi hasn’t moved from her desk. The game is paused again, and she’s sitting there, hands in her lap, staring at the frozen screen like she’s trying not to look at you.

On her desk, right beside her keyboard, is a plastic bag from the campus takeout place. Two styrofoam containers and a bottle of iced tea.

She swallows when she sees you, looking up slowly. Her voice is barely there, hoarse, nervous, like she’s afraid you’ll snap at her for breathing too loud.

“You… haven’t eaten.” She says. Simple. Factual. “Want some?”

Your stomach flips. Not from hunger, from her. From the quiet way she noticed and ordered food while you were crying in the shower and didn’t make a big deal out of it. From the way she’s looking at you now, not expectant, not demanding, just… there.

Butterflies explode in your chest, wild and frantic. It’s terrifying.

You nod once. Small.

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I do.”

She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours. Then she stands, grabs the bag, and brings it over to her bed. You sit on the edge of the mattress together, close enough that your knees brush, but not crowding.

She simply opens the containers and hands you a fork. Doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t ask why you cried. Doesn’t ask anything. Just sits with you.

You eat in silence, shoulder to shoulder, while the butterflies in your stomach settle into something warmer. Something scarier.

Something you’re starting to think you might not want to run from anymore.

︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶

Part 3