#wallows fluff

The city hummed faintly outside the window of Dylan’s apartment, a low, distant sound that made the silence inside feel even warmer. You were tangled in his sheets, legs loosely intertwined with his, your head resting on his chest while his fingers traced slow, lazy circles along your spine. The room smelled like him faint cologne, clean laundry, and the candle you’d lit earlier.

Dylan’s lips brushed yours again, gentle and unhurried. The kiss was soft, almost reverent. He tasted like the mint tea you’d shared after dinner, and every time he pulled back just slightly to look at you, his blue eyes were full of that quiet, patient affection that still made your stomach flutter.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispered against your mouth, voice low and warm. His hand slid from your back to your waist, then lower, cupping the curve of your hip with careful fingers. “I could kiss you for hours.”

You smiled into the kiss, letting yourself melt a little more against him. Your fingers played with the soft hair at the nape of his neck as you deepened the kiss, tongues brushing lazily. It felt safe. It felt good.

Until you felt it.

The hard press of him against your thigh, unmistakable even through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. His breathing had grown heavier, more ragged. And then his hand moved — sliding down to grip the back of your thigh, pulling you closer with a low, appreciative hum against your lips.

Your body locked up instantly.

The warmth in your chest turned to ice. Your breath caught sharply in your throat. For a split second you were no longer in Dylan’s soft bed. You were somewhere else rough hands, demanding grips, pain disguised as passion.

The memory hit like static, ugly and fast, even if you tried to push it away.

You froze completely, lips still pressed to his but no longer moving. Your hand tightened on his shoulder, not in desire, but in sudden tension.

Dylan noticed immediately. He pulled back just enough to see your face, his hand instantly loosening on your thigh.

“Hey… baby?” His voice was soft, concerned. Those gentle blue eyes searched yours, brows slightly furrowed. “You okay?”

Dylan’s hand froze the second he felt you go rigid in his arms. His blue eyes widened with immediate worry, the gentle warmth in them shifting to soft concern as he pulled back a little more, giving you space without fully letting go.

“Hey, hey… talk to me,” he murmured, voice low and careful, like he was approaching a scared animal. “Did I do something wrong? We can stop. We don’t have to—”

The pressure of his fingers still lingering on your thigh — even though it was light — sent panic exploding through your chest. Your heart hammered violently against your ribs. Suddenly the sheets felt too heavy, the room too small, and Dylan’s body against yours too much like his. The ghost of rough hands, bruising grips, and words that cut deeper than any slap flashed through your mind in ugly fragments.

“Don’t touch me!” you shouted, voice cracking sharply as you shoved at his chest with both hands. The movement was harder than you meant it to be. “Get off— don’t fucking touch me!”

Dylan recoiled instantly, sitting up and pulling his hands away like he’d been burned. His face went pale, eyes wide with shock and hurt, but mostly worry. He raised both hands in surrender, scooting back on the bed to give you room.

“Okay— okay, I’m not touching you. I’m right here, baby. I’m not moving,” he said quickly, voice steady even though you could hear the fear in it. “Breathe. Just breathe for me, please.”

But you couldn’t. Your lungs felt tight, like someone was squeezing them. You scrambled backward until your back hit the headboard, pulling your knees up to your chest. Tears burned hot behind your eyes and then spilled over without warning. Your whole body started shaking uncontrollably as the memories clawed their way up — the way your ex would ignore “no,” the way pleasure was always mixed with pain, the way you learned to dissociate just to survive it.

“I’m sorry— I’m so sorry,” you choked out between sobs, burying your face in your arms. “I didn’t mean to yell… I just— I can’t. I can’t do this. It feels like him again and I hate it. I hate that he still gets to ruin this—”

Your voice broke into ugly, gasping cries. The kind that hurt your throat. You rocked slightly, trying to hold yourself together, but the breakdown was already swallowing you whole.

Dylan stayed exactly where he was, hands still up, eyes glassy with his own worry and helplessness. His voice was soft, almost broken.

“Shh… you don’t have to apologize. Not to me. Ever.” He swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to reach for you. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. When you’re ready… I’ll be right here.”

Dylan didn’t move for what felt like forever. He stayed exactly where he was — sitting a respectful distance away on the bed, hands still slightly raised so you could see he wasn’t going to reach for you without permission. His blue eyes were full of worry, but there was no anger, no frustration… only that deep, quiet care that always seemed to wrap around you like a blanket.

Your sobs kept coming, ugly and raw, shaking your whole frame. You hated how small you felt. How broken.

Eventually, Dylan spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.“Can I come closer, baby? I won’t touch you unless you say yes. I just… I hate seeing you hurt like this and not being able to hold you.”

You hesitated, tears still streaming down your cheeks, but you gave a tiny, shaky nod.

The second you did, Dylan moved slowly, carefully. He slid across the bed until he was right beside you, then opened his arms without pulling you in. He waited. When you leaned toward him, he gently wrapped you up, one arm around your back, the other cradling the back of your head as he tucked you against his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear — a little fast from worry, but strong and safe.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured into your hair, pressing the softest kiss to the top of your head. “I’ve got you, okay? Let it out. Cry as much as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hands rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back — never too low, never demanding. Just comfort. Just presence. You clung to his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric as another wave of sobs hit you. He held you tighter, rocking you gently like you were something precious and fragile.

After a few long minutes, when your crying had quieted into shaky breaths, you whispered against his chest, voice hoarse and terrified“Dylan… I want to tell you. About why I… why I reacted like that. But I’m scared. I’m so scared of how you’re gonna look at me after.”

His arms tightened around you protectively, but his voice stayed gentle, warm, and steady.“Hey… look at me for a second?”

You lifted your tear-streaked face. His eyes were soft, a little glassy, but full of nothing but love and patience.“Nothing you tell me is going to make me love you less. Nothing. You don’t have to tell me tonight if you’re not ready. But if you want to… I’m listening. And I promise I’ll stay right here holding you the whole time. You’re safe with me. Always.”

You swallowed hard, heart still racing, but the warmth of his body and the sincerity in his voice made something inside your chest crack open just a little more.

“I… I want to tell you,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Just… don’t let go of me, okay?”

“I won’t,” he said softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ve got you, baby. As long as you need.”

You stayed curled against Dylan’s chest, his arms wrapped securely around you, one hand still rubbing those slow, comforting circles on your back. His heartbeat was the only steady thing in the room. You took a shaky breath, fingers gripping his shirt tighter.

“I… I was with someone before you,” you started, voice barely above a whisper. “For almost two years. At first it seemed okay, but then… he changed. He got violent. Not just yelling. He would grab me hard enough to leave bruises. Throw things. Push me around.”

Dylan’s body tensed beneath you, but he didn’t interrupt. His hand never stopped its gentle motion.

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out even though they burned.

“And the sex… it was the worst part.” Your voice cracked. “He was so rough. Always. No matter how many times I told him it hurt, or asked him to slow down, or said I wasn’t ready. He didn’t care. It felt like he wanted it to hurt. He’d hold me down, choke me too hard, ignore me when I cried. Sometimes I just… dissociated. I’d leave my body because it was the only way to survive it. It wasn’t love. It was just pain.”

Tears started falling again, hot and silent against his shirt.

“I want this with you, Dylan. I want you. I want to feel close to you like that. I want to make you feel good and I want you to make me feel good… but every time things start heating up, my body panics. My mind goes back there. I get scared that it’s going to hurt again. That I’m going to feel trapped. I hate it. I hate that he broke me like this and now I’m ruining this beautiful thing with you—” Your voice dissolved into quiet sobs again.

Dylan held you closer, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head, your temple, anywhere he could reach without letting go. His voice was low, rough with emotion, but incredibly gentle.

“Baby… listen to me,” he whispered, his hand carefully cupping the back of your neck. “You’re not ruining anything. Not even close. I’m so sorry you went through that. No one should ever treat you like that. Especially not someone who was supposed to love you. It makes me fucking angry that he hurt you… but that anger isn’t for you. It’s for him.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumbs gently wiping away your tears.“You’re not broken. You’re surviving. And the fact that you trust me enough to tell me this… it means everything. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. Ever. If sex is scary right now, then we wait. We take it slow. We kiss. We cuddle. We touch only when it feels good for you. And if you never want to go further, that’s okay too. I’m with you, not just your body.”

He rested his forehead against yours, eyes soft and full of love.“I want you to feel safe with me. Completely safe. So we go at your pace. Always. Okay?”

You nodded weakly, still trembling, but the weight on your chest felt a little lighter now that the words were out.

“Baby… look at me,” he whispered.

You lifted your eyes to his. Those blue eyes were warm, patient, and full of so much love it almost hurt.

“I’m never going to pressure you, my love. Not ever,” he said softly, his voice steady and sincere. “If we never have sex, that’s okay. If we wait six months, a year, five years… it’s still okay. Because I didn’t fall in love with you for your body. I fell in love with you. With the way you laugh at my stupid jokes, the way you steal my hoodies, the way you make me feel calm even when the world is loud. I want you to be safe. I want you to be happy. That’s what matters most to me.”

You felt your chest tighten again, but this time it wasn’t just fear.

“That’s the problem, Dyl…” you whispered, voice shaky and small. “I do want to. I want to be close to you like that. I want to feel you and make you feel good and finally have something beautiful instead of what I had before. But I’m so scared. What if I freeze in the middle? What if everything comes rushing back and I ruin the moment? What if I panic again and you get tired of dealing with all my broken pieces?”

Your voice cracked on the last words.

Dylan’s arms tightened around you protectively. He gently tilted your chin up so you couldn’t look away.

“Hey… none of that,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours in the softest way. “You’re not broken. You’re healing. And if you freeze, we stop. If it comes back, we stop. We breathe. We talk. We cuddle. There is no ‘ruining the moment’ with me, okay? This isn’t a performance. It’s us. And I’m never going to get tired of taking care of you. Never.”

He kissed the tip of your nose, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth — all feather-light and full of affection. “We can take it one step at a time. Kissing. Touching over clothes. Under clothes. Whatever feels good. And the second anything feels scary, you tell me and we stop. No questions. No disappointment. Just love.”

He rested his forehead against yours again, eyes closed.“I’ve got you. Always.”

His hands cradled your face with so much tenderness it made your chest ache. After a long, quiet moment, he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his voice low and soft.

“Can I… kiss you, baby?” he whispered. “Just kiss you. Nothing more unless you say so.”

Your heart fluttered. Even after everything you’d told him, he was still asking. Still checking.

You nodded, barely audible. “Yes.”

The smile he gave you was small, warm, and full of love. “Thank you.”

He leaned in slowly, giving you time, and pressed his lips to yours — incredibly soft, almost reverent. The kiss was sweet, unhurried, like he was pouring every ounce of care into it. His mouth moved gently against yours, warm and patient, tasting like comfort and safety. One of his hands slid into your hair, fingers threading through it delicately while the other stayed on your waist, holding you but never trapping you.

You melted into it, kissing him back with shaky tenderness. When you let out a small, relieved sigh against his mouth, Dylan smiled into the kiss.

“You can stop me anytime,” he murmured against your lips, voice husky but gentle. “Any second. Just say the word and I stop. Okay?”

“Okay…” you breathed.

He kissed you again, deeper this time but still so sweet it made your toes curl. Then his lips trailed slowly from the corner of your mouth, across your cheek, and down to your jaw. He took his time, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your skin, savoring every inch. When he reached your neck, he lingered there, kissing the sensitive spot just below your ear with feather-light pressure.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered against your skin between kisses. “So fucking beautiful… and so safe with me.”

His mouth moved lower on your neck, warm and slow, sucking gently — not hard enough to mark, just enough to make you shiver in a good way. One of his hands stroked your back in soothing circles while he continued kissing and softly nipping at your neck, never rushing, never demanding.

Every touch felt like a promise: I’ve got you. I’ll wait. I’ll be gentle.

Dylan’s lips stayed gentle on your neck, kissing and tasting you with slow devotion. Each press of his mouth sent warm shivers down your spine. He lingered on the spot that made your breath hitch, then slowly started moving lower, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone.

His hand slid down your side, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt.

“Can I take this off, baby?” he whispered against your skin, voice low and careful. “I want to feel you closer… but only if you’re okay with it.”

You nodded, heart racing. “Yes.”

He sat up slightly and helped you out of the shirt with painfully slow movements, pulling it over your head and tossing it aside. His eyes roamed over your bare skin with pure adoration, not hunger. Not yet. Just reverence.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathed.

He leaned back in, lips returning to your neck before continuing their descent. He kissed down your chest, taking his time, until he reached the soft swell of your breasts. His mouth moved tenderly across your escote, pressing warm, lingering kisses between them, then along the curve of one breast and then the other. Every kiss was feather-light, loving, like he was worshipping you.

His hands rested on your waist, thumbs stroking your skin soothingly.

“You’re safe,” he murmured against your skin, voice husky but incredibly soft. “I promise you’re safe with me, my love. Nothing’s going to hurt you here. If it feels too much, we stop. I just want to make you feel good… only good.”

He kissed lower, lips brushing the top of your bra, then looked up at you with those beautiful blue eyes, checking in again.

“Still okay?” he asked gently, waiting for your answer before moving even an inch further.

Dylan’s fingers traced lightly down your back, finding the clasp of your bra. He looked into your eyes, his gaze full of patience and love.

“Can I take this off too, baby?” he asked softly. “I want to feel your skin against mine… but only if it feels right.”

You whispered a quiet “yes,” your voice trembling but trusting.

He moved slowly, so slowly, unhooking your bra with careful fingers and sliding the straps down your shoulders. He pulled it off gently and set it aside, his eyes never leaving your face at first — making sure you were still with him. Then his gaze dropped to your now-bare chest, and the way he looked at you made your heart ache in the best way. There was desire, yes, but mostly adoration.

“You’re safe,” he whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss right above your heart. “I’m never going to hurt you. I swear it. You’re safe with me, my love. Completely safe.”

His words broke something open inside you.

The weight of feeling truly safe — maybe for the first time in years — hit you all at once. Tears welled up fast and spilled down your cheeks before you could stop them. Not from fear this time, but from overwhelming relief. From the gentleness in his touch. From the way he was looking at you like you were something precious instead of something to be used.

Dylan noticed immediately. His expression softened even more, and he reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. He brought your hand up to his lips, kissing your knuckles tenderly while his other hand stayed respectfully on your waist.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

He leaned down and started kissing your bare chest again — slow, warm kisses across your breasts, over your sternum, and up to your collarbones. His lips were incredibly gentle, almost healing. Every kiss felt like a promise. His thumb stroked the back of your hand in soothing circles as he continued kissing you, never rushing, never grabbing.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispered between kisses, lips brushing your skin. “So brave. And so beautiful. I’m right here with you.”

You cried quietly while he kissed you, the tears mixing with the warmth spreading through your body. For the first time in a long time, the touch didn’t feel threatening. It felt safe. It felt like love.

Dylan’s mouth continued its slow, worshipful path across your bare chest. He kissed the soft curve of one breast, then the other, before his lips closed gently around your nipple. He sucked softly, warm and careful, flicking his tongue in slow circles while his hand cradled the other breast with feather-light touches. A quiet, appreciative hum vibrated against your skin.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, switching to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same tender attention. His touches stayed loving, never rough.

After a few moments, his hand slid lower, fingers brushing the waistband of your pants. He started to tug them down slowly, carefully, giving you time.

That’s when it hit.

Your body tensed sharply. The feeling of fabric sliding down your hips brought back flashes — hands that didn’t stop, pressure you couldn’t escape. Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“That’s enough,” you said quickly, voice shaky but clear. “Dylan, that’s enough.”

He stopped instantly.

Dylan pulled his hands away from your pants immediately, moving them to rest safely on your waist instead. He lifted his head from your chest and looked straight into your eyes, concern flooding his face.

“Okay, baby. We stop,” he said softly, voice calm and steady even though you could see the worry in his eyes. He didn’t pull away completely — he stayed close, but gave you space to breathe.

He gently tugged your pants back up to where they were, then pulled you into his arms, holding you against his chest. One hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back while the other cradled the back of your head.

“Shh… I’ve got you. You did so good telling me,” he murmured against your hair, pressing soft kisses to the top of your head. “We’re not going any further. You’re safe. I’m right here. Breathe with me, okay?”

You clung to him, heart still racing, but his immediate response and the warmth of his body kept the full panic from crashing over you. He rocked you gently, whispering soft reassurances the whole time.

“I’m so proud of you for saying stop. That’s exactly what I want you to do. Always.” He kissed your temple. “We can stay like this all night if you want. Just kissing. Just holding. Whatever feels good for you.”

dylan minnette ★ your new favourite song (fluff) ★ all mine (smut) ★ happy birthday baby (smut)

cole preston ★ is this a dream? (fluff) ★ let go (smut)

S.M.U.T

Backstage relif

Only if you're sure

Tour bus trap Princess

R U Mine? At the same damn time

Sex on the beach

A fucking interruption

Wedding night Ok this is new

Musician hands Enjoying the view

Can't get enough You

In case you miss me Say it

Found love after getting laid

Playing cards At your service

Jailbait Sex deprived

Braeden loves MILFS

Private dance

F.L.U.F.F

Fade into you

I'm having his baby

Cielito lindo Welcome to wallows

You're my home

Love at first sight My song

Losing my religion

Hole in one but also in the eye

As I see you

The night we met

Daddy brae Sweet His cheerleader

It's not what you think

I'm ok I swear

Met me at the dock

Not on tour not on set

Just like a movie

Lollapalooza girl Love portrait

Sound like us Espresso

It's a match Happy birthday

Drivers license

Braeden Vs friend zone

I wanna be your boyfriend

Afraid of loving you I'm batman

Glitter pen songs Thirdwheeling

Weren't searching

Boys will be bugs

Paul's favourite person

Maternity license

The price of Paul's silence

About us Red code Seahorse

Table for three

DINOSAURS ARE WHAAT!

Maps traition

Knock the fucking door

Tomorrow... Moon cycle

The worst liars ever

A.N.G.S.T + F.L.U.F.F

Tolerate it

Should we talk about

Pleaser

How have you been my love

I'm not like that

Jump then fall Deserve more

Figure this out

Such a way to make up

A.N.G.S.T

Countdown Uncomfortable

S.M.U.T

Full of him Bookworm

Birthday boy Too big

Show me how Daddy Minnette

Good morning good boy

Hands all over you

Calling after me

I'm your secretary

Under the neon lights

How does it feels like

Bed chem Equality Tonight

Princess treatment Read to me

Dylan bossa nova Couldn't wait

Fuck you senseless Lolita

One of the girls Baby girl

Get him back

She could sit on my face and I'd say thanks Pet

A bit tipsy Love on the brain

A night to remember Is it wrong

Does she likes eating at the table that we fucked on

Blow the candles

Muffled pretty noises

Kinda busy bro Multitasking

Bedtime habits

Freak like me

50 shades of Minnette

You do own me All for me

F.L.U.F.F

Coffe for the white bunny

While you were sleeping

Further than home run

A part of me

Wait blackstar by Bowie?

Listen to vixens

I'll take care of you

Brooklyn baby A little me n you

Dyeing for you

Swans mate for life

Just friends

Love at the mushroom kingdom

When did you get so hot

Nonsense Dylan Vs swans

Miniskirt Not a vampire movie

Knock on wood Our love cabin

Fortune wheel

Taking care of what's mine

Friends with benefits

Show you my world

Table for three

A.N.G.S.T + F.L.U.F.F

Time for us

Pushing it down praying

Second chance Sienna

If only I could please her

He can only hold her

Let me hold you

Figure this out

A.N.G.S.T

Being enough Eyes wide shut

Glue myself shut

The air smells like roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries as you push open the door to The Brewed Awakening, a cozy little café just off Brown University’s campus.

It’s your second week at Brown, and you’re still finding your rhythm new city, new classes, new everything. You’re majoring in English Literature, drowning in assigned readings, but you love it.

The café’s warm lighting and mismatched wooden tables feel like a safe haven from the chaos of syllabus week.

You order a chai latte, settle into a corner booth with your battered copy of Mrs. Dalloway, and try to focus, but your eyes keep wandering, scanning the room for something someone interesting.

That’s when you spot him. He’s sitting a few tables away, hunched over a laptop, his dark hair falling into his eyes. He’s got this intense look, like he’s trying to solve world hunger or debug a particularly stubborn line of code.

You’re not sure what draws you to him at first maybe it’s the way his brow furrows in concentration, or the nervous tap of his fingers against the table.

But then you see it: a sticker on his laptop, faded at the edges but unmistakable. “Alien Killer Robots”.

The comic you’ve been obsessed with since high school, the one you’d sneak-read under your desk during boring history classes.

Your heart does a little flip. No way. This guy’s one of your people.

You take a sip of your chai for courage, grab your book, and walk over before you can overthink it.

He doesn’t notice you at first, too absorbed in whatever he’s typing, so you clear your throat.

“Hey, uh, is that an Alien Killer Robots sticker?” you ask, pointing at his laptop with a grin.

His head snaps up, and you’re met with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, wide with surprise. He looks like you just caught him stealing cookies from the jar.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” he stammers, pushing his hair back nervously. “It’s… kind of my favorite comic. You know it?”

“Know it?” You laugh, sliding into the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve read every comic at least twice. I’m still mad about the cliffhanger in number 27. Like, who does that to Commander Zax ? He was like Percy's brother”

His face lights up, and it’s like watching a puppy realize you’ve got a tennis ball. “Right?! I mean, they left us hanging for months!” he says, leaning forward. “I’m Clay, by the way. Clay Jensen.”

“I’m Y/N,” you reply, feeling a spark of something warm in your chest. “And I’m calling it now—Zax is totally coming back in the next arc. No way they’d kill off the best character.”

Clay grins, and it’s a little crooked, a little shy, but so genuine it makes your heart skip. “Okay, bold prediction. I’m holding you to that.” He pauses, glancing at your book. “Mrs. Dalloway? You’re a Lit major?”

“Yup, guilty as charged,” you say, tapping the cover. “What about you? Let me guess… Computer Science? You’ve got that coder vibe with the laptop and the sticker.”

He laughs, a soft, nervous sound that’s somehow endearing. “Close. Engineering. I’m kind of a tech nerd, but I swear I’m not that stereotypical.” He gestures to the sticker. “Well, maybe a little.”

You spend the next hour talking, the conversation flowing like you’ve known each other forever. You learn you’re both freshmen at Brown, navigating this new chapter after high school.

He’s from a small town, Evergreen, and you can tell there’s a story there, a weight in his eyes when he mentions it, but he doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t push. Instead, you bond over Alien Killer Robott, arguing about whether Zymorg is secretly evil, and swap stories about your first week on campus.

He’s shy at first, tripping over his words, but the more you talk, the more he relaxes, his smile growing brighter.

When you finally check your phone, you realize you’re late for your next class. “Crap, I gotta run,” you say, grabbing your book. “But this was fun. We should, like, continue the Zax debate another time.”

“Yeah, definitely,” Clay says quickly, his cheeks pink. He hesitates, then adds, “Maybe we could grab coffee again? Like, on purpose?”

You grin, scribbling your number on a napkin and sliding it across the table. “Text me, Comic Boy. I’m free most afternoons.”

As you leave the café, you feel lighter than you have all week, like you’ve just found something you didn’t know you were looking for.

And when your phone buzzes later that night with a text from Clay

>“Zax lives, right? Coffee tomorrow?”

you know this is the start of something good.

It’s been a week since you scribbled your number on that napkin at The Brewed Awakening, and you and Clay have been texting nonstop.

His messages are a mix of nerdy rants about Alien Killer Robots, random memes, and shy little compliments that make your stomach flutter like when he said your laugh was “kind of contagious” after you sent him a voice note.

You’ve met up for coffee twice more, always at the same café, always losing track of time debating comic book lore or laughing about your disastrous first days at Brown.

He’s awkward in the cutest way, tripping over his words but lighting up when you tease him, and you’re starting to feel that spark something warm and electric that makes you check your phone way too often.

Tonight, you’re not at the café. You suggested a change of pace, and now you’re both at a small park near campus, sitting on a bench under a string of fairy lights strung through the trees. It’s chilly, and you’re bundled in a scarf and a cozy sweater, your breath puffing out in little clouds.

Clay’s next to you, wearing a hoodie under a denim jacket, his knees bouncing nervously as he talks about his engineering project.

You’re only half-listening, distracted by how his eyes catch the light when he gets excited, like he’s a kid explaining his favorite game.

“...and then the circuit kept shorting out, which was, like, the worst,” he’s saying, hands waving animatedly. “I thought I was gonna have to rebuild the whole thing, but hey, you okay? You’re kinda quiet.”

You snap out of your daze, smiling. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… enjoying this. You’re cute when you geek out, you know.”

His face turns pink, and he ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh, I’m not trying to bore you or anything.”

“You’re not,” you assure him, nudging his shoulder with yours. “I like it. Makes me feel like I’m getting the real Clay Jensen.”

He looks at you then, his expression softening, but there’s something heavier in his eyes, like he’s wrestling with something. You tilt your head, waiting, and he takes a deep breath, his knees stilling. “Can I… tell you something? Kind of personal?”

“Of course,” you say, turning to face him fully. Your heart picks up, sensing the shift in his tone.

He stares at his hands, twisting his fingers together.

“It’s just… I haven’t talked about this much since I got here. To Brown, I mean. Back home, in Evergreen, I went through some stuff. A lot of stuff, actually.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “A few months ago, I lost my brother. Justin. He, uh… he was sick, and it was rough. Really rough. I’m trying to start over here, you know? But sometimes it feels like I left a piece of myself back there.”

Your chest aches at the rawness in his voice, the way he’s trying to hold it together. You reach out without thinking, placing your hand over his. “Clay, I’m so sorry,” you say softly. “I can’t imagine what that’s like. You don’t have to talk about it if it’s too much, but… I’m here. For real.”

He looks at your hand on his, then up at you, his eyes glassy but grateful. “Thanks. It’s just… hard to let people in, you know? After everything. But you make it easier. You’re, like, so easy to talk to. I don’t know how you do that.”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “It’s ‘cause I’m awesome, obviously. And I meant it you can tell me anything. I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, you just sit there, the fairy lights casting a soft glow over you both, the park quiet except for the rustle of leaves.

Then Clay does something unexpected he leans closer, his shoulder brushing yours, and you feel that spark ignite into something more.

Your heart’s racing now, and you’re hyper-aware of how close his face is, how his breath catches when your eyes meet.

“I, uh,” he starts, voice shaky, “I really like you. Like, a lot. And I’m kinda freaking out because I don’t know how to do this, but—”

You don’t let him finish. You close the gap, pressing your lips to his, soft and tentative at first, but certain. His lips are warm, a little chapped, and he freezes for a split second before melting into the kiss, his hand finding your cheek. It’s sweet, a little clumsy, but perfect, like it’s exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you pull back, his eyes are wide, his face lit up like a golden retriever who just got a treat. “Your lipstick,” he blurts, breathless, “shit, your lipstick tastes incredible.”

You burst out laughing, your cheeks warm despite the chilly air. “Clay Jensen, you absolute dork,” you tease, but before he can respond, you lean in and kiss him again, deeper this time, your fingers curling into his hoodie.

He kisses you back with a kind of eager, clingy energy that makes your heart soar, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

When you finally break apart, he’s grinning so wide you think his face might split. “Okay, wow,” he says, still holding your hand like it’s his lifeline. “That was… wow. Can we do that again? Like, a lot?”

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Oh, we’re definitely doing that again, Clay Jensen. You’re stuck with me now.”

And as you sit there under the fairy lights, his arm slipping around your shoulders, you know this is only the beginning of something beautiful something that feels like home.

It’s been a few weeks since that first kiss under the fairy lights.

And Clay Jensen has officially become your personal Velcro. You’re not complaining not even a little.

His clingy side is like a warm blanket you never want to shrug off. He’s always reaching for your hand, brushing his shoulder against yours, or pulling you into hugs that linger just a second longer than necessary.

It’s like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he’s not touching you, and honestly, the way his blue eyes light up when he’s near you makes your heart do cartwheels.

You’re walking across Brown’s campus now, leaves crunching under your boots as fall settles in. Clay’s got your hand in his, fingers intertwined, his thumb tracing little circles on your skin like it’s second nature. He’s rambling about a new Alien Killer Robots number that just dropped, his voice bright with excitement, but you catch him sneaking glances at you, like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there.

“You’re staring again, Babe,” you tease, bumping his hip with yours.

He blushes, that adorable pink flush creeping up his neck. “Can you blame me? You’re, like, way more interesting than robotics. And that’s saying something.”

He swings your joined hands, pulling you closer so your shoulders touch. “Hey, so, I was thinking… you free this weekend? I kinda planned something.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Another one of your mastermind dates? Lay it on me, Jensen.”

He grins, all nervous energy and golden-retriever enthusiasm. “Okay, don’t laugh, but I found this place an old drive-in theater about 20 minutes from campus. They’re showing Back to the Future on Saturday. I thought we could go, maybe bring a blanket, some snacks… I even made a playlist for the drive.”

You stop walking, turning to face him, your heart melting at how hopeful he looks. “Clay, that’s literally perfect. You’re, like, the king of thoughtful dates.”

He ducks his head, but you can see the pride in his smile. “I just… I want you to have fun. With me, I mean. I know I can be kinda… a lot sometimes.”

“A lot?” You step closer, tugging on his hoodie strings. “You’re exactly the right amount of a lot. I love it.”

His eyes soften, and before you know it, he’s wrapping his arms around you, pulling you into a hug right in the middle of the campus quad. His chin rests on your head, and you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek.

“You’re too good to me,” he murmurs, his voice a little shaky, like he’s still not used to someone wanting him this much.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands resting on his chest. “Hey, you’re pretty good to me too. Like, who else plans a Back to the Future date with a custom playlist?”

He laughs, but there’s that flicker of vulnerability again, the same one you saw when he told you about Justin. You’ve noticed it comes up in quiet moments, like when you’re studying together in the library and he zones out, or when he grips your hand a little tighter after a long day.

Tonight, as you’re curled up on his dorm bed after a study session his arm around your shoulders, your legs tangled together he gets quiet again.

“You okay?” you ask, tilting your head to meet his gaze.

He nods, but his fingers tighten around yours. “Yeah, just… thinking. Sometimes I still can’t believe I’m here, you know? At Brown, starting over. After everything back home, I didn’t think I’d get to have… this.” He gestures vaguely, but you know he means you, the closeness, the way he can hold you like you’re his anchor.

You shift closer, resting your head on his shoulder. “You deserve this, Clay. More than anyone. I know it’s been hard, losing Justin, starting fresh. But you’re doing it, and you’re not alone anymore. You’ve got me.”

He looks at you like you just hung the moon, his eyes glassy but warm. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. Then, in true, he pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you like you’re his favorite teddy bear. “You’re, like, my favorite person. Ever.”

You laugh, swatting his chest playfully. “Okay, clingy, I get it. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good,” he says, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your nose, until you’re giggling uncontrollably. “Because I’m planning, like, a million more dates. There’s this bookstore with a cat that lives there, and I thought we could go, maybe find some comics. And then there’s this stargazing event next month, and—”

“Clay!” you interrupt, cupping his face. “You’re gonna spoil me rotten.”

He grins, all teeth and sparkling eyes, leaning in to kiss you softly. It’s slow and sweet, his hands cradling your face like you’re something precious. When he pulls back, he’s still smiling, his forehead pressed to yours. “I’m okay with spoiling you. As long as I get to keep doing this.”

The weekend arrives, and the drive-in date is everything he promised. You’re snuggled under a blanket in the back of his borrowed car, a bag of popcorn between you, Marty McFly zooming across the screen.

Clay’s arm is around you, his fingers tracing patterns on your shoulder, and every few minutes he leans over to steal a kiss or whisper something dorky about time travel. By the time the credits roll, you’re both laughing, quoting lines, and planning your next adventure a hike to a nearby lake, because Clay’s already googled the best trails.

As he drives you back to campus, his hand resting on your thigh, you realize you’re falling hard for this boy who plans perfect dates and holds you like you’re his whole world. And from the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, you know he’s falling just as hard.

Sunlight filters through the blinds of Clay’s dorm room, painting soft stripes across the tangled mess of blankets wrapped around you.

You’re nestled against his chest, his arms locked around you like you’re his personal teddy bear, his steady breaths tickling your hair.

Last night was… intense. Your first time together, a mix of nervous giggles and whispered reassurances, left you feeling closer to him than ever and, okay, maybe a little sore. Your body aches in that good, slightly uncomfortable way, but you’re too blissed out to care, especially with Clay’s warmth enveloping you.

You stir, blinking awake, and realize he’s already watching you, those blue eyes soft and a little hazy with sleep. His hair’s a mess, sticking up in every direction, and he’s got this dopey, golden-retriever grin that makes your heart skip.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, as he tightens his hold and pulls you closer, if that’s even possible.

“Morning, My love,” you mumble back, your voice muffled against his chest. You’re hyper-aware of your morning breath, but Clay doesn’t seem to care he leans in and presses a lazy kiss to your lips, slow and sweet, like he’s savoring every second.

You laugh against his mouth, pulling back slightly. “Babe, my breath’s probably gross.”

He grins, undeterred, and kisses you again, this time on the corner of your mouth. “Don’t care. You taste perfect.” His lips find your jaw, then your neck, and you’re giggling despite the slight ache in your muscles.

You swat at him playfully, but he just catches your hand and laces his fingers with yours, kissing your knuckles like it’s his job. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you’re smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

That’s when you hear a loud thump against the door, followed by a muffled, “Jensen, you owe us big time, man!” It’s one of Clay’s roommates probably the one who’s been grumbling about being “exiled” to the common room couch last night.

You wince, suddenly remembering how Clay not-so-subtly kicked them out so you two could have the room.

“Oh no,” you whisper, hiding your face in his shoulder. “Your roommates totally hate me now.”

Clay snorts, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Fuck ‘em, let ‘em deal,” he says, with a confidence that’s rare for him but so damn cute. “They’ll survive one night on the couch. Besides, I’d rather be here with you.” He punctuates it with another kiss, this one deeper, morning breath be damned, and you melt into it, your fingers tangling in his messy hair.

You pull back, breathless, and rest your forehead against his. “You’re gonna get me in trouble with the whole dorm,” you tease, but your voice is soft, and you’re too happy to care.

“Good,” he says, his arms tightening around you. “Let’s just stay like this forever. What classes you got today? Doesn’t matter skip ‘em. We’re not moving.”

You laugh, shifting slightly and wincing as your sore muscles protest. “Clay, I’ve got Lit Theory at 10, and you’ve got that engineering lab, don’t you? We can’t just ditch everything.”

He pouts, actually pouts, like a puppy denied a treat, and it’s so adorable you almost cave. “But I wanna stay here,” he whines, nuzzling his face into your neck. “You’re all warm and cozy, and I’m, like, stupidly happy right now.”

His hand slides down to your hip, gentle but possessive, and he notices your wince. His eyes soften instantly, concern replacing the playfulness. “Hey, you okay? You’re sore, aren’t you?”

You nod, a little embarrassed. “Just… a little. Last night was a lot.” You smile to reassure him, but he’s already shifting into overprotective mode, his hand moving to rub your lower back gently.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says, his voice laced with that anxious edge you’ve come to recognize. “I didn’t mean to—did I push you too hard? I should’ve—”

“Clay, stop,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “It’s a good kind of sore. I’m fine. More than fine. I’m, like, ridiculously happy too.”

He exhales, relieved, but still looks at you like you’re made of glass. “Okay, but we’re taking it easy today. No hiking or anything crazy. Just… cuddles and maybe some pancakes later? I can make those. Kinda. They might be a little burnt, but I swear they’re edible.”

You laugh, your heart swelling at how much he wants to take care of you. “Pancakes sound perfect. But only if we can keep kissing like this.” You lean in, brushing your lips against his, and he responds eagerly, kissing you back with that clingy, desperate edge that makes you feel like the only person in his world.

Another thump on the door interrupts you, “Jensen, we’re starving out here! Wrap it up!”

Clay groans, burying his face in your shoulder. “I’m gonna kill them,” he mutters, but you can feel his smile against your skin. He lifts his head, kissing you again, soft and lingering. “Okay, new plan. We ignore them, stay in bed all day, and I’ll order us food later. Deal?”

You grin, snuggling closer, your aches forgotten in the warmth of his embrace. “Deal. You’re stuck with me.”

He beams, his eyes sparkling with that golden-retriever joy. “Good. ‘Cause I’m never letting you go.”

Clay Jensen has officially turned date planning into an art form, and you’re his favorite canvas.

Over the past few weeks, he’s been whisking you away on adventures that make your heart feel like it’s glowing.

There was the night he took you to a tiny indie record store, where you spent hours flipping through vinyls and ended up slow-dancing to an old Fleetwood Mac album in the back aisle, his hands on your waist and his shy grin lighting up the dim shop.

Another time, he surprised you with a picnic at a nearby botanical garden, complete with a lopsided peanut butter and jelly sandwich he swore he “worked really hard on.” You teased him mercilessly for the jelly dripping everywhere, but the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered made you forget the mess.

His clinginess is your favorite part, though. He’s always finding excuses to touch you: holding your hand as you walk to class, slinging an arm around your shoulders during movie nights in his dorm, or just pulling you into random hugs because “you looked too cute not to.” It’s like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go for too long, and you love how safe and wanted it makes you feel.

Today, though, is one of those perfect fall afternoons where the air is crisp and the leaves are a riot of red and gold.

You and Clay are sprawled under a massive oak tree just off the main quad at Brown, a plaid blanket spread beneath you.

Your copy of The Bell Jar required reading for your Lit Theory class is open in your lap, but you’re barely reading because Clay’s got his head resting on your shoulder, one arm draped across your waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns on your sweater.

He’s reading along with you, or at least trying to, but you can tell he’s more focused on being close to you than on Sylvia Plath’s prose.

“This book is… heavy,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck. “Like, Esther’s going through it. You sure this is your kind of thing?”

You laugh softly, turning your head to meet his eyes. They’re as blue as ever, sparkling in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. “It’s not about liking it, it’s about feeling it,” you say, tapping the page. “But yeah, it’s intense. You okay with it?”

He nods, but his expression softens into something more vulnerable. “Yeah, I get it. Feeling trapped, like you’re stuck in your own head… it hits kinda close to home sometimes.” His voice dips, and you know he’s thinking about Evergreen, about Justin, about the weight he still carries.

He doesn’t say it outright, but you can feel it in the way he tightens his grip on you, like you’re his lifeline.

You set the book down, shifting so you can face him fully. “Hey,” you say, brushing a strand of his messy hair off his forehead. “You’re not stuck anymore, okay? You’re here, with me, under this ridiculously picturesque tree. And I’m not letting you get trapped in your head.”

His lips curve into that crooked, golden-retriever smile you adore, and he leans into your touch. “You’re too good at this,” he says, his voice a little shaky but full of warmth. “How do you always know what to say?”

“Natural talent,” you tease, but you soften it with a kiss to his forehead. He closes his eyes at the contact, letting out a contented sigh, and you swear you’ve never seen him look so peaceful.

You settle back against the tree, pulling him with you so he’s practically in your lap, his head tucked under your chin. It’s like he’s trying to merge into you, and you’re more than happy to let him.

“Okay, but for real,” he says after a moment, his voice muffled against your sweater, “we should do more stuff like this. Just… chilling, reading, being together. I was thinking maybe next weekend we could hit up that used bookstore with the cat? I checked, and they’ve got a first edition of The Catcher in the Rye. I know you’re obsessed with Salinger.”

You grin, your heart swelling at how he remembers every little thing you mention. “Clay Jensen, are you trying to bribe me with rare books?”

“Is it working?” he asks, lifting his head to give you that puppy-dog look, all wide eyes and hopeful grin.

“Obviously,” you laugh, leaning in to kiss him. It’s soft and lingering, his lips warm and familiar, and he kisses you back with that eager, clingy energy that makes your toes curl.

When you pull away, he chases your lips for another quick peck, then another, until you’re both giggling under the tree.

“God, I love this,” he says, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you.”

The words slip out so naturally, like he’s been holding them in forever, and your breath catches. It’s the first time he’s said it, and the way his eyes search yours, nervous but so damn sincere, makes your chest ache.

“I love you too,” you whisper, and his face lights up like you just gave him the world. He pulls you into a hug, burying his face in your neck, and you can feel his smile against your skin.

“Okay, new date idea,” he says, his voice muffled but buzzing with excitement. “We stay here all day, read The Bell Jar, and I keep kissing you every time Esther says something depressing to balance it out.”

You laugh, running your fingers through his hair. “Deal. But you’re gonna be kissing me a lot, then.”

“Good,” he says, already leaning in for another one. “I’m cool with that.”

As the afternoon fades into evening, you stay there under the tree, trading lines from the book and stealing kisses, wrapped in each other and the kind of love that feels like it could outshine the falling leaves.

The afternoon sun has dipped lower, casting a golden glow over the oak tree where you and Clay are still tangled together on the plaid blanket.

The Bell Jar lies abandoned beside you, forgotten in favor of the warmth of his arms around you, his head nestled against your shoulder.

His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm, and every so often, he presses a soft kiss to your temple, like he can’t help himself. The air smells like crisp leaves and his cedarwood cologne, and you feel like you could stay here forever, wrapped in his clingy, golden-retriever love.

Clay’s been quiet for a minute, his breathing steady but his grip on you a little tighter, like he’s working up to something.

You nudge him gently, tilting your head to catch his eye. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Babe? You’re all pensive.”

He lifts his head, his blue eyes catching the sunlight as he looks at you with that mix of shyness and adoration that makes your heart skip. “I, uh… I had this dream last night,” he says, his voice soft but earnest. “It was… really beautiful. Like, the kind of dream you don’t wanna wake up from.”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued, a smile tugging at your lips. “Oh yeah? Spill. What was it about?”

He blushes, rubbing the back of his neck a classic Clay move when he’s nervous but he doesn’t look away.

“It was about us,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We were getting married. Like, full-on wedding, with flowers and lights and… you in this amazing dress. And we were dancing to ‘Some Unholy War’ by Amy Winehouse. You know, that song you’re always playing? We were just… swaying together, and it felt so real. Like I could feel how happy we were.”

Your heart does a full-on somersault, warmth flooding your chest. You can’t help but grin, leaning closer to tease him. “Oh my God, Clay, that’s a sign from your subconscious that my love for Amy is rubbing off on you!” you say, laughing. “I mean, ‘Some Unholy War’ at our wedding? That’s peak me influencing you.”

He laughs too, but it’s softer, and his eyes are serious as he shakes his head. “No, for real,” he says, his voice steady now, like he’s anchoring himself. “It wasn’t just the song. It was… everything. You, me, the way it felt. I woke up and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Like, I want that. With you. All of it.”

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you’re speechless, caught in the intensity of his gaze. He’s looking at you like you’re his entire future, and it’s overwhelming in the best way. You shift closer, cupping his face with one hand, your thumb brushing over his cheek.

“Clay,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, “you’re getting all serious on me under a tree. You trying to make me cry?”

He smiles, that crooked, golden-retriever grin, but his eyes are still locked on yours. “Maybe a little,” he admits, leaning into your touch. “I just… I’ve been through a lot, you know? Back in Evergreen, with Justin, with… everything. I didn’t think I’d ever feel this safe again. But with you, I do. And I keep thinking about what our life could be like. Like, really together.”

You tilt your head, your heart pounding. “Okay, Jensen, hit me with it. What’s this life you’re dreaming about?”

He takes a deep breath, like he’s gathering courage, and then the words spill out, eager and unfiltered.

“I see us, like, after college. Maybe we get a little apartment somewhere, with a shelf for all your books and a corner for my comics. We’d have a dog—definitely a dog, maybe one of those fluffy ones you like. And… kids, someday. Like, a couple of tiny humans who’d probably be as nerdy as us. I’d teach them to code, you’d read them The Bell Jar when they’re old enough. And we’d just… build a life. A happy one.”

Your eyes are misty now, and you don’t even care. The thought of Clay dreaming about a future with you dog, kids, and all feels like a hug from the inside out.

“Clay,” you say, your voice thick with emotion, “that sounds perfect. Like, stupidly perfect. You really want all that with me?”

He nods, his hand finding yours and squeezing tight. “More than anything. I know it’s early, and we’re just starting out, but… I want a family with you. I want everything with you.” His voice cracks a little, and you can see the vulnerability there, the fear that maybe he’s saying too much too soon.

You don’t let him spiral. You lean in, kissing him softly, your lips lingering against his as you pour all your feelings into it. He kisses you back, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer like he’s afraid to let go.

When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his, smiling through the tears prickling your eyes.

“I want that too,” you whisper. “The apartment, the dog, the nerdy kids. And definitely Amy Winehouse at our wedding. I’m in, Clay. All the way.”

His face lights up, that golden-retriever joy bursting out as he pulls you into a hug, practically crushing you against him. “God, I love you so much,” he mumbles into your hair, his voice muffled but so full of feeling it makes your heart ache. “You’re my favorite person. Like, ever.”

You laugh, snuggling closer, your cheek pressed against his chest. “You’re mine too, Babe. But you’re gonna have to learn all the words to ‘Some Unholy War’ if we’re dancing to it at our wedding.”

“Deal,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “I’m already practicing in my head.”

You stay there under the oak tree as the sun dips below the horizon, talking about your future—where you’d live, what you’d name the dog, and how many kids you’d want he says two, you say three, but you’ll figure it out.

Every word feels like a promise, and with Clay’s arms around you, his clingy warmth grounding you, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

You pulled Clay’s hand gently as you both walked up the brick path toward your dorm building, the late afternoon sun casting a soft golden glow over the campus. It was only your third week officially dating, and this felt like a big step—inviting him into your space, your little world. Clay’s fingers were warm around yours, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to do that yet.

“Wow,” Clay said, tilting his head back to take in the building. The ivy climbing the walls, the big arched windows, and the colorful murals painted by art students near the entrance made it look more like a charming old library than a dorm. “The art building is way nicer than mine. Mine’s just… concrete and bad lighting. This actually looks like people want to live here.”

You laughed softly, squeezing his hand. “Yeah, we got lucky with the lottery this year. The art majors kind of claimed it. It’s cozy inside too.”

He smiled that shy, crooked smile you were already falling stupidly in love with.

You’d shown him dozens of photos of Figaro over the last couple of months—your fluffy orange cat with the permanent judgmental stare—so Clay already knew your furry roommate existed. But knowing and experiencing were two very different things.

You stopped right before the glass doors, turning to face him. Your heart did a little nervous flip.

“Babe,” you said, biting your lip, “I have to warn you about Figaro…”

You hesitated, still holding Clay’s hand outside the dorm entrance, the soft hum of students chatting in the distance filling the comfortable silence between you. His eyebrows rose in that adorable, slightly confused way he had whenever something didn’t compute right away.

“Babe, what are you going to need to warn me about Figaro?” Clay asked with a soft laugh, squeezing your fingers. “He’s just a kitten. A three-month-old baby kitten. What could he possibly do?”

You let out a nervous chuckle, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. The warm afternoon breeze tugged at your hair as you looked up at him.

“Well… he’s kind of difficult and grumpy sometimes,” you admitted, chewing on your bottom lip. “I don’t want you to feel rejected or anything if he’s not super friendly at first. He’s really protective of me.”

Clay’s smile widened, genuine and reassuring, the kind that made the corners of his eyes crinkle behind his glasses. He pulled you a little closer, wrapping his free arm loosely around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Don’t worry,” he said confidently, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to your forehead. “Animals love me. I’ve got this. Figaro and I are going to be best friends by the end of the night. You’ll see.”

You nodded, trying to match his optimism, even though a tiny voice in the back of your mind whispered that this might not go exactly as planned. You’d shown him all the cute photos—Figaro curled up in sunbeams, Figaro with his tiny bow tie collar—but you hadn’t exactly prepared him for the full gremlin energy your little cat could unleash.

“Alright then,” you said, smiling despite the butterflies. “Let’s do this.”

You led him through the glass doors and up the stairs to your floor, your heart beating faster with every step. Clay kept glancing around, commenting on the string lights in the hallway and the paintings taped to doors, clearly trying to soak in every detail of your world. When you finally stopped in front of your door and slid the key into the lock, you took a deep breath.

The second the door cracked open, a tiny, dramatic “mrrrow!” echoed from inside.

You pushed the door fully open, stepping in first with Clay right behind you.

And that’s when it happened.

Figaro, your fluffy kitten, was perched like a tiny king on the back of the couch, tail flicking sharply. The moment his bright green eyes landed on Clay, his ears flattened, his back arched, and he let out the most offended hiss you had ever heard from such a small creature.

You froze.

You had not expected this level of immediate hostility.

“Oh no…” you whispered under your breath.

You stood there in the middle of your dorm room, heart racing as Figaro’s dramatic hiss turned into a full-on growl that sounded way too big for his tiny three-month-old body. His fluffy orange fur puffed up like a startled porcupine, tail thrashing wildly behind him on the couch.

Clay, bless his sweet optimistic heart, didn’t even flinch. He let go of your hand gently and stepped forward with that soft, reassuring smile he always gave you when you were nervous.

“Don’t worry, babe,” he said calmly, his voice warm and steady. “He’s just scared. I’m someone new entering his territory. I know you rescued him, it’s okay. He’ll warm up.”

You opened your mouth to warn him again, but it was too late. Clay crouched down slowly to Figaro’s level, extending one hand carefully with his palm up like he’d seen in all those animal videos.

“Hey there, little guy,” Clay cooed, his tone ridiculously gentle. “I’m going to be your dad now… well, because I’m dating your mom, so… hi. We’re gonna be friends, right?”

The words had barely left his mouth when Figaro decided he’d heard enough.

With a fierce “hiss-screech!” the tiny tuxedo kitten launched himself off the back of the couch like a furry missile, tiny claws fully extended and aimed straight for Clay’s hand.

Your eyes widened in pure panic. “Figaro, no—!”

But Clay’s reflexes were quicker than you expected. He jerked his arm back just in time, dodging the attack with an awkward stumble backward. Figaro landed on the floor with a soft thump, immediately spinning around for round two, ears flat and eyes locked on the intruder like he was defending his kingdom.

Clay straightened up quickly, eyes wide behind his glasses, a surprised laugh escaping him.

“Whoa—okay, he’s got some fight in him,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, more amused than offended. “That was… intense.”

You covered your mouth, half horrified and half trying not to laugh at the absolute chaos unfolding in your usually peaceful dorm room.

This was not how you imagined introducing your boyfriend to your baby cat.

You rushed forward, gently grabbing Clay’s arm as he straightened up, your face burning with embarrassment. Figaro was still crouched on the floor a few feet away, glaring daggers at your boyfriend like he had personally offended every cat ancestor in existence.

“My love, I’m so sorry,” you said quickly, voice soft and apologetic. “I didn’t want Figaro to attack you. He’s never this bad with people, I swear.”

Clay turned to you, that sweet, understanding smile already back on his face. He cupped your cheek with one hand, brushing his thumb gently across your skin.

“No, babe, it’s okay,” he said softly, his eyes warm behind his glasses. “I’m sure it’s because of the couch. Cats are territorial, right? This is his space. He’s just protecting it… and you.”

Before you could say anything else, Clay leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to your lips. It was soft and reassuring, the kind that made your knees feel a little weak even after a few weeks of dating. You melted into it for a second, smiling against his mouth.

But the moment was immediately shattered.

Figaro let out a loud, piercing “MEOOOOOW!” that sounded more like a fire alarm than a kitten. It was high-pitched, dramatic, and continuous, as if he were personally offended by the very sight of Clay kissing you. The tiny cat paced back and forth in front of the couch, tail puffed and flicking aggressively, his meows growing louder and more indignant with every second.

You pulled back from the kiss with a startled laugh, eyes wide. “Figaro! Oh my god…”

Clay blinked, glancing down at the furious little creature, then back at you with an amused but slightly bewildered expression. “Okay… so maybe he’s not a fan of PDA either.”

He wasn’t going to let your grumpy little kitten ruin the moment.

“Okay,” he said, chuckling lightly as he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you closer. “I’m not going to let our little furry son ruin our date. We can exist without him trying to claw my eyes out. So… how about we just cuddle on the couch?”

Your heart fluttered at how effortlessly sweet he was being. You nodded, grinning as you let him guide you toward the small couch in your dorm room. Clay sat down first, patting the spot right next to him. You curled up against his side, tucking your head under his chin as his arm slipped around your shoulders. It felt warm and perfect—exactly the kind of cozy moment you’d imagined when you invited him over.

“This is nice,” you whispered, relaxing into him.

Clay pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah. Really nice.”

For about ten peaceful seconds, everything was quiet and fluffy. Then Figaro’s meowing stopped abruptly. The sudden silence made you both glance over.

The tiny mad orange kitten was now standing at the foot of the couch, staring up at the two of you with pure betrayal in his green eyes. His ears were flat, his tail lashed once, twice… and then he let out the longest, most heartbroken “Mrrrrrraaaaooooowwww” you had ever heard, like a tiny opera singer performing a tragic aria about stolen affection.

Clay let out a quiet laugh, his chest vibrating against you. “He really hates me, huh?”

You bit your lip, trying not to giggle. “He’s just… adjusting.”

The heartbroken meowing continued for a few more dramatic seconds before Figaro apparently decided that words weren’t enough. With a determined little hop, the tiny tuxedo kitten leaped onto the couch, landing right on Clay’s lap like he owned the entire piece of furniture.

Clay tensed slightly. “Whoa—hey, buddy—”

But Figaro wasn’t done. He marched straight across Clay’s thighs, tiny paws stepping firmly (and not very gently) as if marking his territory. Then he started headbutting Clay’s arm with surprising force for such a small cat—push, push, push—clearly trying to shove him away from you. Each insistent little bonk was accompanied by a low, grumpy trill.

Clay let out a surprised laugh and shifted sideways, giving up his spot without a fight. “Alright, alright, I’m moving. Message received.”

The second Clay slid over, Figaro wasted no time. He climbed directly into your lap, circled once with his fluffy tail held high, and curled up into a perfect little ball against your chest. He even let out a loud, satisfied purr as he pressed his head under your chin, shooting Clay the most smug, victorious side-eye a kitten could possibly manage.

It was as if he was saying, loud and clear: Get away from her. She’s mine.

You couldn’t help but giggle, running your fingers through Figaro’s soft fur. “Oh my god, he’s never this bold with visitors.”