#shrill..works

𝗗𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗯𝗹𝗲

𝗣𝗼𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗮𝗿 𝗚𝘂𝘆 𝘅 𝗚𝗲𝗲𝗸 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 This guy is such a loser honestly good for him

He knows that he's a pretty popular guy, not that he's full of himself or anything, He's just not blind! He plays varsity football, and is apart of the student council. He has that kind of smile that makes people drop their pencils, literally. The whole hallway lights up when he laughs. everyone knows him, even the lunch lady's! Hell! Guys he doesn't even know try to fist-bump him between classes like it’ll give them +10 popularity points.

𝗚𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗚𝗿𝘂𝗺𝗽𝘆 𝗠𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝘅 𝗤𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 Just a drabble but I really liked this so I might do more with him:)

You're the quiet type. Always have been. You sit in the back of the class, read during lunch, and keep your earbuds in even when they’re dead just so people think you’re unavailable. You’re a ghost with a pulse. That’s how you like it.

Then there’s Alex,

He’s all sharp glares, bruised knuckles, and a voice like gravel—grumpy, mean-looking, and perpetually irritated. Everyone’s mostly afraid of him, but you? You just wish he’d stop sitting next to you.

You don’t know how it started—maybe it was the one time you let him copy your notes. Or the day he saw you cough too hard and silently handed you a water bottle without looking your way. But now, he’s like some grumpy stray cat who’s decided you’re his person.

And the worst part?

He’s only like this with you. -He glares at anyone who talks to you, but when you tell him to knock it off, he just grunts and hands you a granola bar like some weird apology.

-When you’re reading, he sits quietly next to you with that annoyed look like “I don’t even like this book” but he stays.

-One day, you trip and scrape your palm—he goes feral. You’ve never seen someone look so murderous over a skinned knee. Then, like a total contradiction, he kneels down and wordlessly bandages your hand with surprising gentleness, eyes averted and ears red.

You keep telling him, “Go away.” And he just shrugs, sits down beside you, and mutters, “Make me.”

You're quiet. You like being alone. You should hate how he shadows you like a bodyguard with trust issues.

But every time he scowls at someone for looking at you wrong—or pushes his hoodie over your head when it rains—or walks you home in complete silence except for when he mutters, “Text me when you get inside, idiot,”…

You think maybe, just maybe, you don’t mind the noise he brings with him.

Not all of it, anyway.

A himbo reader , absolute idiot, but buff and hot

X

Buff nerd

𝗕𝘂𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗱 𝗨𝗽 𝗟𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗔 𝗝𝗼𝗰𝗸 𝗚𝗲𝗲𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗨𝗽 𝗟𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗔 𝗡𝗲𝗿𝗱 𝗕𝘂𝗳𝗳 𝗡𝗲𝗿𝗱 𝘅 𝗕𝗶𝗺𝗯𝗼 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 Thought this was really funny but cute 😭 Enjoy this short drabble anon with this guy I've deemed Zander

You’re standing in front of the vending machine, squinting at the glowing rows of snacks like you’re trying to decipher ancient runes. Your massive arms are crossed, muscles bulging under the sleeves of your T-shirt. Your face is twisted in pure, undiluted concentration.

"Okay... so if the Cheetos are in B3... but I press C3... would that give me like, bonus chips?" you mumble to yourself, voice low and serious, like you’re solving a complex equation.

Behind you, there’s a quiet clearing of a throat. You turn around and nearly bump chest-first into him.

Thick black glasses perched on his nose, notebook clutched in one hand, sleeves rolled up to reveal surprisingly ripped forearms. He looks like he walked straight out of a lab and a powerlifting competition at the same time. It's unfair, honestly. He’s got that kind of smart-and-dangerous vibe, like he could solve a physics problem while bench pressing you.

"You'll get Funyuns if you press C3," he says flatly, peering over his glasses at you. "And no. You don't get bonus chips. That’s... not how vending machines work."

You blink down at him, then break into a wide, blinding grin. "Whoa, you’re like, really smart, dude!" you say, clapping a hand on his shoulder a little too hard. He stumbles slightly from the impact. "Thanks, man! You just saved me from making a huge mistake."

He adjusts his glasses with a faint blush. "It’s not... it’s basic logic. I mean, it’s labeled."

You nod sagely, as if he just spoke the most profound wisdom known to mankind. "Dang. You must be, like, the smartest dude on campus." You pause, then grin even bigger. "And you're super jacked too! That's crazy! Are you like... a brainiac and a bodybuilder??"

He coughs awkwardly, looking down at his notebook. "...I... I do some lifting. After classes." (He doesn't mention he started lifting mostly because he read somewhere that getting stronger could help with anxiety. He also doesn't mention he definitely noticed you at the gym months ago.)

You’re still beaming at him like he just invented fire. "You’re like... the full package, bro," you say with awe, clenching your fists dramatically. "Brains and biceps."

You don't notice the way he fumbles his notebook a little. You also don’t notice the way his ears turn pink.

"...You should pick B3," he mutters quickly. "That’s Cheetos. You said you wanted Cheetos."

You gasp. "You remembered what snack I wanted?!" You clutch your chest like you've been mortally wounded. "Dude. That’s so... so nice."

He opens his mouth to say something — probably something very smart and logical — but you’re already shoving the vending machine code in with all the enthusiasm of a golden retriever finding a new stick.

As the Cheetos drop with a satisfying clunk, you grab the bag and hold it out to him like a precious offering.

"You want the first handful?" you ask, still grinning ear to ear. "Since you’re, like, the hero of this story."

He stares at you, notebook limp at his side, mouth opening and closing like he's trying to figure out an equation that just doesn't compute.

Finally, he clears his throat again — quieter this time — and pushes up his glasses.

"...Sure," he says, a little too quickly..

-🦭

𝗡𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗖𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀 𝗖𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝘅 𝗠𝘂𝘁𝗲 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 Technically reader is selectively mute in this but I don't have him saying anything in this to give that away, I think its important to mention though :)

People don’t really get it.

They think you’re stuck up. Or weird. Or just kind of a jerk You don’t talk. Not in class, not in the halls, not even when teachers try to make you. They gave up on that, eventually. Said something about accommodations and trauma and “giving space.” God they make you sound stupid

You’ve stopped caring. Mostly. You learned a long time ago that your voice isn’t something people wait for. When you try, it feels like walking through sludge, like your throat isn’t wired right. So you don’t try anymore.

And no one tries with you.

Well—almost no one.

He does.

He’s… exhausting. The class clown. The human migraine. The guy who’s made it his personal mission to get a smile out of you—bonus points if he ever gets a laugh. (he doesn't.) He tries everything. Terrible puns. Dramatic reenactments of what he thought was going on in your head. "Oh myy goshhh, he's just sooo funny and cute! I want him to be my boyfriend soooo bad!" "..." Once, he fell out of his chair even, just to see if you’d react. You didn’t. But you did watch him walk back to his desk with a red face and a bruised tailbone, and maybe your lip twitched. Just a little.. And he flirts. Or, well—jokingly flirts. Tries to... Constantly... “You look like the kind of guy who listens to rain sounds and stares out the window thinking about death,” he says one day, nudging your arm. “Wanna think about it together sometime?”

You stare at him.

He throws his hands up. “I’m just kidding, jeez. Unless… I mean—kidding. Obviously..." And constantly...

"Did it hurt?" he asks, sliding into the seat beside you at lunch like he always belonged there.

You give him a blank look.

"When you fell from heaven," he says proudly, like he knows it’s awful and wants you to suffer for it.

You stare harder.

He clutches his chest. “Cold. Ice cold. You wound me.” Anddd constantly...

"Y'know," he says one day, flopping into the seat next to you during free period, "if you ever decided to say something, I bet it’d be the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard."

You glance at him with a twitch of a smile that just as quickly as it appeared, disappeared He lights up excitedly, that’s the best reaction he’s gotten all week.

A few kids nearby laugh. Of course they do. He always flirts like this. With everyone.

But... he doesn’t bring everyone little folded paper cranes with dumb jokes written inside.

He doesn’t sit quietly next to everyone when they look overwhelmed.

He doesn’t look at everyone the way he looks at you—like you’re some kind of riddle he’s determined to understand.

You want to tell him to stop. You want to tell him don’t stop. You want to say thank you.

But you won't, can't. So instead. when the next day comes around and he walks up to you with a big grin, as if he knows he's about to tell the worst joke of the century. You pull out your notebook and scrawl one word in the corner of the page he’s pretending not to peek at.

“Hi.”

He reads it. Blinks. Then he grins somehow even wider it looks like it hurts, but he looks completely whole

“Hey,” he whispers, like it’s the start of something.

Maybe it is.

Sᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇs?​ 𝖸𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖥𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽 𝗑 𝖮𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝖬𝖱𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 soft fic to start this blog :)

You don’t notice the way he looks at you.

Well not exactly.

You notice a lot of things about him! Like how he always texts you good morning before you’re even awake, or how he instinctively offers you the window seat every time you take the bus together. You notice how he always shares the last bite of his favorite snacks with you, even though you’re well aware he’s been looking forward to that last bite all day. You notice the way he lights up when you laugh, how he never seems to mind when you steal his hoodie, and how he always smells like sunscreen and wildflowers and something vaguely sweet.

You notice all those things. You just… don’t think too hard about them.

He does, though. He thinks about everything.

He thinks about how your fingers brush his when you pass him your drink. How you laugh when you’re tired, soft and breathy and real. How you always talk to animals like they can understand you. How you once said, offhandedly, that no one had ever brought you flowers.

So he starts doing that. Little bouquets. Tiny, messy things that look like they were picked from a field. Because they were. You never ask, just smile when you find them. Sometimes in your locker. Sometimes on your windowsill. One time tucked in the pages of your notebook like a secret.

He never says they’re from him. You never ask. He wonders if you even suspect. Part of him hopes you do.

The rest of him hopes you never find out.

Because the truth is, he’s in love with you.

Completely. Pathetically really, in love with you

The kind of love that makes his heart skip when your name pops up on his screen. The kind that turns his stomach upside down when you smile at someone else. The kind that makes every second you're not looking at him feel like he's slowly drowning—but he still won’t say a word.

Because you’re happy, so so happy, and he would rather spend eternity alone in a dark room than ever risk changing that.

It’s a rainy Friday night when you crash at his place, feet tucked into a blanket as you lean your back on his side, one of his hoodies slouched around your shoulders. You’re too busy playing video games and complaining about the mechanics to notice how he tries to not turn into a puddle, not listening to anything you're saying.

He feels bad really! But how could he ever pay attention when when you're sitting this close. Not when you keep shifting, brushing against his side like it doesn’t mean anything.

(It means everything.)

You lightly tap him on the head with the controller.

"You're zoning out again," you say, grinning. "What? Is listening to me complain really that boring!."

He scrunches his nose, a small laugh on his lips as he ruffles your hair ever so gently

"Just thinking."

"About?" "How boring this game is" "Hey!"

You lean back, tossing your head against the couch cushion as you laugh. It makes him weak. The casual comfort. Like you belong here, with him. You and him sit in comfortable silence for awhile, the only sound in the room coming from the game, until you speak up that is, your voice on the cusp of a whisper

"You ever think about soulmates?" you ask, eyes on the ceiling.

His breath catches.

"All the time," he says, way too quickly.

You smile at that.

"I wonder where mine is," you say, not even looking at him. "If I've already met them or if they’re still out there somewhere, waiting. Do you think we just… pass by people like that without knowing?"

He doesn’t speak for a second. You don’t notice how tense he gets. How still.

Then, softly—so softly you almost miss it—he says:

“I think sometimes, they’re hidden in plain sight.”

Your head tilts toward him. Brows raised, curious. You laugh.

"Wow. That was almost poetic."

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like his heart isn’t screaming.

"You bring it out of me," he says, trying to play it off, but it’s the most honest things he has ever admitted to you about his feelings

You throw a slight jab towards his side.

"Cheese ball."

And just like that, you’re grinning again, leaning back into his side, warmth radiating from you like you don’t even realize what you’re doing to him.

And him? He just smiles. Pretends he’s not an unraveling mess.

Later that night, after you fall asleep on the couch with your head on his shoulder, he doesn’t move. Not for hours. Just sits there, memorizing the weight of you against him, the rise and fall of your breathing. Burning it into his memory, like a prayer.

𝗡𝗮𝗽𝗸𝗶𝗻𝘀 𝗙𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗗𝗮𝗱 & 𝗧𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 Originally I was going to have this go a completely different route which focused on abandonment issues as a foster kid, but my brain took over

Mornings always felt a little bit too loud.

Cabinets banging, toast burning, the old radio playing something tinny and cheerful that didn’t match the quiet ache sitting just under the ribs. You kept your hood up, your arms folded, slouched in the kitchen chair like it owed you money.

Across from you, he was always moving—pouring coffee with one hand, buttering toast with the other, half-dressed for work and muttering about the time. The sleeves of his button-up were rolled past his elbows, and his tie was crooked. He didn’t notice. He never did.

You didn’t say much in the mornings. He didn’t push.

Instead, every day, he slid a lunchbox across the counter to you like a peace offering. It always held the same things: a peanut butter sandwich (cut diagonally, thank god), a sad little apple, and a napkin.

A folded napkin with something scribbled on it in blue pen.

Sometimes a joke. Sometimes a doodle. Once it was just a sentence: “Saw a crow today. Thought of you. In a cool way.”

You never reacted. Never gave him the satisfaction of a laugh or even a glance. But you kept them anyway. Stuffed into the bottom of your backpack like lint. Some crumpled. Some flattened out and re-folded.

You didn’t know why.

One morning, he was clearly running late. The house smelled like burnt toast, and he was hopping on one foot while trying to tie his shoe. You grabbed your backpack from the chair and paused at the door.

“Did you…” You stopped, tried again. “The napkin?”

He froze, looked at you blankly for a second. Then: “Oh. No—I forgot. Sorry, kiddo.”

You shrugged. Or tried to. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

You slammed the door behind you anyway.

Lunch felt weird that day. You opened the box and stared at it like something was missing. Sandwich. Apple. No napkin.

No dumb drawing. No joke about penguins. No weird fact about how bananas are berries and strawberries aren’t.

Just… nothing.

You didn’t eat.

That night, he found you curled up sideways on the couch, staring at your phone but not really seeing it. He handed you a mug of cocoa with marshmallows. You took it without looking.

He sat on the other end of the couch. Hesitant. Careful.

“So, uh… forgot the napkin today.”

You didn’t respond, just nodding simply as you scrolled.

He blinked a bit, slightly surprised at how upset you seemed. “Didn’t think you cared too much for them.”

You shrugged, a little slow as your voice grumbled quietly. “They’re just.. dumb jokes...”

He nodded, bringing his hand up to gently run his hands through your hair. “You know...I only started doing it because I didn’t know what else to do, ...you didn’t talk too much when you moved in. I figured…” He trailed off. “It was something at least...”

You tugged your hoodie down over your face, pushing his hand away in embarrassment

A long pause passed between you. You didn’t know how to say it—that you’d kept all of them. That when things felt too big or too heavy, you’d dig through your bag just to unfold one and stare at it until you felt normal again.

So instead, you mumbled: “I didn’t say I hated them.”

He smiled, just a little. “Got it. Dumb jokes are back on the menu.”

The next day, the napkin said: “If I had a dollar for every time you pretended not to laugh at one of these, I’d be able to buy a mansion.”

You rolled your eyes. Folded it once. Slipped it into your pocket.

You might have smiled. You’ll never admit it.

From then on, the napkins came back like normal, with a new kind of intensity in them

One day it was just a drawing of two stick figures: one with a hoodie, arms crossed, standing next to a taller one with wild hair labeled “Me (Your Awesome Dad).” A speech bubble saying: "I love you coolcat."

You almost cried at lunch. You told yourself it was just because of the onions in your sandwich. (that doesn't even make sense..)

One night, you found him asleep at the kitchen table. Papers strewn everywhere. Bills. Some work stuff. You ignored the papers that said adoption in bold black ink. His head was resting on one arm, the other still holding a pen.

You crept forward quietly. Picked up the unfinished napkin. It just said: "Not sure what to write today. Just… hope you’re okay."

You stared at it for a long time. Then carefully, you picked up the pen.

Underneath his writing, in small blocky letters, you added: “I’m trying.”

You folded it. Left it there for him to find in the morning.

He never said anything about it. But the next day, your napkin said: “Trying counts. Proud of you.”

You kept that one in your pocket all day. It didn’t go in the backpack. That one stayed close.

Sometimes it still gets loud in your head. Sometimes you still flinch at raised voices. Still freeze when someone says your name too sharply.

But there’s cocoa waiting on cold nights. Sandwiches cut diagonally. A couch that sinks just right when you curl up in the corner.

And there’s always a napkin waiting in your lunchbox. Folded, doodled on, sometimes ridiculous. But always there.

You still act like you don’t care.

But he still writes them anyway. Knowing full well that all of his little notes are being kept safe in the bottom of your bag.

Oc and reader were completely inseparable since childhood after their parents introduced them to each other. Oc was an energetic kid, always begging his parents to meet up with reader, while the reader was more shy. But him being shy didn't mean that he hated the company, actually he absolutely adored the other, looking up to him in a way. Everytime they would play oc would effortlessly make temporary friends on the playground, and everytime his playground friends tried pushing Reader away since he was quiet oc wouldn't allow it.

Until they started highschool, oc made friends with the “popular” kids. He started hanging out with them more and more, slowly pulling away from reader. Until one day he got an ultimatum, either to stay with them or reader, and he chose the popular kids. What oc didn't know was that his new friend group would start bullying reader, at first he's shocked, trying to stop it, but after a while.. he just starts silently watching.

This causes the reader to disappear from school for months after it got severe (bullying was for a few years). But when he came back, he was different. Snappy, temperamental, a delinquent. Oc seeing this realizes how much he's changed, that he's no longer the cute shy kid that looked up to him. Oc starts trying to fix things, but you choose if it works in this fic or not.

I'm so fucking sorry this is so goddamn long 💀

-💀

𝗔𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀? 𝗖𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗲 𝗯𝗲 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱𝘀? 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘅 𝗗𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗾𝘂𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 just realized I never made a title for this oh my god anyways heres the updated version

You weren’t supposed to come back.

That was the unspoken rule, wasn't it? Once you vanished—after the bruises, after the rumors, after the final time someone shoved you down the stairs and Elian just stood there—you were gone.

No one expected to see you again. Not the teachers. Not the kids. Certainly not him.

But here you are, pushing open the gates of West Ridge High like you own the damn place, teeth bared in a half-lazy, half-daring grin. It’s not real, of course. Just something you wear now, like your beat-up leather jacket and scuffed boots and that permanent slouch in your shoulders that says just screams problem starter.

And yeah, maybe you do start problems

Your hair’s longer. You’ve got a lip ring and bandages across your knuckles from a fight you didn’t win, but refused to lose. The office staff barely recognize you when you sign in.

Elian definitely doesn’t.

You catch him staring during first period.

It’s almost funny, the way he freezes when you walk in. Like a ghost just entered the room instead of a guy who used to braid clover chains for him during recess.

You take the seat furthest from him, ignoring the way he keeps glancing over like you might evaporate if he blinks too long.

Too late for that.

You’ve already disappeared once.

By third day back, everyone knows not to mess with you.

Not because you’re loud. Not because you fight much, though you have made a name for yourself in backlot scraps behind the gym. It’s just the way you are now—quiet like thunder in the distance. People hear it, and they don’t wait to see the storm.

Except him.

He corners you behind the vending machines after school, his hands stuffed deep in his hoodie pockets like he’s scared you’ll break his fingers if he tries to reach out.

"Can I—" he starts, but you already know.

You don’t look at him. "No."

He flinches. "You don’t even know what I was gonna say."

"Doesn’t matter."

There’s a pause. You hear him shift, like he’s about to walk away. But then—

"I didn’t choose them over you. I—" He exhales, and it’s shaky. “I thought I had time. I thought you’d always be there.”

That stops you. Just a beat.

You turn, finally meeting his eyes. They're the same ones that used to sparkle when you brought him wildflowers. Now they're red-rimmed. Guilty.

"You watched me get torn apart," you say, voice low. “For years. Not once. Not twice. Every damn day.”

He swallows hard. “I was scared.”

"So was I."

Another pause.

He looks at you then—not like you're some broken thing he wants to fix, but like someone he misses. Truly, achingly. Like he’s been walking around half-alive and only just found the part of him he lost.

“I never stopped—” His voice cracks. “You were my best friend. My only real one. I just... I got so caught up trying to be liked. Trying to be safe.”

You’re quiet for a long time.

Then, without thinking, you say it.

“You could’ve been safe with me.”

After that, he doesn’t push.

Not for a while.

But you notice things.

An extra juice box left beside your locker. A sticky note on your desk that says “math test Friday” in familiar chicken-scratch. Someone tripping in the hallway only for Elian to be at your side a second later, ready to fight whoever touched you—until he realizes you handled it first.

You don’t say anything.

But when you sit down at lunch one day and find him already at your usual spot, tray untouched, hands clenched in his lap, waiting—you pause.

He looks up.

Just once, he smiles. A little lopsided. A little broken.

“Hey.”

You sit across from him.

You don’t say anything.

But your leg brushes his under the table, and this time, you don’t pull away.

Healing isn't clean.

You still snap at him some days. Still storm out when something hits too close. You still hate the way he flinches sometimes—like he's expecting the worst from you.

And he still cries sometimes. Not in front of you, but you hear it in the way he says “I’m sorry” like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

But he shows up.

He listens.

He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. He just stays.

And maybe… maybe that’s enough for now.

Because there’s a quiet night—late spring, air smelling like rain—where you’re sitting on the hood of his mom’s car, both of you staring at the stars like you used to, and he whispers—

“Are we still friends?”

You don’t answer right away.

But you lean your head on his shoulder.

And it’s the first time he doesn’t cry when you touch him.

-🌂

𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗕𝗲𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝗦𝗵𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗕𝗼𝗼𝗸𝘀 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗢𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗟𝗼𝘂𝗱 𝗠𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝘅 𝗟𝗶𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗻 𝗠𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 This was really fun to write actually these two are cute:)

You know he’s behind you before he says a word.

The library’s quiet, always, but when he’s here the air changes. It feels warmer, closer, more alive in the way thunderstorms feel before they break. Even his silence has volume.

You don’t turn around. You’re holding a stack of novels in one arm and scanning the shelves for the right spot.

“Hey,” he says, like he’s just passing through, like he didn’t just deliberately trail you from the front desk to the back corner of the second floor.

“Need help carrying those?”

You glance back. He’s standing there with his hands in his hoodie pocket, like he didn’t just power-walk across the entire fiction section just to catch up.

“I’m fine.”

He nods. Stretches his arms over his head dramatically, like he just happened to be taking a stroll through this exact aisle.

You slide a book into place.

“Cool, cool, cool. I was thinking…maybe I could help you shelve stuff. Y’know, be useful. Like an intern. An intern who doesn’t get paid and only works when you’re on shift.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So not an intern.”

“A fun intern,” he corrects.

You stare at him. He stares right back. Then, slowly, you hand him a single book from the stack. Paperback, slightly bent spine, bright red cover.

He takes it like it’s sacred.

“Where does this go?” you ask, watching him.

He squints at the spine. “Uhhh…Patterson? So...P? That’s, like, halfway through the alphabet, right?”

You gesture to the clearly labeled shelf right behind him.

“Oh.”

He places it on the shelf backward, upside-down.

You blink.

“Deliberate sabotage,” he says. “I’m making sure you need me.”

You sigh, taking the book and placing it correctly. “You’re the worst intern I’ve ever had.”

“I’m your only intern.”

“Still the worst.”

He grins like you just handed him a trophy.

You continue reshelving. He follows you from section to section, carrying two books (that you handed him just to shut him up) and occasionally asking things like:

“Do people actually read this one? The cover’s just a dude’s foot.”

“Who decided to organize things alphabetically? Why not emotionally?”

“Be honest. You’ve definitely read that vampire book, haven’t you?”

You pretend to be annoyed. You’re not. You never are, really.

After the next few shelves, you pause, turning to him.

“You done wasting my time?”

He tilts his head, eyes bright. “Wasting? No, no. I’m investing.”

You scoff. “In what?”

He shrugs, but there’s something softer in his voice when he says, “Getting to know you.”

You stare at him, caught off guard, and he smiles like that was the plan all along—to make you stop, to make you see him.

You hand him another book.

“Then do it quietly. Or at least alphabetically.”

He grins, and you both turn back to the shelves.

The shelving is slow work.

Not because you’re struggling—but because your "intern" is still trailing after you, making terrible small talk and shelving books so crookedly you have to fix them the moment he turns his back.

He’s trying so hard to impress you. Failing miserably. But you don’t really mind.

You hand him another book without looking. He takes it without complaint.

“Man, you’re brutal,” he says under his breath, loud enough that a few patrons glance over in annoyance. He flinches, whispering theatrically, “Sorry! Sorry! Indoor voice, right.”

You huff a laugh through your nose.

He falls quiet for a moment, walking beside you. His hands brush against yours as you reach for the same shelf. It’s accidental. Probably. He doesn’t pull away right away.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s looking at you again—the way he always does. Like you’re some riddle he wants to get wrong a few times before he gets it right.

Maybe it’s the late afternoon light slanting through the tall windows. Maybe it’s the quiet hum of the library around you.

But suddenly, something bold unfurls in your chest.

You lean in just slightly—so only he can hear—and murmur, “You’re cuter when you're quiet.”

The words are soft. Just barely there. But the effect is immediate.

He freezes.

Absolutely, completely freezes.

The book he’s holding slips a little in his hands. He fumbles to catch it, nearly dropping it, which earns a sharp shhh! from the 3rd year at the genealogy table.

His face goes red—not just his cheeks, but his ears too. A vivid, helpless blush spreading like spilled ink.

“You— I—” He stammers, voice cracking embarrassingly. He coughs and tries again. “You can’t just— You can’t say stuff like that.”

You hum softly turning your head towards the cart, to hide the amused smile on your face. “Why not?”

He clutches the book to his chest like it’s some kind of shield. His grin is manic, desperate, wildly fond.

“I’m fragile,” he whispers dramatically. “You’re gonna kill me. Right here. Death by librarian.”

You smirk. Turn back to the shelf, sliding another book neatly into place.

Behind you, he’s still standing there, stunned, vibrating with silent, overjoyed panic like someone just handed him everything he ever wanted and then walked away like it was no big deal.

You pretend not to notice.

But your smile lingers, small and real.