Here are some sweet headcanons for Von Lycaon when he has a crush:
Heightened Cleanliness:Ā Von Lycaonās already meticulous nature goes into overdrive. He ensures his surroundings are impeccably clean whenever his crush is around.
Von Lycaon:Ā "Please, allow me to tidy up a bit before you come in."
Crush:Ā "You really donāt have to go through all this trouble."
Von Lycaon:Ā "It's no trouble at all. Your comfort is my priority."
Protective Instincts:Ā His natural inclination to protect becomes even stronger. He subtly keeps a close watch over his crush, ensuring they are always safe and comfortable.
Von Lycaon,Ā offering his arm to his crush:Ā "Allow me to walk you home. The streets can be unpredictable at this hour."
Crush,Ā smiling but hesitant:Ā "Oh, that's very kind of you, but I'm sure I'll be fine."
Von Lycaon,Ā gently taking their hand and placing it on his arm: "It's a privilege to ensure your well-being. I'd feel better knowing you arrived safely."
Crush, feeling his protective nature and warmth: "Thank you, Lycaon. That means a lot to me."
Von Lycaon, giving a reassuring smile as they start walking together: "Your safety is my top priority. I'll always be here to watch over you."
Subtle Courtship:Ā Being a gentleman, Von Lycaon uses old-fashioned, subtle methods of courtship. He leaves small, thoughtful gifts and handwritten notes, often with poetic quotes or observations he knows will resonate with his crush.
Von Lycaon leaves a rose, carefully dethorned, along with a handwritten note on his crush's desk
Von Lycaon's note reads:Ā "For the one who brightens my days, a small token of my appreciation."
Canine Instincts:Ā His canine instincts become more pronounced around his crush. His ears might twitch or his tail might wag slightly when heās particularly happy or excited in their presence.
Crush:Ā "Is your tail wagging?"
Von Lycaon,Ā flustered:Ā "I⦠It seems I can't control it when Iām happy."
Crush,Ā laughing and reaching out to touch his ear gently:Ā "Itās cute. I like seeing you happy."
Loyalty and Devotion:Ā Von Lycaonās loyalty to his crush is unwavering. He goes out of his way to assist them, whether itās helping with tasks or offering a listening ear.
Crush:Ā "You've been helping me a lot lately. I hope I'm not burdening you."
Von Lycaon:Ā "Nonsense. It's my pleasure to assist. Your happiness is reward enough."
Overthinking Interactions:Ā Despite his outward composure, he internally overthinks every interaction. He analyzes every word and gesture, wondering if he came across the right way or if he said something that could be misinterpreted.
Rina,Ā noticing his distraction: "You seem distracted, Lycaon."
Von Lycaon,Ā his brow furrowing as he reflects:Ā "Do you think I was too forward in our last conversation? I fear I may have made them uncomfortable."
Rina,Ā giving him a reassuring smile:Ā "From what you've told me, they seemed quite happy. Stop overthinking."
Gentle Touches:Ā Physical contact is gentle and deliberate. He might place a reassuring hand on their shoulder or offer a gentlemanly kiss on the hand, each touch conveying his deep affection and respect.
Von Lycaon gently takes his crush's hand and, with a gentleman's grace, kisses it
Crush,Ā smiling warmly: "You're quite the gentleman, aren't you?"
Von Lycaon,Ā with a soft, affectionate smile: "For you, it's only natural."
Confiding in Trusted Friends:Ā He confides in Rina about his feelings, seeking advice on how to express them appropriately without compromising his gentlemanly demeanor.
Von Lycaon:Ā "Rina, may I seek your counsel on a personal matter?"
Rina:Ā "Of course, Lycaon. Whatās on your mind?"
Von Lycaon:Ā "Iāve developed feelings for someone, and I wish to convey them without losing my composure or propriety."
Tail Wagging:Ā When heās particularly happy or flustered around his crush, his tail betrays him by wagging despite his best efforts to stay composed. Heās slightly embarrassed by this but itās also endearing.
Crush:Ā "You seem unusually happy today."
Von Lycaon,Ā tail wagging, trying to suppress it: "Do I? Perhaps itās the company."
Increased Poeticism:Ā He becomes more poetic in his speech, often quoting literature or composing his romantic lines when speaking to or about his crush. His words are carefully chosen to reflect his deep feelings.
Von Lycaon,Ā with a gentle, sincere tone: "The stars pale in comparison to your radiance."
Crush,Ā blushing slightly, feeling touched: "You always know how to say the most beautiful things."
Von Lycaon,Ā smiling softly, his eyes full of affection: "It's simply the truth, and I find myself captivated by it every day."
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ā Marble requires precision, care, and the right tools for the job. Not so different from people. With too much time, stubbornness, and bandages, even the toughest exteriors can be chipped away.
ā Lighter
Part 2: Stepping Stone
Light spoilers for Lighter's backstory, I made up most of it.
[Masterlist]
When I tell you how long I was uninterested in ZZZ until I got two-hit comboed by Lighter and Harumasa? I went a bit too crazy in the backstory but inb4 zzz rips my headcanon's away from me.
Lighter
When Lighter was first introduced to the Sons of Calydon, you knew he was bad news. It was written all over him. He had the dead-eyed stare of someone just coasting through life on autopilot, a man who moved because he had to, not because he wanted to. His knucklesāsplit, scarred, and rawālooked more like hardened sinew and calluses than anything resembling normal skin. It was the kind of damage that didnāt come from a single fight but months of them like his fists were tools and nothing more. And then there was his attitudeāor lack of it. He didnāt talk much, hardly made eye contact, and moved with an almost mechanical precision. Youād met machines with more personality than that.
You were against him joining from the start. You didnāt care how good of a fighter he might have been or how Big Daddy swore he could be useful. There was something off about Lighter, something unsettling that tugged at the back of your mind like a warning you couldnāt quite articulate. But orders were orders, and Big Daddyās word was gospel. So you swallowed your irritation, slipped on a pair of gloves, grabbed the manās rough, battered hand, and dragged him toward your makeshift clinic without so much as a look back. The rest of the group had been watching the newcomer with wary curiosity, but you were more practical. There was no way youād let those mangled hands spread whatever grime or infection he was carrying to the others. Your first moments with Lighter were marked by the stinging smell of disinfectant and cotton swabs as your audience.
After that disaster of an introduction, you rarely saw Lighter unless it was in brief, passing moments. He never lingered, never stayed to chat, joke, or even let himself absorb the group's chaotic energy. To him, everything seemed to boil down to business, payment, and the next job. He was like a ghost in the groupās midst, always there yet never really present. The Sons of Calydon had their share of larger-than-life personalities, the kinds of people who could fill a room just by breathing, but none of it seemed to leave an impression on Lighter. Everything they threw at him whether it was good-natured teasing, warm camaraderie, or even the occasional shouting match, bounced off him like rain drops against a stone wall. Not a crack, not a chip. For a while, you figured heād just up and leave, disappearing into the wind in search of whatever suicidal purpose had brought him to this part of the Outer Ring in the first place. It seemed like something heād do. Pack up without a word, leave everything behind like it didnāt matter, and press forward with the same hollow determination he always carried. And if you were being honest with yourself, you werenāt sure youād miss him all that much. How do you miss someone who never really lets you know them to begin with?
Thatās why the scene you stumbled onto one afternoon caught you off guard and shifted your entire worldview. Youād been walking along the outskirts of Blazewood when you saw a group of thugs closing in on someone. At first, it was hard to tell who they had surrounded, the Outer Ring was full of conflict after all, and gang scraps werenāt anything new. But then you recognized the familiar silhouette. Lighter. He stood in the center of the group, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The thugs spat words about how āsticking your noses into other people's business,ā was against the Outer Ringās unspoken rules, accusations sharp and heavy with menace. You didnāt catch every detail, but the gist was clear enough. The Sons of Calydon had made enemies and, apparently, Lighter had been dealing with them all on his own. That realization hit you harder than you expected. You hadnāt heard so much as a whisper about conflicts between the Sons of Calydon and the other gangs. Had Lighter been dealing with this on his own? Stepping into fights, taking the heat, and keeping the peace in silence while the rest of you remained oblivious? The thought gnawed at you, unsettling in a way that lingered like a bad taste. It was just like him, wasnāt it? To keep the dirty work quiet, never letting anyone see the mess he was cleaning up.
Naturallyābecause really, what else could you have expectedāLighter had won the fight, even with the odds stacked heavily against him. It was hard not to feel a flicker of awe watching him fight with nothing but his fists. His movements were raw and unrefined, a brute force approach that relied on instinct and sheer willpower more than precision. Still, there was something almost mesmerizing about it, the way he pushed through every hit like it was nothing, determined to end the fight as quickly as possible so he could move on to whatever errand he thought was more important. But as the group's medic, it made you insane. Watching him use adrenaline like some sort of makeshift painkiller, ignoring injuries that any reasonable person would be on the ground crying about, was enough to make your blood boil. Your medic bay was the only place in the Outer Ring anyone could trust to provide reliable treatment, and Lighterās insistence on throwing himself into fights like he was made of titanium was testing your patience. Seriously, how the hell was he still walking around like everything was fine after taking a beating like that? The man was a walking contradictionāa fighter who refused to stay down, but also too stubborn to take care of himself afterward. Part of you wanted to stomp over there, shake him until some sense rattled loose, and yell at him to actually rest for once in his life. The other part of you wanted to drag him straight to your clinic and lock him there until he got the idea through his thick skull.
Once the fight was over, the thugs sprawled out and groaning, your patience had enough. You marched over to him, your footsteps heavy with purpose, and stopped just short of planting yourself directly in his way. Lighter, of course, didnāt react to your presence. He probably knew you were there anyway because, on top of being the stubborn wall, he just had to be creepy like that. His knuckles were red and raw, and the bruise already blooming under his eye told you heād taken a hit harder than he could have if he just stepped back instead of going for that last swing. The blank look he shot you, like nothing was out of the ordinary, only fueled the fire bubbling in your chest.
āCome on, youāre done here,ā you snapped, grabbing him by the wrist before he could so much as protest. The man mightāve been stronger than you, but you werenāt about to let him wriggle out of this one. Not today. āWeāre going to the clinic, and donāt even think about arguing. You can walk on your own or Iāll drag you, your call.ā
Predictably, he grumbled under his breath, his resistance half-hearted at best. You could see it in the way his shoulders saggedāhe wasnāt about to fight you on this, not when he was already spent. Still, he made it clear he wasnāt happy about it, his muttered complaints trailing behind you as you led him toward your makeshift clinic.
āIf you donāt let me patch you up, I swear to Big Daddy Iām ratting you out,ā you warned, casting a sharp glance over your shoulder. āAnd you know the girls will overreact. Iāll even sit back with some popcorn and watch the fireworks if thatās what you want. So either you cooperate now, or you deal with them later.ā
That finally got him to stop grumbling, though he shot you a glare that mightāve been intimidating if you werenāt already used to it. He let out a defeated sigh, dragging his boots as if to make the walk to your clinic as dramatic as possible. A groan escaped him as he muttered, āWhatever you say, firecracker.ā
Despite the irritation brewing in your chest at the nickname, you felt a small flicker of satisfaction. At least he was coming with youāalbeit reluctantly. You didnāt need to say it out loud, but deep down, you knew this stubborn idiot needed someone to force him to stop. To take a breath. To realize that maybe, just maybe, he didnāt have to carry everything on his own. And if that meant tracking him down to drag him into your clinic every time he came back battered and bruised, so be it. You've been meaning to work on your arm strength.
Of course, because Big Daddy had a knack, almost like a seer, for spotting the potential in people, Lighter eventually began to change. Slowly, he warmed up to the group, and something shifted in those dead eyes of his. A bit of light returned, faint at first, like the flicker of a dying match, but steady enough to notice. He loosened up, no longer wound so tight that you half-expected him to snap at any second. The coiled tension that once defined his every move started to unravel, replaced by something...well- alive. No longer waiting for someone to tell him what direction to throw his hands. Pieces of his old personality, buried under what felt like miles of dust, mud, and bad memories, began to surface. Little green buds sprouting where you hadnāt thought life could grow. It wasnāt anything dramatic, nothing youād see in some triumphant moment in the movies, but it was there. Small things. Like the way he'd actually sit down beside you around the campfire rather than brooding in the shadows or how his shoulders seemed just a bit less rigid when you needed to patch him up for the nth time.
He still wasnāt good with names, though. Not at all. The nickname "Firecracker" had seemed to stick and you had rightfully assumed he didn't actually know your real name. But for everyone else? It was like his brain short-circuited whenever he had to recall someoneās moniker. Heād stumble over syllables, brow furrowed like it was the hardest battle heād ever fought until he finally landed on something almost right. You remembered the time heād called Caesar āSeasawā one too many times. The sight of watching him fumble, all rough edges and misplaced vowels, had been funny in a way you couldnāt quite explain that you couldn't help but laugh. Funny, but also strangely endearing. There was something about seeing this man, this stoic fighter who seemed born to brawl, turning pink at the ears, tripping over words like a schoolboy, that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, he wasnāt completely unreachable.
That didnāt mean he stopped getting into fights. Lighter was still Lighter. He kept his demons close, dragging them with him like shadows wherever he went. His fists still led him places, often leaving him knocking on your door at all hours of the day or night. Heād show up with a split lip, scraped knuckles that looked like theyād been dragged across gravel and that same hollowed stare that never quite went away, no matter how much light heād let in. Youād huff, muttering something about how you werenāt running a full-time hospital, but heād just sit there quietly as you patched him up, his silence heavy enough to drown out the room. Even though he had never "lost", he didn't look like a winner. Still...it was an improvement that he was at least coming to you rather than hiding away to lick his wounds by himself.
Once, youād joked that he must like the color of his blood with how often he bled for no good reason. Youād expected him to brush it off, maybe fire back some sharp quip of his own, but instead, heād mutteredādeadpanāthat heād thrown up a few minutes ago just at the sight of it. That shut you up quick. Youād stopped making jokes about his health after that. It wasnāt as funny when you realized how thin the line was that he walked every day, or how much of himself heād chipped away just to keep going. Baby steps, you had to remind yourself. You werenāt sure what exactly you were hoping forāsome grand breakthrough, maybeābut you knew better than to expect too much too soon. Every failed attempt at getting him to crack a smile felt like a loss, but youād tell yourself it was progress just to keep from giving up on him entirely. You werenāt going to admit it out loud, but part of you had started to care. A little too much, maybe.
While it was a slow and steady climb, everyone eventually reached the top. Sure, you havenāt seen Lighter let out a full-blown laugh like the rest of the group does, and honestly, you think youād be terrified if you ever did. The idea of Lighter laughing, really laughing, feels like something unnatural, like itād crack the very foundation of who he was. But still, progress is progress, and you can confidently say that Lighter has earned his place among the Sons of Calydon. Heās become a part of your little-found family, even if he fits into it like a jagged puzzle piece. He didn't even run away this time when you tried to take a picture to commemorate this grandiose development!
When Billy was let loose to pursue his own journey, it felt like the end of an era. Billy had been the groupās champion, the one everyone looked to when the fights got hard or the nights got dark. With him gone, the question of who would step up next loomed over everyone like a heavy cloud. Although, wasn't the answer obvious? It wasnāt more than a few minutes before you found yourself vouching for Lighter. It made sense, didnāt it? He was the best, after allāundefeated in every scrap, a relentless force that never seemed to break no matter what got thrown his way. His fists were as reliable as clockwork, and if anyone could carry the title of champion, it was him. The decision came easy for the group. A few voices of agreement, some claps on the back, and it was done. Lighter himself didn't agree with the results of the poorly run election, a grimace on his face pulling his mouth at odd angles, but alas, once you get the ball rolling there was no stopping. But the moment felt big, even if no one dared to call it that. Thereās something about the way a shift like that cements someoneās place in the group, making them more than just a stray taken in. Lighter wasnāt just there anymore; he belonged.
To mark the occasion, Burnice cracked open a can of Nitro Fuel and passed it his way, the groupās rough equivalent of a ceremonial toast. But it was when you stepped forward, holding out something small but significant, that the moment truly landed. A red scarfāfresh, clean, and carefully presented by you, their makeshift doctor. A memento from Billy, just with a few added accessories to fit the newly appointed champion. You werenāt sure if Lighter even understood the weight of the scarf, but he took it without a word. For a heartbeat, you swore you saw something flicker behind his tired eyesāa spark of gratitude and resolve, maybe, or something close to it.
And then it happened. A sound so quiet you almost missed it. A soft laugh, barely more than a breath, escaped Lighterās lips. It was faint and rough, like a memory of laughter rather than the real thing, but it was there. It wasnāt the kind of laugh youād expectānothing loud or joyfulābut it was enough to make the moment stick with you. You didnāt comment on it, though. You just smiled and stepped back, letting the rest of the group crowd around him with their half-joking cheers and pats on the back. For all his deadpan looks and quiet stoicism, Lighter was their champion now. And if the soft laugh was any indication, maybeājust maybeāhe was starting to believe it too.
Really, that should have been your first warning. A giant, blaring signal complete with flashing red lights and alarm bells. Seeing those lips part in a husky, unguarded laugh that escaped before he could regret it, and watching that lightāsoft but unmistakableāreturn to his eyes shouldāve told you everything you needed to know: the next few months were going to leave you an absolute mess. How you didnāt notice it sooner is beyond you. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because you had your hands full, or maybe you were just being an oblivious mule. Either way, it hit you like a freight train one day: Lighter was⦠really handsome. Incredibly so. Unfairly so. As the medic for the Sons of Calydon, youāve seen more than your fair share of half-naked men and womenāenough that the sight doesnāt even faze you anymore. A bare chest is a bare chest when youāre stitching someone up or doing routine physicals. And for the longest time, that applied to Lighter too. If he stomped into your clinic bloodied and shirtless, you were all business. It was just work. Professional.
But now? Now that Lighter had started to loosen up, to let himself belong among the group, you were seeing him in a very, very different light. From playing along with Caesar's ridiculous scenarios, staying sober so Lucy could finally stop playing caretaker and let herself relax, to turning the radio's volume down when he noticed Piper about to drift off to sleep. Most importantly, there was no damn distraction to save you when he pulled off that worn biker jacket and undershirt during sparring matches with Burnice. It made sense, you told yourself. He didnāt want his clothes to catch fire. Burniceās sparring matches werenāt exactly gentle, and leather jackets werenāt fireproof. It was practical, completely logicalānothing more! Certainly not a ploy to make you feel like you are on the verge of seeing the gates of heaven far too early. And yet, there you were. Frozen. Staring. Watching droplets of sweat roll down the sharp lines of his abdomen like they were defying gravity just to mess with you. Forcing yourself to look away was suddenly a task requiring herculean strength. And the worst part? Your brain didnāt even give you a fighting chance. It wandered without your permission, a little voice whispering things like āOh, so thatās what a body sculpted by fistfights and bad decisions looks like...what were we thinking about again?"
You were trying to be professionalāreally, you wereābut it was getting harder every single day. Case in point: Lighter had just dropped onto the bed inside the medic bay after another job, peeling off his jacket with that same maddening, careless motion he always hadālike undressing in front of you wasnāt a one-way ticket to your complete and utter ruin. And to make matters worse? He didnāt even have any real injuries! There was oneācount it, oneāitty bitty little cut on the side of his hip. Barely even noticeable. You were convinced heād probably done it himself just to have an excuse to bother you. How dare he. You dragged in a deep breath, squaring your shoulders as if preparing for battle. Because you need to make it clear, this was life and death for you at this point.
āReally?ā you said, deadpan, trying not to look directly at him as he lounged with that infuriatingly calm energy. āYouāre out here making a scene over this?ā
Lighter tilted his head slightly, his expression neutral but with just enough of a smirk to drive you crazy, āDidnāt say it was bad. Figured youād wanna check.ā
āYou mean this tiny paper cut sent you crying here?ā You let out an exaggerated sigh, forcing yourself to focus on the tiny cut on his hip as if it were a serious injuryāthough you couldnāt quite bring yourself to believe that. It was just a scrap. A tiny thing. Yet, there he was, acting like he was on the brink of death. You fumbled with the bandages, your hands betraying you as they shook more than they should have. You stared at the spot, trying to ignore how absurd this whole situation was, but still feeling the pressure of his steady gaze. Your fingers werenāt cooperating, fumbling as you tore off a thin piece of tape. This was supposed to be simple, yet here you were, making a bigger deal of it than it really was.
āStill standing, arenāt I?ā Lighter cracked one eye open to glance at you, and for a secondājust a secondāyou thought you saw the faintest glimmer of amusement. This cheeky brat.
āYouāre impossible,ā you muttered under your breath, finally pulling out the smallest bandage you could find. You crouched beside him, determined to slap it on and get him out of there as quickly as possible. But of course, when you leaned closer to inspect the so-called injury, you realized your mistake. Lighter hadnāt moved an inch, his posture relaxed, like this was just another ordinary moment for him. That lazy confidence of his made everything worse, making it harder to ignore the sharp, defined lines of his stomach, the way his skin felt warm even through the faintest brush of your fingertips. Your breath caught for a split second, but you forced yourself to focus. You swallowed hard, trying not to dwell on the way your pulse was racing, and pressed the bandage over the "wound", not letting your fingertips linger on the soft skin, āThere. All better. Youāll live to fight another day, champ.ā
You stood up quickly, your movements stiff as you gathered the scattered supplies, and turned your back to him, half out of instinct, half out of necessity. You couldnāt risk him seeing the way your cheeks had flushed, the heat creeping up your neck and settling on your face like an unwanted mark. The last thing you needed was for him to catch on to how much heād affected you. No, you wouldnāt give him the satisfaction of knowing. It would be far too embarrassing, and you definitely werenāt ready to face that kind of vulnerability, not with him, not yet.
Lighter let out a soft chuckle, the sound light and maddeningly soft. You hated how it seemed to echo in your chest, stirring something you couldnāt quite name. It'll be imprinting into the folds of your brain labeled specifically for his laughs because you were a psycho who did things like that, āTold you it wasnāt bad.ā
āNext time you come in here for no reason, Iām charging you a medicās fee. Double if you donāt bleed. Someoneās got to keep you in line,ā you shot back, but your voice came out softer than youād intended, almost warm. You couldnāt help it. The way the sunlight caught him just right, casting gentle shadows across the sharp planes of his face, made everything feel⦠quieter. For a beat, the air hung heavy between you, thick with something unspoken. His gaze locked onto yours, steady and unreadable, and you felt a strange, unexpected pull.
āYeah, but if I fall, I know youāll catch me and pull me back," Lighterās voice was casual, but it was heavy. Af if he was stating a fact or a universal truth. He tilted his head back against the wall, the gesture almost too relaxed for these words, as if time itself had slowed down just for him. His hand brushed over the bandages youād carefully placed, the motion languid and unhurried like he wasnāt just tending to a simple injury but savoring the quiet, the stillness between you. Each pass of his fingers over the bandages was deliberate, a slow rhythm that seemed to draw out the moment, making it stretch and linger like he wasnāt in any hurry to go anywhere. What the hell? What are you even supposed to say to that? This is so unfair, super unfair.
āAnyway, youāre good to go,ā you said quickly, your voice a little more strained than you intended as you tossed the used wipes into the trash, taking a small step back. You found yourself brushing your hand over your ear, almost absentmindedly, as if trying to shake off the lingering warmth of the moment, or maybe just to steady yourself. You couldnāt quite tell. You checked for any heat under your touch, feeling a bit self-conscious, but the action didnāt feel quite as innocent as it should have. āTry not to get into another fight before dinner, would you?ā
You can hear Lighter stand, stretching with a deep, satisfied groan that you definitely didnāt file away in your mental catalog for later, āNo promises firecracker. Some fights come lookinā for me. I'll save you a plate, but don't take too long or I'll eat it instead.ā
You rolled your eyes, but despite yourself, you couldnāt fight the smile that tugged at your lips as you waved him away. Damn him. The way he carried himself, so effortlessly fitted into his bones, made your heart do that annoying little flip that you couldnāt quite control. The smile lingered longer than you wanted it to, and you hated how much he could still get under your skin. Baby steps, you'd tell yourself, but still progress.
It wasnāt as if youād ever expected anything to happen between you and Lighter. Sure, Caesar liked to go on about destiny and how her romance novels always had similar plots, but that didnāt mean anything. You were fine with things the way they wereāreally, you were. Your feelings werenāt so ridiculous or territorial that youād go snapping the heads off anyone who talked to him. In fact, you were glad that everyone thought of him fondly. He deserved that. He had a way of drawing people in, making them feel seen, and honestly, it was nice to know you werenāt the only one who appreciated that about him. Still, you just wished everyone would stop trying to play matchmaker. That, quite literally, would be the worst thing ever. Not because the idea of Lighter seeing you as something more wasnāt appealingāit was, and youād be lying if you said otherwiseābut because the Sons of Calydon collectively shared one working brain cell at best. The very thought of them trying to orchestrate a confession or some contrived romantic scenario was mortifying. Caesar, of course, was the ringleader of it all, constantly preaching her philosophy of bold, loud declarations of love, chest puffed up and voice ringing for all the world to hear.
And every time, youād look her dead in the eye and remind her of the months she spent silently pining over her first love, fantasizing about confessions she never made until it was too late and theyād moved away. That love story had ended not with a bold declaration, but with an awkward goodbye and the realization that she never even liked them in the first place. Besides, the thought of your feelings being laid bare for everyone to see? If that ever happened, youād find the nearest oil pit and swan dive into it without a second thought. The embarrassment alone would be enough to finish you off. No, it was better to keep things as they were, safe and uncomplicated, even if it meant ignoring the nagging thought of what could be. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid.
Burnice was only marginally better than Caesar. Sure, she wasnāt quite as loud about her āproclaim your burning love and passionā philosophy, but she had her own infuriating quirksāchief among them being her obsession with matchmaking. Maybe all that Nitro Fuel was starting to mess with her brain. She had an uncanny knack for spotting opportunities to stir the pot, and whenever the moment arose, sheād make a scene. Without fail, sheād find some contrived excuse to pull Lighter into your orbit, nudging the two of you together as if proximity alone would somehow spark a whirlwind romance. Never mind the fact that you already knew Lighter well enoughātoo well, really. Youād seen the man at his lowest, whining like a baby about heatstroke after stubbornly choosing to wear that ridiculous heavy leather jacket in the middle of a blazing afternoon. And yet, Burnice acted like you were strangers in need of a push, her attempts so blatantly obvious that you couldnāt look her in the eye for a week afterward. Those eyes of hers practically sparkled with mischief, and the memory of her smug expression alone was enough to make your skin crawl.
But what made it worseāso much worseāwas that Lighter wasnāt stupid. He wasnāt oblivious to the madness unfolding around him, just tripping on the reason why it was happening. Perhaps it was an inside joke at your expense? Youād never forget the moment when he tilted his head, looking at you with that furious concern, about if someone broke your heart and if he needed to knock their lights out. It had been said with such casual sincerity that it had left you utterly speechless, your brain scrambling to decide whether to laugh, cry, or crawl into the nearest hole and never emerge.
Piper and Lucy, thankfully, had a more hands-off approach to the whole situation, though that didnāt mean they left you entirely unbothered. They understood, perhaps better than anyone else, how precarious the balance was. How one wrong step could send everything crashing down. Still, their restraint was only relative. Piper couldnāt resist her playful jabs, her slow teasing remarks always accompanied by that sly, knowing smile. And Lucy, ever the practical one, delivered her opinions with the sharp precision of a scalpel, cutting through your defenses whether you wanted her to or not. You half expected her to whip out a whiteboard filled with colorful markers. They had their arguments ready, like theyād been keeping a running list of evidence to throw at you. Piper, with her casual observations about how Lighterās gaze lingered a little too long when you werenāt looking, and Lucy, with her unshakable conviction that you were too blind to see what was right in front of you. Theyād remind you of the small, unmistakable gestures like the way Lighterās posture changed when you entered the room, how his relaxed indifference seemed to shift into something sharper, more focused. They noticed how he always managed to save his best, most effortless smiles for you, how heād offer help to you before anyone else without a second thought. Even your name, spoken in passing, seemed to make him perk up like he couldnāt help but respond to anything that revolved around you. Piper loved to point that out, making it seem like some grand cosmic joke you were too stubborn to get, while Lucy preferred to frame it as a ticking clock. To her, it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed him and decided to take their chances.
A gang of Thirens had made a pit stop in Blazewood, their arrival unexpected but surprisingly uneventful. Theyād come seeking nothing more than a place to rest, not to stir up trouble, a rarity in and of itself. Kasa, seeing no problem in lending a hand, had granted them permission to stay, with the firm condition that they kept the peace. To everyoneās astonishment, they honored her terms without so much as a hint of hostility. It wasnāt often rival gangs showed even a sliver of willingness to cooperate, let alone behave like decent human beings. Rarer still were those who managed to charm the locals, but these Thirens were doing just that. Their easy smiles and polite demeanor had disarmed the townsfolk, who quickly warmed up to them. Laughter could already be heard echoing through the streets, strangers turned companions over shared drinks and stories.
But while everyone else seemed content to embrace the unexpected camaraderie, you were about two seconds away from dunking your head into the nearest barrel of cold water. It wasnāt the Thirensā presence itself that rattled you, nor their good behavior, but something else entirelyāan unspoken frustration simmering just beneath your skin. Your nerves felt frayed, stretched taut, and every moment of forced composure only added fuel to the fire threatening to ignite inside you.
You clenched your fists, trying to steady yourself, but the thought lingered: if you didnāt find a way to cool down, you might just explode like one of Burniceās flamethrowers, leaving nothing but chaos in your wake.
"Wow, what's your workout routine? Your biceps are so defined."
Never mind cooling off, you were going to rip that lynx Thirenās tail clean off and kick her straight to the curb before you even thought about dunking your head in cold water. The entire time sheād been in Blazewood, sheād grown bolder and bolder with Lighter, testing the limits of your patience with every sly remark and flirtatious gesture. At first, it was casual. A few light touches here and there, a fleeting brush of her hand as she laughed just a little too hard at one of his blunt jokes. Youād told yourself to let it go. She was a guest, after all, and the last thing anyone needed was unnecessary drama. But then she escalated. Full-blown wrapping her tail around his arm under the pretense of "measuring" the circumference of his triceps-to-biceps ratio? That was the last straw. If she was so curious, she could bring all her questions to you. Youād be happy to explain. Preferably while she was running as fast as her legs could carry her out of town.
Before Lighter can even begin to gently but firmly remove the tail from his bicep, another hand comes down with the speed of a strike, swatting the offending limb away with a swift motionālike a cat swatting at an annoying fly. And a cat would be the perfect comparison for how you look at that moment. Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, claws metaphorically out and ears flat against your head in pure, unfiltered territorial instinct. Your hand immediately shoots up to wrap around Lighterās other arm, the one that hadnāt been tainted by the lynxās touch, and you pull it to your chest, holding it possessively. Thereās no mistaking the intent in the way you hold onto him, the clear message that this oneās taken so back off.
You and the lynx share a pointed, searing glare. Neither of you bothers to mask the silent standoff, both of you sizing the other up in the most primal way possible. Thereās no subtlety in this, it truly is an animal kingdom.
"Sorry, miss, but I need to borrow my gang member for some private business. I'm sure you understand," you say, your smile wide and innocent, though the murder in your eyes is as sharp as a blade. You glance up at Lighter with a pointed, almost desperate look, silently urging him to come with you now. Whatever expression you're wearingāserious, frustrated, or somewhere in betweenāitās enough for Lighter to nod and start to move. But just as he takes a step, that damn tail wraps around his arm again, yanking him back like some sort of trap. The lynxās sly, satisfied grin tells you everything you need to know. She wasnāt done playing yet. You grit your teeth. The only thing left to do is bargain with Burnice and make sure that tail goes up in flames. "Accidentally," of course.
"I'm sure your other members can be asked. You're all capable, aren't you?" The lynx sneers, her ear twitching in agitation as her claws come out in warning. You raise your chin, turning your nose up at her in response. Youād like to see her try. If she thought she could take a swing at you without consequence, she was sorely mistaken. The tension thickens, and itās all too easy to imagine how this might escalate. You can feel your hands already twitching to grab for her, ready to turn this into a full-blown catfight. But before anything hits the boiling point, Lighter tenses beside you. With a quiet, fluid motion, he frees his arm from both your combined grips, gently but firmly pulling away. Itās a perfect, almost effortless escape, and in that moment, he stands between the two of you like the undefeated champion he truly is. Even between two people crying for his attention, he manages to slip by with ease, a subtle reminder that heās always in control of the situation.
"Sorry, doc's orders," Lighter says smoothly, his voice laced with a calm finality that brooks no argument, "If you need anything, ask any of the Sons of Calydon. Like you said, we're all capable. And if youāre looking to step up your workout, speak to the boss."
Then, as if to punctuate the moment, he places his hand at the small of your back, his fingers blistering hot against your skin. With a slight push, he leads you away, his steps measured and steady, pulling you effortlessly from the chaos. You resist the urge to glance over your shoulder, but a small, spiteful part of you canāt help but wonder what expression the lynx is wearing. Shock? Disbelief? Maybe even a twinge of jealousy? The thought of her standing there, seething with frustration, gives you a twisted sense of satisfaction. You imagine her, the confident, bold creature who thought she had a chance, now left standing in your wake. But, frankly, youāre too absorbed in the rush youāre feelingāsurging through your veins like wildfire. The excitement of the moment, and the subtle victory. Itās intoxicating. You feel like youāre walking on air, every step of Lighterās guiding hand filling you with a heady sense of power. Maybe seeing the gates of heaven early isnāt so bad after all. The thought flickers in your mind, but you canāt bring yourself to care. The world is yours now, and nothing, not even a scorned lynx, can take it from you.
"So, you wanna fill me in on what that was firecracker?"
And just like that, youāre plummeting back to earth, gravity pulling you in hard. What was that? Did you black out for a second? Did some other version of you just take over and make a damn fool out of yourself? When did you get so bold, so⦠possessive? Your heart pounds in your chest as you replay every move, every look, every gesture, and it makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. Mass hysteria, thatās it. Thatās the best explanation. Maybe youāre just dreaming, wrapped up in some fevered nightmare. Any second now, youāll wake up, face buried in a pillow, your heart still racing from the humiliation, and youāll scream bloody murder into it, swearing never to think about today again. Or⦠maybe, if you're really unlucky, youāll throw yourself into the nearest oil pit just to escape this entire disaster. Either way, neither outcome seems particularly comforting, and youāre starting to think maybe both sound equally tempting right now.
The silence hangs between you both, a strange mix of relief and tension, and you canāt decide whether itās a kindness from Lighterāletting you escape the awkwardnessāor if heās just as unsure of what to say next as you are. Either way, it's slowly driving you mad. You can feel your thoughts swirling, like a tornado of "What do I do now?" and "Did I just make a huge mistake?". Hell, you even jumped up from your seat and hissed like some wild animal. You glance at Lighter, his easy stride never faltering, the faintest hint of some satisfied smile still lingering on his lips. It's the perfect opportunity, he doesn't even look freaked out which means even if he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, he won't run for the hills. Lighter had followed you. Heād walked right alongside you, and thenāhe put his hand on your back. Itās still there. You can feel the warmth of it, his fingers almost too casual as they rest on you, a small gesture that has your insides doing flips.
Should you just go for it?
The thought of him being swarmed by others, other people constantly hanging around, making it harder to even get a moment alone with him, suddenly makes everything feel urgent. And the weirdest part? You canāt help but wonder if, for once, itās your chance to actually get ahead of the chaos. But then thereās the other side of your brain, the one telling you to be careful. The one that reminds you that if this goes wrong, youāll have to live with the consequences of letting things spiral out of control. It's all too much, too fast, but here you are, standing in the middle of the storm, unsure of whether youāre about to leap into it or run the other way.
Ah, screw it. Big Daddy didn't raise a quitter.
"Lighter, Iā" You stumble over your words, your thoughts scrambling as you take a shaky breath, trying to summon the courage to say whatever it is thatās been building up inside you. For a moment, the familiar walls youāve carefully constructed around yourself seem to crumble, and you feel the weight of it all. The hesitation, the fear, and your own uncertainty. You turn to look up at him, and your breath catches in your throat. Heās already watching you, eyes soft and steady, not teasing or playful as usual. This time, thereās something different, something deeper. Softer, quieter, more malleable. Itās as if heās been waiting for you for a long time now. Is this what Lucy was referring to when your back was turned?
"Yeah?" he prompts gently, his voice low and coaxing, as if he knows you need a little push but wonāt rush you. His eyes remain fixed on yours, unblinking and patient, making the air feel thick with anticipation. You hesitate, but only for a moment. The weight of his gaze doesnāt feel as heavy as it once did. Instead, it makes your heart race in a way that feels... almost comforting. You can feel the nerves slipping away, the words starting to form at the edge of your tongue.
"Iāuh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath, and this time the words come easier, "I just wanted to say that... I donāt think Iāve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I donāt always show it, but...I-"
You glance up at him again, afraid of what you might see. Would he laugh it off? Or, worse, would he back away? Instead, you find his expression unreadable, but not unkind. Thereās something in his eyes that you canāt quite placeāa flicker of surprise, maybe, or understandingābut you donāt regret it. Not now. Not when youāve finally let it out.
"I just wanted to say that I li-"
"Yo! There you both are! I've been looking everywhere for you!"
You jump away from Lighter as though heād just set you on fire, a startled screech bubbling up in your throat before you force it down, stamping it out with all the dignity you can muster. Your heart pounds, and for a split second, you feel the world tilt on its axis. You whip your head around to find Caesar jogging toward you, waving her hand in the air like itās just another day, completely unaware of the moment sheās just walked in on. Oh, sweet, oblivious Caesar...
"The Thirens challenged us to a friendly match! We canāt exactly go in without our Champion! You free to scuffle, Lighter? Oh, and if anything bad happens, Iām counting on you, Doc!" She beams at you both, her enthusiasm practically radiating off her, and just like that, you feel a little bit of the tension slip away. Itās impossible to stay mad at her when sheās looking at you like that. So full of excitement and energy, completely unaware of the chaos she just walked in on. Lighter, for his part, looks like a newborn fawn. His usual confident swagger seems to falter for a moment as he scratches the back of his neck, a slight blush creeping up his neck that he clearly tries to hide behind a forced grin. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, clearly caught off guard by the sudden interruption.
"Uh, yeah, Iām in for a friendly match," he says, but his voice is a little too hesitant, a little too unsure. He glances at you like he's not entirely sure what to do next. āBut, uh... firecracker, you're still good to patch me up afterward, right? Just in case things... get out of hand?ā
He gives you a lopsided smile, and for a second, you almost want to laugh at how unlike him he seems right now. You canāt help but feel a bubble of laughter rise out of you as the sheer absurdity of the situation hits you like a ton of bricks. The way Lighter is standing there, all awkward and fidgety, avoiding eye contact and tripping over words. You feel ridiculous, and you canāt tell if you're cringing more at how completely out of character this is or at how youāre both so blatantly fumbling through it.
Youāre definitely not the smooth, cool-headed person you thought you were.
āUh, yeah, Iāll be there," you say, stumbling over your words like a clumsy fool. "Making sure you don't... uh, turn into a human pincushion, or whatever."
You wince the second the words leave your mouth. Human pincushion? Seriously? You could've come up with something better, but no, this is what happens when your brain turns to mush. You quickly look away, almost as if you're trying to disappear, but your cheeks are already burning, and there's no escaping it now. Lighter, looking just as silly, rubs the back of his neck in a way that makes him seem a little too much like a lost puppy. Heās not even trying to be smooth. He manages a half-smile, but itās so awkward that itās almost endearing.
āRight. Yeah, no one wants that. Iāll... leave the stabbing to the Thirens, I guess,ā he says with a half-nod as if that makes any sense at all. Itās like the two of you are desperately trying to play it cool, but youāre both failing spectacularly. But then, like a breath of fresh air, Caesarās cheery voice cuts through the ridiculousness. She grins, completely unaware of the awkward dance you two just performed.
"Great! Letās go! Weāre gonna show the Thirens whoās boss!"
And just like that, you both get swept up in her energy, still feeling a little bashful but grateful for the distraction. You chance a look at Lighter to see that he is doing the same, instantly averting both your eyes to the very interesting ground. Still, the top of the mountain is within sight.
He realizes his feelings out of the blue when hanging out with you. It comes on really suddenly, his feelings of deep admiration switch to something romantic faster than he can handle. He becomes a mess right at that very moment but tries to keep his composure.
Loves giving gifts. You like flowers? You'll have vases full of them. If you work in pubsec, your cubicle's vase will have fresh flowers every week. You like snacks? He'll try his best to pick some for you. If you tell him what you like once, he won't forget. He might buy you so much of what you've told him that you get sick of it... he also gives you his favorite snacks too (which don't seem all that appetizing, but it's the thought that counts, right?)
Not the best at using words to express his feelings. He can't express everything he feels in a simple "I love you," which really frustrates him.
He likes being teased, but he also likes praise. Don't be afraid to lay it on him thick!
He wants a best friend in a significant other. He wants someone to be able to be open with, someone he can talk about anything with and it'd still be fun, even if the conversation didn't make much sense.
He likes it when his tail is stroked, but it feels like it should be a private affair. When you're watching a movie together at home, while he lays in your lap, feel free to scratch behind his ears and gently stroke his tail.
Horror movies. He hates em. But, with you... he can stomach them. It feels a little embarrassing for him to bury his head into your shoulder whenever anything scary happens, and though you may tease him, he always feels reassured when you rub or pat his back while the scary part's on the screen.
Always texts you good morning and good night texts, even though youāre awake earlier than him usually, itās always a delight hearing your phone ping and seeing his name lighting up your screen, with a sweet message about how heās excited to see you later
He remembers the things you like, and the things you said you want even if you only mentioned them in passing, so on your dates you will frequently end up with little gifts because he remembered you wanted it so picked it up
He loves the feeling of you, and never wants to stop touching you. Your body heat warms the metal, so you frequently hands creeping under your shirt to run over your back and your stomach, as he pulls you closer. He mumbles to you softly as he does, how he enjoys how soft you are under his hands, and how much you warm him, make the machine oil that runs through him run smoother [you make fun of him for this as you think itās cheesy, but itās so Billy that itās okay]
Sometimes he doesnāt realise his own strength and ends up hurting you by holding your hand too tightly, or rolling on top of you, but heās always very quick to stop doing it, and has learnt very quickly that he needs to have a better control of it
When he gets embarrassed little fans whir faster as instead of how humans and Thirens blush, he gets warm, so his fans kick in to cool him off. Itās how you know your teasing is working, because you hear the soft humming noise coming from him
Falling asleep listening to the soft whirring of his chest is the easiest thing in the world. He has worked out that he can play music through his own speakers via some sort of Bluetooth function, so sometimes he will play you soft lofi music if youāre struggling to sleep. He knows it helps settle you off, and will just lay there with you, holding you close, letting you drift off, before he will allow himself to sleep too
Adorable headcanons for Seth Lowell's crush moments š I decided to write my crush headcanons more narratively, so you guys can feel more immersed in the characters' emotions and experiences, making every scenario relatable and heartfelt. I'll keep writing headcanons this way if you guys like it, and I'll revise my previous ones to match it. š
1. Awkward yet Adorable:Ā Seth becomes a bundle of nerves around his crush. His normally calm demeanor turns into shy, flustered gestures. His tail wags uncontrollably whenever theyāre near, and his ears often twitch at the sound of their voice. He stumbles over his words and laughs nervously, but his sincerity shines through.
āOh, uh, hi!ā Seth stammered, his words coming out in a rushed jumble. āI didnātādidnāt see you there. Not that I was looking for you or anything! I meanāuhāhowās it going?ā He gave a nervous laugh, his hand darting to the back of his neck as his ears twitched furiously.
His crush raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of their lips. āItās going fine, Seth,ā they said with a soft chuckle. āYou okay? You seem... jittery.ā
Sethās ears flattened slightly, and his tail slowed, though it still swayed nervously behind him. āJittery? Me? No way,ā he said, his voice a touch higher than usual. His hand remained on the back of his neck, rubbing at it awkwardly as if the motion would ground him. āIām totally... fine.ā
āIf you say so, Seth,ā they replied with an amused smile, leaving Seth to fumble for anything else to say as butterflies in his stomach flew.
2. Small Acts of Kindness:Ā Seth expresses his feelings through actions rather than words. Heāll bring them their favorite drink or snack from the cafe, offer to carry their things, or go out of his way to help with tasks, no matter how small. His crush may not even realize the effort behind these gestures, but Seth is secretly proud every time he makes their day a little easier.
Seth walked into the office break room, his tail swishing nervously behind him as he clutched a freshly brewed cup of coffee. The aroma of rich, roasted beans wafted from the cup, mingling with the scent of his nervous energy. He had spent the last ten minutes trying to pick the perfect blend, remembering how his crush always talked about their favorite flavor with a small smile that he couldnāt forget.
He spotted them sitting at their desk, their brow furrowed in concentration as they typed away, completely unaware of his presence. Taking a steadying breath, Seth approached, his ears twitching slightly. āHey,ā he began, his voice a little hesitant as he stopped just a few feet from them. His fingers tightened slightly around the cup as his crush looked up at him, their expression softening into a warm smile.
āI noticed you were out of coffee earlier,ā Seth continued, holding out the cup toward them, his tail wagging slightly despite his best efforts to control it. āSo, I grabbed this for you on my break.ā
Their eyes widened slightly in surprise as they reached out to take the cup, their fingers brushing his for just a moment. āOh, wow, thank you!ā they said, the warmth in their voice making Sethās ears twitch again. āYou didnāt have to do that.ā
Seth felt his cheeks warm as he smiled shyly, his gaze darting briefly to the side before returning to theirs. āItās no big deal,ā he replied, his voice soft but sincere. āI just thought⦠youād like it.ā
They looked at him for a moment, their smile growing as they brought the cup closer. āYouāre really thoughtful, Seth,ā they said, their tone filled with gratitude. āThis is exactly what I needed.ā
Hearing their words, Sethās heart swelled with pride, and his tail wagged just a little faster. He gave a small, nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. āIām glad you like it,ā he murmured, his smile lingering long after returning to his desk, secretly thrilled that his small act of kindness had made their day a little better.
3. Stealing Glances:Ā Seth canāt help but sneak glances at his crush when theyāre not looking. He admires the way they move, their smile, and how they speak. If caught staring, heāll quickly look away, his cheeks turning bright red as he pretends to focus on something else.
Seth couldnāt help himself. Every time his crush was nearby, his eyes seemed to have a mind of their own, drifting toward them like magnets. He admired how they moved, how effortlessly they seemed to brighten the room, and how their smile seemed to light up everything around them.
Caught up in the sound of their voice as they spoke to a coworker, Seth rested his chin in his hand, his gaze softening without him even realizing it. He wasnāt just lookingāhe was completely captivated.
Thatās when they turned suddenly, catching him mid-stare. Their lips curved into a teasing grin, and they raised an eyebrow. āYou know, Seth,ā they said playfully, their voice laced with amusement, āif you keep staring, I might start charging you.ā
Seth jolted upright, his ears flattening against his head as panic set in. āI-I wasnāt staring!ā he blurted out, his tail twitching behind him as he waved his hands defensively. āI mean, I wasnāt staring in a weird way! Iāumāā His words faltered, his cheeks burning a bright red as he scrambled to recover.
They burst into laughter, their tone warm and kind rather than mocking. āRelax, Seth,ā they said between chuckles. āIām just messing with you.ā
Hearing their reassurance, Seth let out a shaky laugh of his own, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. āOh⦠right,ā he mumbled, his voice sheepish. āI knew that.ā But his flushed cheeks and twitching tail betrayed him entirely.
4. Overthinking Everything:Ā Seth constantly worries about saying or doing the wrong thing. He rehearses conversations in his head but usually forgets everything the moment his crush speaks to him.
Seth stood in front of his bathroom mirror, his tail twitching nervously as he stared at his reflection. His ears flicked slightly as he practiced his lines for the umpteenth time, determined to get it right. āOkay, Seth,ā he muttered, pointing at himself in the mirror for emphasis. āItās simple. Just tell them you like their outfit. Thatās all. Easy, right?ā He straightened his posture and tried again, his tone overly rehearsed. āāHey, you look great today!ā See? Simple. Youāve got this.ā
Taking a deep breath, he smoothed his tail and made his way outside, his tail swishing behind him with anticipation and nervous energy. As he walked his usual route, his ears perked up, catching the familiar sound of their voice. His crush was heading toward him, their smile bright and inviting as they waved. Sethās heart skipped a beat, and all the confidence heād tried to muster suddenly evaporated.
āMorning, Seth! How are you?ā they greeted, their voice warm and cheerful as they stopped in front of him.
Seth froze, his tail wagging anxiously as his rehearsed lines scattered from his mind like leaves in the wind. āUh, your shoes!ā he blurted out, his voice higher-pitched than he intended. His ears flattened in panic as he realized what heād just said. āI mean, your shoes look great today! Wait, noāyour outfit!ā His hands waved frantically as he tried to recover, his cheeks flushing a deep red. āI mean, everything looks greatāuhāon youāoh noā¦ā
His crush blinked for a moment before letting out a soft, amused laugh, their smile kind and genuine. āThanks, Seth,ā they said, their voice warm enough to ease some of his embarrassment. āYouāre sweet.ā
Seth stood there, his tail now still as he stared at them, his ears twitching slightly. āI... uh, yeah. Anytime,ā he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. As they continued on their way, he buried his face in his hands, groaning softly to himself. āSmooth, Seth. Real smooth.ā
5. Protective Streak:Ā While Seth is shy around his crush, heās fiercely protective if theyāre in danger or even slightly uncomfortable. His usual nerves disappear as he steps up, ensuring theyāre safe and happy.
Sethās ears twitched as he noticed the subtle shift in his crushās demeanor. Their posture stiffened slightly, their steps faltering as a stranger stepped a little too close, their tone sharp and invasive. Sethās usual nervousness vanished in an instant, replaced by a firm resolve. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, placing himself squarely between his crush and the potential threat.
āHey,ā Seth said, his voice steady, a surprising firmness underlying his usual soft-spoken tone. His tail, usually wagging or swaying nervously, now stood still as his striking eyesāa mesmerizing gradient from purple to blueāfixed firmly on the stranger. āIs there a problem here?ā His ears tilted forward, his protective instincts fully engaged. āBecause Iām not going to let anything happen to them.ā
The stranger hesitated, clearly caught off guard by Sethās sudden confidence. They scoffed, crossing their arms in a show of bravado. āWhatās it to you, huh? I was just talking to them.ā
Sethās gaze didnāt waver, his gradient eyes glinting with calm determination and an unspoken warning. āYeah? Well, they donāt seem interested in talking to you. So, maybe you should move along.ā His tone remained calm, but an edge to his words made it clear he wasnāt going to back down.
The stranger grumbled something under their breath before stepping back, muttering, āWhatever, man. Not worth the trouble.ā They turned and walked away, leaving Seth standing firm.
As the tension dissolved, Sethās tail resumed its usual swaying, and the adrenaline coursing through him began to fade. He turned back to his crush, his ears lowering slightly as his protective demeanor softened into something gentler. His gradient eyes, now filled with warmth, locked onto theirs. āAre you okay?ā he asked, his voice returning to its usual nervous warmth.
His crush nodded, their expression softening into one of pure gratitude. āThank you, Seth,ā they said earnestly, their voice carrying a warmth that sent a new wave of butterflies through him. āI really appreciate it.ā
Sethās cheeks turned pink, and he rubbed the back of his neck, his earlier confidence giving way to his typical bashfulness. āItās nothing, really. I just... couldnāt stand the thought of you being uncomfortable.ā
Their smile widened, and they reached out, touching his arm lightly. āIt wasnāt nothing, Seth. It meant a lot. Thank you.ā
Sethās tail wagged a little faster, and he ducked his head, a small, shy smile creeping onto his face. His gradient eyes, now soft and glowing, flickered up to meet theirs. āAnytime,ā he murmured. āIāll always look out for you.ā
6. Subtle Compliments:Ā Seth tries to sneak compliments into conversations, his voice softer than usual and his eyes full of admiration. Heās always genuine, even if his delivery is awkward.
The soft hum of conversation filled the room as Seth sat across from his crush, his tail twitching nervously under the table. Heād been silently working up the courage to say something, anything, to let them know just how much they meant to him. His ears twitched as he finally caught their gaze, his heart skipping a beat.
"You, uh, you really know how to brighten a room, you know?" he stammered, his voice softer than usual, the words tumbling out before he could overthink them. His hands fidgeted slightly on the table, and he quickly clasped them together to keep them still. "Itās... kind of amazing."
His crush blinked, their expression melting into a warm smile. "Thanks, Seth," they replied, their voice light and genuine. "That means a lot."
The sincerity in their tone made Sethās ears flatten slightly, his face growing warm as a blush spread across his cheeks. He tried to look away, but their smile kept pulling his gaze back. "I mean it," he said, fumbling slightly with his words but pushing through. "Youāre... youāre really something special."
Their smile grew even wider, and they leaned slightly forward, their eyes sparkling with amusement and appreciation. "Youāre pretty special yourself, Seth," they said softly.Ā
Sethās tail swished behind him, his heart thundering in his chest at their words. He ducked his head slightly, a shy grin spreading across his face as he whispered, "Thanks... I guess weāre both lucky then."
7. Dreaming of Confession:Ā Seth often finds himself daydreaming about the perfect way to confess his feelings, picturing scenarios where everything goes smoothly. However, in reality, his confession is likely to be shy, heartfelt, and full of stammersābut completely genuine.
Seth had spent countless nights rehearsing this moment in his head, imagining every detail. He pictured himself calm, collected, standing confidently as he delivered the words that had been burning inside him for so long. In his daydreams, his crush would smile warmly, their eyes lighting up as they accepted his feelings with grace and maybe even excitement. It was perfectāevery time he ran through it in his mind.
But now that the moment had come, Seth felt anything but confident. His palms were clammy, and his tail swayed nervously behind him, betraying his attempts to stay composed. He took a shaky breath, standing just close enough to his crush to feel the faint warmth of their presence. His ears twitched as he finally mustered the courage to speak.
āIāI just wanted to say that I thinkā¦ā He faltered, his voice catching as his nerves threatened to consume him. He glanced down at the ground, taking another deep breath before meeting their eyes again. āI think youāre amazing. And, uh, I really like spending time with you. Like, a lot.ā
His crush tilted their head slightly, their expression soft and attentive, encouraging him to continue.
āSo, um, maybe we could⦠go out sometime?ā The words tumbled out in a rush, and Seth immediately felt his cheeks flush a deep red. He fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, his ears flattening slightly as he braced himself for their response.
To his astonishment, his crushās lips curled into a warm smile, their eyes shimmering with kindness. āIād like that, Seth,ā they said, their voice steady and sincere.
Sethās heart nearly stopped. āY-you would?ā he stammered, his tail wagging furiously now. āReally?ā
His crush laughed softly, their smile growing wider. āYes, really,ā they replied, their voice warm and full of sincerity. āIāve been hoping youād ask me.ā
Seth blinked, feeling a rush of warmth spread through him at their words. He fumbled for something else to say, his thoughts a chaotic swirl of disbelief and joy. āI mean it,ā he managed, his voice quieter now but no less genuine. āYouāre⦠youāre really something special.ā
His crushās gaze softened even further, and they reached out to gently touch his arm. āAnd so are you,ā they replied warmly.Ā
In that moment, Seth felt like he was floating, the weight of his nerves finally lifting. This was even better than any of his daydreams. It was real.
8. Clumsy Around Them:Ā Seth, usually competent and steady, becomes noticeably clumsy when his crush is around. Heāll trip over his wordsāor even his feetāwhenever they catch him off guard. His ears flatten in embarrassment, but it only makes him more endearing.
Seth walked into the cozy cafe, his ears already twitching as he spotted his crush seated near the corner. They were casually sipping their drink, completely at ease, and the sight of their warm smile when they noticed him sent a jolt through his chest. He lifted a hand in a little wave, trying to act cool, but his tail wagged uncontrollably behind him, betraying his excitement.
āHey, Seth!ā his crush greeted cheerfully. āOver here.ā
Seth smiled nervously and started toward the table, weaving between chairs and patrons with his usual focus. But as he approached, his shoe caught the edge of a chair leg, sending him stumbling forward. His hands flailed instinctively as he tried to steady himself, and for a horrifying moment, he realized he was about to knock over their coffee table.
With a last-ditch effort, Seth caught himself on the edge of the table, managing to stop the inevitable disaster. He stood frozen for a second, his ears flattened, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. āIāIām fine!ā he blurted, straightening up and waving his hands as if to dismiss the near-miss. āJust, uh... testing my reflexes. Totally meant to do that.ā
His crush burst into laughter, the sound light and warm. āCareful, Seth! You almost took the whole table with you,ā they teased, their eyes twinkling with amusement.
Sethās ears turned an even deeper shade of red as he rubbed the back of his neck, his tail curling slightly behind him in mortification. āIāI wasnāt gonna! I had it under control the whole time,ā he stammered, though his sheepish grin said otherwise.
His crush leaned back in their chair, still smiling fondly. āRight⦠sure you did,ā they said, their tone playful but kind. They reached out and patted the table as if to reassure it. āWell, at least you saved the coffee. Thatās the important part.ā
Seth let out a small laugh, finally relaxing a little. āYeah, no spilled coffee here,ā he said, trying to match their lighthearted tone. But as he sat down across from them, his mind was already racing, determined not to let his clumsiness get the better of him againāat least not too soon.
9. Quiet Admiration:Ā When his crush talks about their passions, Seth listens intently, his tail stilling as he absorbs every word. His eyes light up at their enthusiasm, and he quietly commits every detail to memory, just so he can bring it up later to surprise them.
Seth sat across from his crush at a small cafe, his elbows resting on the table and his tail unusually still, a rarity when he was this close to them. They were animatedly talking about something they loved, their voice lighting up with excitement as they spoke. Seth couldnāt take his eyes off them, his ears twitching slightly as he absorbed every word.
"Iāve always wanted to visit that little bakery downtown," they said, their eyes shining with enthusiasm. "They have the best croissants, apparently. Iāve been dying to try them!"
Sethās ears perked up at the mention of the bakery, his mind already picturing the quaint little shop. He nodded earnestly, leaning forward slightly, the intensity of his focus making his tail still further. "Really?" he asked, his voice steady but soft, trying to match their energy without betraying how nervous he felt. "That sounds great. We could... I mean, if you want, I could go with you sometime? You know, to check it out together."
Their grin widened, and the way their eyes sparkled made Sethās heart skip a beat. "That sounds like fun. Letās do it," they said, their voice brimming with excitement.
Seth felt warmth bloom in his chest, his tail giving a hesitant wag as a shy smile spread across his face. "Yeah? Okay, great," he said, his voice a little more confident now. "Just let me know when, and Iāll make sure Iām free."
As they continued chatting, Seth silently vowed to look up the bakeryās best offerings and plan the perfect outing to make it a memorable experience for them both.
10. Overly Concerned for Their Well-Being:Ā Seth canāt help but fuss over his crush, worrying about even the smallest things. Did they eat? Are they tired? Did they bring an umbrella? His concern is always genuine, and heās quick to offer help or comfort, even for minor inconveniences.
The rain was coming down steadily, a cold drizzle that clung to everything it touched and cast a silvery sheen across the pavement. Sethās wipers moved rhythmically across his patrol carās windshield, their steady beat the only sound besides the rain tapping against the glass. The streets were nearly deserted, the air carrying the distinct chill of damp weather that seeped into the bones.Ā
As he turned a corner, his ears twitched, catching sight of a figure up ahead. His breath hitched as he recognized themāhis crush, walking briskly down the sidewalk. Their head was bowed against the rain, their arms wrapped tightly around themselves in a futile attempt to ward off the cold. Droplets clung to their hair, and their shoulders hunched as they tried to avoid the relentless downpour.
Sethās heart clenched painfully at the sight. They looked utterly miserable, their soaked clothes clinging to their frame and their steps hurried but unsure on the slippery pavement. Without a second thought, he pulled his car to the curb, the tires splashing through a shallow puddle. Grabbing the umbrella from the passenger seat, he leapt out, the drizzle immediately beginning to soak into his uniform, though he barely noticed.
āHey!ā he called out, his voice carrying over the rain as he jogged toward them. The umbrella in his hand shielded him from the worst of the downpour, but his concern wasnāt for himself.Ā
His crush turned at the sound of his voice, their expression shifting from surprise to relief as they recognized him. āSeth?ā they asked, their voice soft but filled with a hint of disbelief.
āWhat are you doing walking out here in this weather?ā he asked, his tone laced with worry as he stepped closer, angling the umbrella to cover them both. Droplets rolled off the fabric, pattering onto the ground. āYouāre soaked!āĀ
They shrugged sheepishly, their damp clothes clinging to them as they shivered. āI was just trying to get home,ā they explained, their voice a little shaky. āI didnāt think it would rain this much.ā
Seth frowned, his tail flicking sharply behind him in agitation. The sight of them shivering under the relentless rain stirred something protective in him. āCome on,ā he said firmly, his voice gentle but insistent. āLet me get you out of this rain. My carās right here.ā
Without waiting for an answer, he gently guided them toward his patrol car, one hand holding the umbrella steady while the other lightly rested on their back. The warmth of his touch, even through the chill of their wet clothes, was enough to coax them into following.
When they reached the passenger side, Seth opened the door for them, his movements quick but careful. āHere, sit down. Iāll turn up the heat.ā He waited until they were settled inside before closing the door gently. Water dripped from his uniform as he jogged around to the driverās side, shaking droplets from his hair before climbing in.
As soon as he was seated, he cranked up the heater, filling the car with a comforting warmth. The windows fogged slightly as the temperature shifted. He reached into the backseat, rummaging through the items he kept there until his hand landed on a towel. Pulling it free, he turned back to them, his expression earnest.
āHere,ā he said, holding the towel out. āLet me help.ā
Before they could protest, Seth leaned over slightly and began patting their hair dry with gentle, careful motions. His touch was warm and unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world to make sure they were comfortable.Ā
āSeth, you donāt have toāā they started, their voice soft, but he interrupted before they could finish.
āI want to,ā he said, his ears flicking nervously as he continued. His voice was quiet but insistent, the sincerity in his tone undeniable. āYouāre cold and soaked. Just let me help, okay?ā
They fell silent, their cheeks warming as they smiled at him, gratitude deeper than words shining in their eyes. āThank you,ā they said quietly, their voice filled with genuine emotion.
Sethās cheeks flushed faintly at their response, but he didnāt stop, his tail swishing gently behind him. āItās no big deal,ā he murmured shyly, his voice soft as his hands worked to dry their hair. āI just... didnāt want you catching a cold or anything.ā
His crush chuckled softly, the sound light and warm, and their smile grew as they watched him. For a moment, the cold rain outside was forgotten, replaced by the comforting warmth of the car, the gentle hum of the heater, and Sethās tender care.
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Here are some headcanons for Von Lycaon's first kiss with his crush, along with a short story:
Height Difference: Given Von Lycaon's towering height of 6'6", his first kiss involves a noticeable height difference from his crush. He might have to lean down or gently lift his crush to bring them closer to his level. This gesture would be both protective and intimate, emphasizing his careful nature.
Gentle Approach: Despite his intimidating appearance, Von Lycaon would approach the kiss with surprising gentleness. He would likely start by caressing his crush's cheek or tucking a strand of hair behind their ear, ensuring they are comfortable and receptive before moving closer.
Careful Control: Von Lycaon is aware of his strength and size, so he would be incredibly careful and controlled, ensuring that his crush feels safe and cherished. His hands would likely rest lightly on their waist or shoulders, providing a comforting presence without overwhelming them.
Tender and Slow: The kiss would begin softly, almost hesitant, as Von Lycaon carefully gauges his crush's response. He would start with a gentle brush of his lips against theirs, savoring the moment and ensuring that every movement is tender and considerate.
Building Intensity: As his confidence grows and his crush reciprocates, the kiss would deepen. Von Lycaon would cup the back of their head or cradle their face, his touch firm yet gentle. The kiss would become more passionate but never rushed, as he takes his time exploring this new, intimate connection.
Subtle Canine Traits: In moments of heightened emotion, his canine traits might subtly manifest. His ears might twitch, or there might be a slight wag of his tail if he's particularly happy. This adds a unique, endearing element to the experience.
Emotional Vulnerability: For Von Lycaon, the first kiss is not just a physical act but an emotional commitment. He would feel vulnerable, sharing a part of himself that he usually keeps guarded. His eye, usually calm and composed, might show a flicker of nervousness or intense emotion.
Aftermath: Post-kiss, Von Lycaon would hold his crush close, keeping his arms wrapped securely around them, resting his forehead against theirs, savoring the shared intimacy. His tail, usually a subtle indicator of his feelings, would continue to wag slightly, reflecting his happiness.
The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silver glow over the quiet city. Von Lycaon walked beside his crush, the streets mostly deserted at this hour. The soft sound of their footsteps was the only thing breaking the serene silence. Despite his usual calm demeanor, Lycaon felt a flutter of nervousness in his chest. The moment felt different tonightāspecial, charged with an unspoken anticipation.
As they walked, he found himself sneaking glances at them, admiring the way the moonlight played off their features. There was something enchanting about them, something that always drew him in. His height usually made him feel imposing, but around them, he felt a strange sense of vulnerabilityāa desire to be gentle and kind.
They reached a quiet park, the perfect place for a moment of respite. Lycaon, ever the gentleman, offered his arm to his crush, guiding them to a nearby bench. They sat down, the cool night air enveloping them. For a moment, neither spoke, the silence filled with the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the city.
Lycaon turned to face his crush, his heart racing beneath his calm exterior. "The moon is beautiful tonight," he murmured, his voice steady yet carrying a depth of emotion. His crush looked up, nodding in agreement, their eyes reflecting the soft glow of the moon.
Encouraged by the quiet intimacy of the moment, Lycaon spoke again, his voice gentle. "There's something I've been wanting to share with you," he began, his tone both earnest and tender. He reached out, gently cupping their cheek, his thumb tracing a soft line along their skin. "You've captured my heart in a way I never thought possible," he confessed, his gaze meeting theirs with vulnerability and affection.
His crush's eyes softened, a gentle smile forming on their lips. "You mean that?" they asked, their voice tinged with hope and warmth.
Lycaon nodded, his expression sincere. "Yes, more than anything. Being with you feels... right, like everything has fallen into place," he continued, his hand tenderly cradling their cheek. "I've come to cherish every moment we share, and I find myself wanting moreāmore time, more memories, more of you."
His crush leaned into his touch, their smile widening. "I feel the same," they admitted, their voice soft and sincere. "I've been hoping you felt this way too."
A relieved smile spread across Lycaon's face, his eye lighting up with joy. "I'm glad," he whispered, leaning in closer. "I promise to always cherish and protect you, to make sure you know just how much you mean to me."
As the words left his lips, the air around them seemed to hum with a newfound closeness. Leaning down, he brought his face closer to theirs, his tall frame bending over protectively. He hesitated for a moment, his breath mingling with theirs, as if seeking silent permission. When his crush's eyes fluttered shut, Lycaon took it as the answer he needed.
Gently, he closed the remaining distance, his lips meeting his crush's in a tender, tentative kiss. The initial touch was soft and hesitant, yet filled with all the emotions he'd been holding back. The warmth of their lips and the softness of their skin sent a shiver down his spine. His hand moved to cradle the back of their head, his fingers gently threading through their hair, while his other arm wrapped securely around their waist, pulling them closer to him.
As the kiss deepened, Lycaon's movements became more confident and assured. The gentle kiss transformed into something more passionate and intense. His lips pressed more firmly against theirs, exploring and savoring the moment. The tenderness was still there, but now it was accompanied by a fervent desire, a longing that had been kept at bay for too long. His breaths became deeper, his heart racing as the kiss continued.
His grip tightened slightly, not in a constricting way, but as if he wanted to hold them closer, never letting go. The gentle tangling of fingers in their hair became a caress, his hand moving down to gently cradle their jaw. The kiss was no longer just a meeting of lips; it was an expression of deep affection and connection. His tail, a clear indicator of his emotions, wagged more visibly, betraying the joy and contentment he felt in that moment.
Finally, they pulled away, both breathless and with their foreheads resting together. Lycaon felt a profound warmth spread through him, a sense of contentment and rightness that he had never experienced before. A rare, genuine smile spread across his face, reaching his eye. As if to further express his affection, his tail gently wrapped around his crush, holding them close and conveying a protective, loving embrace.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice filled with gratitude and affection. "For trusting me... and for this."
His crush smiled back, their eyes twinkling with shared joy. "Thank you, Lycaon," they whispered, their voice just as soft. "For everything."
A deep sense of contentment and serenity washed over Lycaon as they sat there, wrapped in each other's arms under the moonlit sky. In this moment, he knew their relationship had begun a new chapter, filled with promise and closeness. For the first time in a long while, he felt truly atĀ peace,Ā content in the knowledge that he was exactly where he was meant to be.
Here are some cute headcanons for Wise when he has a crush:
Nervous and Fidgety:Ā Wise tends to become visibly nervous around his crush. His usually calm demeanor becomes more anxious, often shifting his weight from one foot to the other or playing with his hands.
Crush: "Do you have any good documentary recommendations? Iāve been wanting to learn more about ancient civilizations."
Wise, fidgeting with a VHS tape and shifting his weight: "Oh, um, yes! Thereās this amazing documentary about the history of Mesopotamia. It's really detailed and fascinating. I, uh, could lend you a copy if you'd like?"
Thoughtful Gestures:Ā Wise pays close attention to the little details about his crush, often remembering their favorite things and surprising them with thoughtful actions.Ā
Wise, handing a fresh cup of coffee: "Here, I thought you might need this."
Crush,Ā pleasantly surprised as they smell the coffee: "You remembered my favorite coffee blend?"
Wise, smiling shyly: "Yeah, I thought you might need a pick-me-up. I remembered you mentioned it last week."
Blushing:Ā Despite his typically composed nature, Wise canāt help but blush when his crush compliments him or gets too close.Ā
Wise is organizing some VHS tapes on a shelf, focused on his task. Heās been chatting with his crush about the latest movie releases.Ā
Wise, momentarily stunned and turning to face them, cheeks flushing: "Oh, uh, thanks! You... you look great too."
Overthinking:Ā Wise often overanalyzes his interactions with his crush, replaying conversations in his mind and wondering what they meant by certain comments. He can get caught in a loop of second-guessing himself.
Crush gives Wise a compliment.
Crush: "You always have the best ideas!"
Later, Wise confides in Belle: "Do you think they meant that? Or were they just being nice? Maybe I read too much into it..."
Subtle Compliments:Ā He praises his crush's intelligence, sense of humor, or unique qualities, always in a subtle, genuine way.
Crush: "I'm not sure if I can pull this off."
Wise, sincerely: "You always surprise me with how capable you are. I believe in you."
Protective Streak:Ā Wise becomes more protective of his crush, always looking out for their safety and well-being.
Crush: "I'm thinking of going into the Hollow alone."
Wise, concerned: "Alone? No way. It's too dangerous. Let me come with you."
Daydreaming:Ā Wise often finds himself daydreaming about spending time with his crush. He imagines different scenarios, from fun outings to quiet, intimate moments.
Wise is sitting at the counter, staring out the window with a distant look in his eyes. Heās imagining a cozy afternoon at home, snuggled up on the bed with his crush. Theyāre wrapped in a warm blanket, watching a movie together, with his crush resting their head on his chest.
Belle,Ā waving a hand in front of his face: "Hello, Earth to Wise!"
Wise, snapping out of it and shaking his head slightly: "Oh, sorry! Just...thinking about something."
Nervous Laughter:Ā Wise tends to laugh nervously when he's flustered, trying to cover up his feelings with humor.
Wise, laughing nervously while rubbing the back of his neck: "Me? Nervous? Nah, just, uh, excited, I guess."
Crush,Ā raising an eyebrow playfully: "Excited, huh? About what?"
Wise,Ā still chuckling awkwardly as his cheeks flush: "Oh, you know... just the usual stuff. Nothing major."
Confiding in Belle:Ā He secretly confides in Belle about his feelings, seeking advice but often regretting it when she teases him.
Wise talks to Belle about his crush.
Wise: "I can't stop thinking about them. What if they don't feel the same?"
Belle, teasing: "You? Overthinking? Never. Just be yourself, Wise. They already seem to like you."
Subtle Flirting:Ā Wise tries to flirt subtly, using clever wordplay and teasing remarks, hoping to gauge his crush's reaction.
Crush,Ā looking around the carefully set-up room: "Did you really plan all this?"
Wise, with a soft smile and a hint of teasing in his voice: "Maybe. I had to impress you somehow, right?"
Crush,Ā smiling warmly: "Oh, I'm definitely impressed. I didn't know you had such a sweet side."
Wise,Ā chuckling gently: "Well, I guess you bring out the best in me." He looks at them with genuine affection, his eyes warm. "Besides, I think you're worth the effort."
ā A stepping stone is something that helps someone advance or achieve something. He thinks his first push comes in the form of a disinfectant wipe.
ā Lighter
Word Count:Ā 17k
Part 1: Marbled Steps
Light spoilers for Lighter's/Billy's backstory, I made up most of it.
[Masterlist]
Thank you all for your support and love for the first part! I made this for the fans and yeehawkitty. I don't know your @ but thank you for the generous kofi tip. This is for you (and just in time for Valentineās week). I love this goofy man way too muchāwhy does every fic I write keep getting longer and longer? The 20k word fic was a JOKE.
The first step of Lighterās new life was sharp, clean, and tinged with a faint chemical sting. The wet synthetic fibers of polyester, soaked in a solution of water and hydrogen peroxide, smeared against his hands. He had a complicated relationship with disinfectant wipes. On one hand, they were cheap and reliableāa passable replacement for when he ran out of clean soap and water. On the other hand, the cold residue they left behind, clinging to his skin like a snailās trail, always made him uncomfortable. Heād never liked getting anything on his hands, especially stains. The frosty bite of the air burned as much as it chilled, creeping into the tiny, still-healing cuts on his fingers. Each swipe sent a sting through his nerves. Yet, he didnāt flinch or make a sound. Heās endured far worse. By comparison, these superficial paper cuts felt almost affectionate. Instead, his gaze shifted upward from his reddening and sticky hands to the gloved ones holding the cloth. White glovesāpristine, clinical, indifferent to the nuances of patient care. His supposed new doctor, polished and bright like a freshly unwrapped scalpel, hadnāt even bothered with introductions before whisking him away to this sterile corner.
A thought crossed his mindāmaybe all doctors shared a natural disregard for bedside manners, no matter where they came from.
"Are you even listening to me?"
He hears more than feels the wet slap of the disinfectant wipes landing against his cheek, the damp fabric seeping into his skin and snapping him back to the present. Lighter blinks, his eyes momentarily lost as his memories of the past rush forward in a disorienting blurālike a tangle of white noise, punctuated by the fractured, flickering remnants of TV-static pixels.
"Well? Anything to say for yourself, mister?" Your voice is still as blunt as ever, even if your tone has been weathered down at the edges. You still wear the same frown on your face, your gloved fingers warm even when pressing into this skin far too harshly, as though trying to carve your very will into his face. This time, he doesnāt hold back the shiver. The involuntary tremor courses through him, his shoulder shaking as he hunches over himself as if you've sucker punched him in the stomach. Gone are the days when he could sit still as a rock, his body locked tight, immovable while you carried on with your work. Now, he lets himself act like the brat you keep calling him.
The overdramatic shiver pulls an equally exaggerated huff from you, your breath heavy. You peel the wipe from his skin with two fingers, tossing it into the garbage without a second thought. The sound of it hitting the pile of paper is strangely final, a soft but definitive splat. Even after all this time, your bedside manner could still use a little more warmth, a little more tenderness. A small, cynical part of him wonders if thatās the way you like it. But then, maybe thatās part of the charm.
"Uh..." He paused for a moment, trying to wrack his brain for what you had just said before deciding to take a trip down memory lane. From what he remembered, Caesar had invited him into a friendly spar with the Thieren gang that had rolled into Blazewood. You, as their resident doctor, had tagged along just in case any injuries came up. Naturally, it was a complete stomp for the Son of Calydonāthey were on their home turf, and it would have been embarrassing if they lost. Then, you had dragged him to your clinic to patch him up, still glaring daggers at that lynx. As soon as youād pulled out your supplies, the scent of alcohol and hydrogen peroxide had sent him tumbling into the wormhole of the pastāuntil you pulled him back. Youād always been good at that.
He looks up at you, noticing that small notch in your eyebrow that signals your impatience. He canāt help but let out an awkward chuckle, his voice a little shaky around the edges, "Sorry, firecracker. I must have spaced out. What did you say?"
That earns him a pinch on the cheekāone he absolutely deserves, but ow, it stings more than he expectsāas you unleash a full-on lecture. He catches only bits and pieces of what youāre saying: how it was supposed to be a lighthearted spar, but he somehow kicked it into overdrive, treating it like a life-or-death battle. How he acted recklessly, for no real reason again, just to look tough. Seriously, who was he even trying to impress? That lynx?! No way, right?! The whole thing wrings out a restrained laugh from his chest, one thatās barely contained, escaping his chest like an unexpected exhale, which only makes you turn an even deeper shade of red.
Itās a striking shadeānot quite as searing as the flames that roar from his gauntlets, yet no less radiant. Not as gentle as the sun sinking into the horizon, yet still rich with warmth. Bright, warm, and spontaneous, sparking to life in an instant. Just like a firecracker. Heās always loved firecrackers. Theyāre fleeting, reckless thingsāblazing across the night sky in bursts of chaos and artistry, ephemeral yet unforgettable. A single spark, a brief eruption of light, and thenāgone. But for that one moment, they demand attention, carving their brilliance into the dark.
At first, he found it irritatingāhow quick you were to switch gears into anger, flaring up over the smallest things. It reminded him too much of the people he used to work for, the ones who barked orders and hurled insults with spit-flecked fury, who would rather scream and hound him for their lost denny's. It was always the same. The bite of their words, the suffocating heat of their rage. Huffing and puffing, throwing around threats like execution orders over a few misplaced words, as if fear alone could squeeze blood from a stone. The bloated heads of collectors who reeked of whiskey and cigar smoke, who saw him as nothing more than a machine to be wound up with a crank, a weapon to be pointed in whatever direction they pleased.
Red, the shade of their fury. The shade of control, of pressure, of commands spat between bared teeth. He hated it. Hated them. Hated the way their voices rattled in his skull long after they were gone, the way the weight of their expectations coiled around his throat like a noose. He hated it so much that even the color red started to make him sick to his stomach.
And then came the blood.
Dark, dried beneath his fingernails, sinking into the creases of his knuckles. Bright, blinding under the harsh glare of stage lights, soaking the floor, painting his world in a shade he could never wash off.
What a revolting color it was.
"Hey... are you okay? IāIām sorry. I didnāt mean to get so worked up."
This time, thereās no sharp sting of another wipe smacking against his face. Instead, warmth. A palm cupping his cheek, fingers hesitant yet steady as they brush against his skin. You tilt his head from side to side, scanning his face with knitted brows and that same look of quiet worry you always get when you think something might be wrong. Your eyes flicker over his, tracking every subtle shift, every flicker of movement. You must think he hit his head again. That all the times heās spaced out on you, all the delays in his responses, must mean heās nursing a concussion. Never mind that he wasnāt even hit during the spar.
"Itās nothinā, firecracker. No need to apologize. Iām the one who spaced on you twice," he says, trying to play it off with a half-hearted smile. But the look you shoot back tells him youāre not buying it. Still, you let it go. Your reservations fall along with your hand, which drops to rest on your hip as your gaze sweeps over him, sizing him up.
"Well... if you say so. Regardless," you spin on your heel, turning your back to him as you start packing your supplies back into the white medkit, your face carefully turned away from his, "Good job as always, champ. Another tally on the chalkboard of ever-growing victories."
He watches you move around the room, each motion deliberate yet just a little too stiffālike youāre forcing yourself to focus on the task at hand rather than the person behind you. After being in this room with you for so long, he sees it all, every subtle sign: the way your hands linger just a moment too long on each item as you tuck them back into place. Even when your eyes flicker toward him, itās briefāa fleeting connection, like the burn of a matchstick snuffed out too soon. They dart away almost immediately, finding refuge in the sterile white walls or the cold steel of the counter. Your back remains turned, shoulders taut with unspoken tension, the rigid lines of your posture starkly visible through the thin fabric of your uniform.
His gaze drops, drifting downward to his own hands. Water trails down his fingers in slow, deliberate paths, the droplets gathering at his knuckles before slipping free and splattering against the tile floor. Each impact is soundless, vanishing into the quiet that fills the room. He watches them fall, his mind oddly detached, as if the sight of the tiny ripples on the ground might somehow offer an answer he doesnāt have.
He knows he should say somethingāanythingāto cut through the silence. The words sit heavy on the edge of his tongue, poised yet unwilling to make the leap. He opens his mouth but finds it dry, the courage he thought he could summon crumbling into dust. Instead, he lets the moment stretch, the quiet growing louder with each second, his hesitation feeding its weight.
And still, your words from earlier linger. They echo in his mind, looping endlessly, burrowing deep into the corners of his thoughts like a quiet hum he canāt shake.
"Iāuh..." You pause, taking a steadying breath. He's never seen you this nervous before, "I just wanted to say that... I donāt think Iāve said it enough, but I really appreciate you. More than you probably know. I know I donāt always show it, but...I-"
He can feel his palms begin to sweat, a creeping heat against the back of his neck that's slowly traveling to his ears. Sure, any compliment you manage to wrestle out of your vocal cords makes him puff his chest up in pride and cower away in a corner, but those are usually accompanied by sincere eyes that drill into this mind. But this time, you're not even looking at him as you push each word out. Is this...?
"I just wanted to say that I li-"
He rises to his feet with an easy, practiced motion, the leather of his jacket rustling as he swings it over his shoulder in one fluid sweep. The weight of it settles against his back, familiar and grounding, but it does little to ease the charged atmosphere lingering in the air. His hand reaches out, brushing lightly against the edge of the doorframe. For a moment, his fingers linger there, his touch hesitant, almost tentativeāconsidering. Turning ever so slightly, with a slow inhale, he finally speaks.
"Back then, before Caesar interrupted us⦠what were you going to say?"
You freeze, fingers suspended mid-air, caught in the limbo between the impulse to respond and the overwhelming urge to pretend you never heard him at all. The moment stretches between you, thick and charged, pressing heavily against the walls of the room. With a sharp inhale, you force yourself back into motion, grabbing a pen and scratching hurriedly across the paper. But your movements are too rushed, too shaky, and your fingers falter as the pen slips from your grasp and clatters to the floor.
You donāt look at him. You canāt. But he always will and has.
He had a suspicionāan inkling of what you were going to say before Caesarās interruption crashed through the moment like a battering ram. But suspicion isnāt certainty. And if he misreads this, if he takes one step too far in the wrong direction, the duck-tapped connection between you might collapse. There might be no coming back from this.
And yet, in all the moments heās spent replaying your words, your gestures, your lingering glances, one truth remains constant: you have always been the one to reach out. The one steady hand that kept him from slipping off the tightrope heād walked for so long. No matter how precarious his balance, you made sure he never fell alone. Even from the very beginning, when the distance between you was wider than words could bridge, you had taken his hand.
In other words, it's time to make a leap of faith.
-+-+-
The sun hangs low in the sky, just as orange and dusty as he remembers. It reflects off the sand in the Outer Ring so well that it's burning his eyes to a painful degree, but he keeps his gaze on the horizon. When the doorāboth metaphorical and literalāwas kicked open, accompanied by a letter declaring his debts cleared and his ties to the underground ring severed, he wasnāt sure what to expect. What would greet him on the other side? Another fist to his face? A wall of steel, glass, or concrete? Instead, he finds himself here, his supposed benefactorāa red boar with a wild mane of white hairārambles on in the background, introducing him to his gang of bikers. Their leather vests catch the sunlight, their laughter punctuated by the occasional roar of a motorcycle engine. Itās mostly white noise to Lighter. The words drift past him like the wind carrying dust through the air. He catches the gang name though, or at least he thinks he does. The Sons of...something. Itās hard to care. Whatever they call themselves, itās not important. What is important is the fact that, for the first time in a long while, no oneās breathing down his neck or throwing him into another fight. For now, at least, heās free.
He doesnāt know whether to be terrified or to breathe a sigh of relief that, despite all the days spent in the dark, the surface remained the same every single day: normal, routine, and steady. A quiet rhythm of life he once had, back before everything shattered into glimmering pieces and neon blackholes. Back before survival became a battle against shadows, where even his memories felt more like jagged shards than whole reflections. For a moment, he wonders if thereās a name for the psychopomp who escorts people back to the land of the living. Just as Charon ferries souls whoāve received their funeral rites across the rivers Acheron and Styx, shouldnāt there be someone to guide the return journey? Instead of meeting a comforting figure, he finds himself staring into the judgmental gaze of someone who clearly doesnāt want him back among the living. Their white gloves are already curling around his wrists, alive with the faint mutterings of grime and viruses. His first steps up the mountain begin with the acrid sting of disinfectant in his lungs and the sterile touch of cotton swabs.
His new, albeit temporary, abode is deafening. Itās the kind of noise that settles deep, like the muffled pressure in his ears before a swallow makes them pop. Irritating, constant, and inescapable. While itās undeniably better than the Underground Ringāanything would be an upgrade from that hellholeāit carries a similar kind of noise. The loudness doesnāt come from roaring crowds or fists slamming into flesh this time, but itās loud all the same. One individual, in particular, seems to embody that more than anyone else. Sheās impossible to avoid. The self-appointed ringleader of every bad idea, she lugs a spare tire around like itās some sort of shield. No matter how careful or quiet he tries to be, she always seems to spot him whenever he attempts to sneak away. Everything about her is loudāher gestures, her laughter, even the way she stomps her boots against the ground as she barrels toward him. Today, sheās waving her arms wildly, yelling at the top of her lungs about a ātop-secret missionā to hoard bottles of shampoo. He doesnāt argue. He doesnāt even ask why. He simply nods curtly, a silent agreement that spares him from the inevitable round of coaxing or, worse, shouting. His compliance earns him a hearty slap on the back, the kind that mightāve staggered him once, but now he barely feels. Itās as if the years have dulled his senses, leaving his body numb to gestures that shouldāve felt like camaraderie. He follows her, trudging along as she chatters endlessly, her excitement filling every quiet gap. He doesnāt particularly remember what they didāonly the overpowering smell of flowers and artificial fruit. The sweetness of it clings to the air, thick enough to choke him, cloying in its intensity. It lingers in his nose long after the bottles have been stashed away in her āsecretā hiding spot. Later, when she moves in for another slap on the back, he dodges it with practiced ease, retreating into his own corner of blood, dust, and dirt.
You would think that, by now, heād have acclimated to the constant assault of different scents around him. The shampoo that the girls in the gang seem obsessed with has started to lose its overwhelming sugary fragrance, so at least he no longer has to clamp a hand over his nose every time one of them passes by. Small mercies, perhaps. Yet, for all the tolerance heās built for floral and fruity aromas, there are two scents heās never been able to endure: blood and chemicals. Unfortunately, he finds himself in the breeding ground for both every time he even slightly nicks himself. A shallow cut on his thigh is nothing to worry about, not even enough to draw a single drop of blood. Yet somehow, he finds himself dragged to the clinic more often than anyone else. Heās certain itās on purpose. The first time was sheer coincidence, or so he told himself. But every subsequent trip has felt deliberate, the way you grab his arm and hauls him back to that room. The doctor knows.
The realization makes his fingers twitch. Itās not the kind of tremor born of nerves, but a frustration that simmers low in his chest. His eyes glaze over as he tries to block out the sensory onslaughtāthe stinging scent, the white gloves, the faint hum of machinery in the corner. The irritation builds until itās nearly unbearable, clawing its way up his throat like a scream he refuses to let out. He wants to punch something. To throw his whole weight into a single, bone-rattling motionājust to expel the tension coiling inside him like a tightly wound spring. Because if he canāt, he knows heāll be left alone with his thoughts. And that might just be worse.
"You need to take better care of yourself," the doctor says, lightly pressing onto the outside of the cut and looking up at him to see if it causes any pain. There isnāt any. For something this small, there never is. He only spares you a glance before returning his blank stare back to the wall in front of him. The beige paint is chipped in places, tiny cracks crawling up the wall. You should transfer the funds for his bandages in exchange for a renovation. He hears you huff, the mumblings of someone annoyed that their help, which was never asked for in the first place, is going unappreciated. Itās not the first time. Probably not the last.
He hates people like that. People who peacock around with signs practically screaming, Look at me! Iām doing the right thing! Iām a good person! They expect gratitude, praise, maybe even a pedestal to stand on for their noble efforts. The thought makes his jaw tighten.
He hears you sigh again, the sound filled with the same familiar annoyance that he's come to expect. That passive-aggressive pity that lingers in your words when you complain to others about him. "Heās impossible," you'd said, more than once, "wonāt listen, wonāt cooperate, and doesn't even appreciate the help.", and that you have no idea what he's even doing here. At least he can agree with you on that last part, he doesn't know what he's doing here either in this town full of loud voices and cloying sweetness. He doesn't know how to stomach it.
He can feel your eyes roam over his stiff posture, the set of his jaw, the way his shoulders are pulled so tight they might snap. As if you can practically hear Lighter's inner thoughts through his silence, those unspoken words hanging thick in the air. It's all part of the same stubborn routine, you'll push and prod hoping to find any cracks to sink your fingers into and Lighter will have them patched up and reinforced.
"You know," the doctor continues, a faint trace of irritation creeping into your tone, "I can't keep fixing you up if you keep running into trouble. Iām not a miracle worker."
Lighter doesn't even twitch, just stares straight ahead. He's learned very early on that if he stays still and shuts up, he'll be left alone sooner. He doesnāt need this. Doesnāt need any of this. People like a doctorālike youāalways trying to help, always wanting to fix things that arenāt broken. Itās infuriating, how you all think you know whatās best for him. He hates it. And yet, here he is, with a gash that needs tending, caught between the impulse to tell you to shove it and the weight of some unspoken guilt that settles in his chest. He really wants to punch something.
"Yeah, well," he mutters, his voice a low rasp, "Never asked for your help."
He closes his eyes, holding himself perfectly still. Waiting.
"Yeah, well," you mimic in that same stubborn tone, "you shouldnāt have to."
Thereās a pinch at his cheek, light but condescending, like heās a child in need of scolding. Then the scent of disinfectant reaches his nose, sharp and sterile. Oh. Right. He was bleeding there. He hadnāt even noticed.
āBullheaded brat,ā he hears you mumble just before the door clicks shut behind you.
His first loss doesnāt begin with a fight but with a long, crumpled list shoved into his hands by a short blonde girl wearing a helmet with a metal spike sticking straight up. What was her name again? Luke? No...that was a boyās name. Luca? No, another boy's name. Sheās bossy and dishonest about her feelings, but at least sheās straightforward about what she wants. Itās easy working with herāshe doesnāt waste time on small talk, which, in this gang, is practically a miracle. He doesnāt bother checking the list, already stuffing it into his pocket as he swings a leg over a spare bike lent to him for this job. With a sharp roar of the engine, he takes off from the Outer Ring, hoping to escape before anyone else can shove more responsibilities onto his plate.
That, as it turns out, is his first mistake. Sitting at a pit stop on the side of a dusty highway, he finally pulls out the list, intending to glance at it just long enough to plan the quickest route. But as his eyes skim the items scrawled across the page, a sinking realization hits him. He doesnāt know what half these things are. What even is a āCarlisheā? The words blur together, a mix of illegible handwriting and bizarre requests. There are addresses written next to each item at leastāsmall merciesābut the real kicker is that all of them are located within the city. That almost makes him want to turn the bike around and head straight back to the Outer Ring. Almost. Instead, he exhales sharply, runs a hand down his face, and glares at the list like it personally wronged him. He can already feel the headache building.
The city is obnoxious. The constant stream of bodies rushing to their destinations, the screeching of tires against uneven roads, and the blinding flashes of lights from signs and advertisements assault his senses. He pulls his hair in front of his eyes for the nth time, brightly coloured spots popping in his vision and a stinging in the back of his eyes. His skin feels prickly, as if hives are crawling up his arms, the overstimulation setting his nerves on edge. The worst part is the lingering stares. Schoolgirls in matching uniforms clutch their backpacks in one hand, covering their mouths with the other as they whisper to each other. Giggling erupts between stolen glances in his direction. Then there are the men, distracted by their phones, who only notice him in passingābefore stopping mid-step for a double-take. Their eyes dart from him to his bike, suspicion clouding their expressions, and they hurry away like heās about to rob them on the spot. He already wants to leave. The city doesnāt need to say it outright; itās made its message clear enough. He doesnāt belong here. Heās out of place, and heās most certainly unwelcome.
He moves a hand to cover his nose, inhaling deeply to scrape up the lingering scents of rust and dust clinging to his gloves. His fingers tremble, his palm damp against the fabric, as he struggles to anchor himself to somethingāanythingāother than the crushing tightness in his chest. But everywhere he turns to, he see's the same friends laughing as they bump shoulders. The bark of a dog as a little girl with a pink bow in her hair chases after it. The scent of lemonade from a nearby stand run by an equally bright yellow pill-shaped bangboo. He presses his thumb harder against the bridge of his nose, a feeble attempt to distract himself from the rising pressure, like invisible walls are closing in on him. His breath comes in short, uneven bursts, his lungs clawing for air, desperate for a relief that refuses to come. His stomach twists violently, and a bead of cold sweat slides down the back of his neck, tracing a shiver along his spine. Everything feels too close, too loud, too much.
Heās panicking. He knows it. The sensation rises like a wave, crashing over him in slow, unrelenting force. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat, the pulse thudding in his ears, drowning out everything else. His hands start to shake more violently now, his grip on his face slipping, the instinct to get away, to escape, clawing at him from the inside. He tries to steady himself, but the dizziness sets in, blurring the edges of his vision. He canāt breathe. His chest is so tight he canāt expand his lungs, and every shallow gasp makes him feel like heās drowning. The sensation is too familiar, too real. Heās been here before. Too many times. His back against the dirty fighting ring and the glare of stage lights replaced with billboards and concrete sidewalks.
"Lighter? What are you doing here?"
His head snaps up, eyes wild and frenzied, to see you hovering beside him. He hadnāt even realized youād gotten so close, and the sudden proximity sends him reeling. Before he can jerk backācrashing into his bike and sending it toppling overāyour hand shoots out, gripping the lapels of his jacket. His heels dig into the concrete, his hands bracing against the seat of the bike as if itās his only anchor, but it's your grip that really holds him steady. For a second, the world blurs around him, the noise of the city dimming, and all he can focus on is the warmth of your hands, firm and solid against the fabric of his jacket. The air feels too tight, like thereās not enough room to breathe, and yet, youāre there, keeping him from falling, keeping him steadyā
His heart races, the pounding of his blood echoing in his ears, his pulse thudding hard against his ribs. He doesnāt know why, but thisāthis momentāfeels too intimate, too close. Heās not used to anyone seeing him like this: exposed, stumbling, stripped of his usual defenses. Heās always been good at keeping his distance, but now, with your hand on him, everything feels just a little too raw. Too real.
It reminds him of the past. Familiar faces flashing by. The hands that reached out to him before being swallowed in the Hollow.
His hand shoots out before he can stop itāso fast, it feels instinctive, reflexive. By the time he registers what heās done, itās too late. In the next blink, youāre on the ground, a startled expression etched onto your face, and his arm remains outstretched, frozen in place from when he shoved you away. The air between you feels heavy, suffused with a tension that wasnāt there before. His chest tightens, and for a moment, he doesnāt know whether to apologize or double down, his fingers curling as if trying to grasp at an excuse that wonāt come.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have touched you so suddenly," you say instead, your voice softer than usual. Thereās no anger, no accusation, just a calm sincerity as you dust off your pants and straighten up, "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"
He blinks, your words catching him off guard. For a heartbeat, he almost doesnāt know what to say. Okay? No, heās not okay. Not really. His mind races, trying to piece together an answer but he comes up empty. He swallows hard, the dryness in his throat making it difficult, and his eyes flicker away, unable to meet your gaze.
āIāā His throat feels tight, the words tangling together before they can make it out. He glances at you for a brief second, but the weight of your gaze is too much. He shifts his eyes down, focusing on the cracked asphalt beneath his boots, as if it might somehow offer him an escape.
āYeah,ā he mutters finally, the word rough and hollow, unsure if it even makes sense in the context of this moment, āJustāyeah.ā
The silence that follows is thick, stretching far too long, like a rubber band about to snap. He can feel the weight of your unspoken words, the way you hesitate, lips parted but still holding back. You want to say somethingāhe knows itābut for some reason, you donāt. Then, with a sharp breath, he shifts his weight and pushes himself back upright. The bike beneath him wobbles, the kickstand threatening to buckle before he catches it with his foot. He grips the handlebars tightly, the rough leather of his gloves creaking as he steadies the machine. His movements are jerky, uncoordinated, but theyāre enough to keep him moving, even as his mind stays caught in that lingering moment between you.
āI should go,ā he says, his voice low, clipped, refusing to meet your eyes. It sounds less like a statement and more like a commandāto himself as much as to you. The words carry an undercurrent of urgency, as though heās trying to escape the unease curling in his chest. He takes a step back, the motion stiff, like heās physically shaking off the invisible tether between you. The space between you grows heavier, a palpable weight neither of you acknowledges. He doesnāt wait for a response. His hands tighten around the handlebars of the bike, knuckles pale against the leather of his gloves, before he mounts it in a quick, practiced motion. The engine growls to life, a sound that vibrates in the air but doesnāt quite drown out the tension.
And then heās gone, the tires kicking up dust as he speeds away, leaving behind the moment, the words unsaid, and you. By the time he returns to the Outer Ring, his pockets are empty, the list crumpled in his jacket, untouched. Itās his first uncompleted job.
Itās painfully awkward for the next few days after his brief run-in with you in the city. He avoids the clinic and stays far from the supply depot, the memory of your touch and your too-soft words still too fresh, too unsettling. He doesnāt know what he expectsāmaybe a reprimand, maybe nothing at allābut when another girl, the perpetually sleepy one, quietly takes over the task of resupplying, it leaves him reeling. She doesnāt ask why, doesnāt mention you, just takes the list without so much as a glance his way. And yet, thereās an uncomfortable heat crawling up the back of his neck, behind his ears, and it sits there like a stone lodged in his gut. Did you say something to the rest of the gang? Did you mention what happened? Complain about him, the same way youāve done before? It wouldnāt be out of character; heās overheard you once or twice. Still, even with all that, he wants to believe thereās a line you wonāt cross. Some kind of unspoken doctor-patient confidentiality. Because if there isnātā¦then why? Why did you help him? Maybe it was just instinct. Maybe it wasnāt about him at all. Maybe it was for the town you actually care about, the place youāve chosen to carve out a life in. Or maybe it was just reflexāwhat anyone wouldāve done in your place. But you havenāt sought him out. You havenāt hounded him down, havenāt dragged his name through the dirt as far as he knows. And as long as you donāt, as long as you leave him alone, he can continue avoiding you. He can pretend the encounter didnāt happen. As long as he doesnāt get hurt again, as long as everything stays peaceful, he doesnāt have to face youāor the echoes of the past you unintentionally stirred.
His momentary spiraling is cut short by the sound of a cough, sharp and deliberate, pulling him out of his tangled thoughts. Lighterās heart jumps, startled, and his leg jerks out, knocking over a chair with a loud clatter. He flinches at the noise, muttering a curse under his breath. God, heās slipping. Pushing the hair out of his face, he glances toward the source of the cough. Through his squinted eyes, he spots...ah. Right. This was Billy. The supposed "Champion" of the gang. Hard to miss, honestly, given that heās an Intelligent Construct. Plus, the flaming red scarf that trails after him is impressionable and Billy doesnāt look like anyone else here, his artificial frame and polished demeanor sticking out like a sore thumb among the ragtag crowd. And just like that, Lighterās stomach sinks. If Billyās here, then maybeāno, definitelyāyou mustāve said something. Of course you did. This is it, isnāt it? The prelude to him being kicked out. Again. Another mess, another failure, and now heāll be chased out in a hail of bullets and gunpowder, all because he canāt keep his head straight for five seconds.
But instead of drawing a weapon or delivering some scathing speech, Billy does something unexpected. He holds outā¦a pair of tinted shades. Lighter stares, not entirely sure what to make of it. The glasses dangle in Billyās hand, the Constructās posture as casual and unbothered as ever. A present, Billy's voice perfectly smooth and indifferent, something the doctor picked up on a visit to the city. Lighter blinks, his mind grinding to a halt. Aā¦present? From you? Why? For a moment, all he can do is stare at the shades, the reflection of his own dumbfounded expression staring back at him in their lenses. His brow furrows as his gaze catches the faint tint of the redish brown color across the glass, cool and distant, like a barrier between him and the world. They donāt look cheapāquite the opposite, actually. Which only makes it worse.
The weight of the gesture presses against him like a slow, sinking tide. He doesnāt know what to feel. Gratitude? Embarrassment? Suspicion? All of it tangles into a tight knot in his chest, a strange and unfamiliar discomfort he isnāt sure how to deal with. His fingers twitch at his sides, and for a split second, he debates leaving Billy hanging, ignoring the outstretched hand entirely. But the weight of of Billyās unreadable gaze, feels heavier than his pride. Slowly, hesitantly, Lighter reaches out, his movements stiff and mechanical. The shades slide into his hand, the smooth metal and cool glass feeling foreign against his skin. His grip lingers a moment too long, like the act of accepting them is something monumental. As if he's taken the first step up the mountain.
Billy is⦠nice. Heās nice. Lighter canāt deny that, even if the word feels a little too plain for someone as unique as him. Thereās something disarming about Billyāa balance between his quirks and his sharp edges that somehow works. Goofy around the edges, with a kind of restless energy, yet precise and almost unnervingly focused when it counts. Heās one of those people who can make awkward silences feel like theyāre meant to be there, and Lighter finds an odd sense of peace in that. Maybe itās because they share similar roles in the gang, both of them tasked with carrying responsibilities with more firepower. Or maybe itās something deeperāsomething about their personalities that clicks. Lighter canāt quite put his finger on it, but thereās an ease to being around Billy, like slipping into a pair of old boots that still fit just right. For the most part, Billy is quiet, observing the world around him with that detached, almost mechanical calm. But when you hit the right topicāwhen you find the one thing that sparks his interestāhe lights up like a firework. Heāll start talking, words spilling out in a stream of excitement thatās almost contagious. Lighter has seen it happen before, usually about some obscure mechanical part he needs for upgrading or a tv show about righteous knights who battle against evil. Itās the kind of rambling that could easily be overwhelming, but somehow, itās not. Somehow, itās endearing. Thereās something genuine about the way Billyās enthusiasm bubbles to the surface, something that makes Lighterās guarded demeanor chip away just a little.
What he isnāt prepared for is how his carefully planned baby steps keep turning into leaps of faith. Normally, after every job, when the gang gathers around a bonfire to celebrateāloud laughter, music blaring, and drinks flowingāLighter sticks to his routine. Heāll slink back to wherever he came from, or at most, brood in the shadows with his back plastered against a dark wall, far away from the chaos. Itās safer that way. Easier. But this time, something feels different. When Billy nudges him with an elbow and gestures toward the sagging couches that have clearly seen better days, Lighter hesitates. He considers it, just for a moment. He could shake his head, retreat to his corner, and Billy wouldnāt hold it against him. And really, Lighterās presence wonāt make or break the party. A couple swigs of Nitro Fuel and everyone will be too drunk to notice whoās around, passing out in ridiculous sleep positions before the nightās over.
His gaze shifts toward the bonfire. The flames lick and crackle, embers glowing as they begin to dull. Behind his tinted shades, the fire isnāt as vibrant as it would be without them. The reds, oranges, and yellows are muted, softened, like looking through a filter. Yet, for once, he can look at the fire without feeling that sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes. Itās a small relief, and for a moment, he feels almost⦠normal. His attention drifts upward, scanning the circle of people sprawled out around the fire, laughing and arguing over meaningless things. And then his eyes land on you. Youāre slumped over on one of the couches, gesturing animatedly as you rant about the ever-growing stream of patients flooding your clinic. Your voice is tinged with frustration, though itās more exasperated than angry. Something about how you havenāt had a proper break in days. That explains why he hasnāt seen you lately.
A strange realization settles over him, tugging uncomfortably at the back of his mind. He never thanked you. For the shades, for your help in the cityāfor anything. The thought gnaws at him, not enough to be overwhelming, but enough to make him pause. Heās not good at expressing gratitude. Hell, heās not even good at feeling it most of the time. But as he watches you flop back against the couch with a tired sigh, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirs in his chest. Itās not guilt exactly, but itās close. Maybe tonight, for once, he wonāt retreat into the shadows. Maybe, just maybe, heāll take that next step.
He pointedly ignores the jolt you give when you feel the weight of the couch dip beneath him, the speed with which your head whips around to confirm what he knows must look impossible. Lighterāof all peopleāis sitting there, arms crossed stiffly over his chest, his gaze fixed on the fire like it owes him money. He doesnāt acknowledge you. Not directly, at least. Heās almost thankful for the heat radiating from the bonfire because, with any luck, youāll mistake the redness creeping up his ears for reflections of the flickering light bouncing off his tinted shades. Itās not nervesāwell, maybe a littleābut mostly itās the awkwardness of being in your presence when heās not glowering at you from afar or brushing off whatever comment youāve tossed his way. This is...new territory.
A tiny, traitorous part of him kind of wants to sneak a glance at you. What expression are you wearing right now? Are you gaping like a fish, shocked that the infamous recluse has willingly planted himself within six feet of you? Or worseāare you wearing one of those disgusted looks, the kind you save specifically for when he gets under your skin? He isnāt sure which would be worse, but the curiosity lingers.
For now, though, he keeps his head stubbornly forward, his jaw tight and his arms tense, as if heās bracing himself for a punchline to some joke he hasnāt caught on to yet. The fire snaps and crackles before them, and the raucous noise of the gang around the bonfire continues to fill the air. Still, the weight of your attention burns heavier than the heat of the flames, and it takes all his willpower not to fidget under it.
...
It wouldnāt hurt to look. Just a quick glance, nothing too obvious. If youāre gaping at him like a fish out of water or pulling that disgusted face as if youāve bitten into a lemon, then thatās a clear enough message: heās severely miscalculated and heāll never make that mistake again. Maybe sitting here was the wrong choice after all. His arms uncross slightly, just enough to give him the excuse to shift his weight, to tilt his head ever so slightly as if heās adjusting his shades. His eyes flick to the sideājust for a secondāto gauge your reaction. Itās subtle, but enough to see if there's any tension in your shoulders, if your lips are pressed together like youāre trying to decide whether to call him out or let it slide.
To his surprise, thereās no disgust, no annoyance, not even a smirk that says, Really? Youāre here?. Instead, thereās something else, something brighter. Maybe itās curiosity, or perhaps a flicker of surprise that heās dared to sit this close to you without his usual defenses up. Like you're struggling to contain yourself before you're about to burst. Whatever it is, it doesnāt scream āwrong choiceā the way he expected.
You look...elated. Thatāsā¦new.
It throws him off balance in a way heās not prepared for. That small spark in your eyes, the faint lift of your lipsāitās not the reaction he anticipated, not in a million years. His stomach twists, not in the way it does when heās bracing for an argument or a fight, but in that strange, uncomfortable way that happens when the ground feels weightless beneath his feet. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and forces his gaze back to the fire, hoping the crackling embers will right him. He focuses on that, grounding himself in the heat of the burn, anything to avoid thinking about the expression he just caught on your face. Heās not sure heād know what to do if he kept looking. He shifts slightly, crossing his arms tighter over his chest as though that will make him feel less exposed. He hopes he looks composed, even though his pulse is racing faster than heād like to admit. For a moment, he almost regrets sitting down. But youāre not yelling at himāor worse, walking away.
For now, thatās enough to keep him rooted in place.
Man, he really wants to go back to his secluded corner.
āLookinā good, Lighter,ā you say with a cheeky grin, your eyes curving into crescent moons that mirror the one hanging high in the night sky.
His fingers twitch against his arms where theyāre folded, and he huffs, barely glancing your way. He knows youāre teasing, but the warmth behind your tone doesnāt feel mockingāit feels...light, playful in a way that doesnāt dig under his skin.
Still, he canāt help but mutter, āDonāt push it,ā though the sharp edge he tries to add falls embarrassingly flat.
The firelight dances in your expression as your grin widens, and for a moment, heās caught between the glow of the embers and the curve of your smile. Itās not like heās never seen you smile beforeāheās seen plenty of them, but those were always directed at other people. Always at your patients, your friends, or anyone else who wasnāt him. But now, the warmth in your expression is unmistakably meant for him, and it throws him off balance. It feels strange, foreign even, like the weight of something heās not sure he knows how to carry. He doesnāt know what to do with itāthis quiet kindness youāre offering, unspoken yet undeniable. His eyes flicker back to the fire, but the warmth of your gaze lingers, pressing against him in a way that feels both comforting and unnerving. He crosses his arms tighter over his chest, trying to ground himself, but itās hard to ignore the way his pulse picks up, betraying the calm exterior heās trying so hard to maintain.
āCāmon,ā you tease, leaning back against the couch with an exaggerated stretch, your grin sharp and playful, āI donāt give compliments for free, you know. You could at least say āthanks.āā
He exhales through his nose, his lips twitching into something close to a scowlābut not quite. Thereās no real bite behind it, just an attempt to shield himself from the moment youāve trapped him in.
āThanks,ā he mutters, voice gruff and low, like the word scrapes against the edges of his pride as it slips out. Your laughter, loud and unrestrained, bubbles into the sky, It doesnāt feel like youāre laughing at him, though. Thereās no edge, no smug satisfactionājust genuine amusement, warm and fleeting, like the explosion of firecrackers.
Belatedly, he notices that the leather of his gloves has lost its scent of rust and dust, replaced by the lingering traces of overpriced shampoo and motor oil. He should probably mind the shift, but he doesn't, not as much as he thought he would. In fact, thereās something oddly comforting about the contrast, like a quiet marker of his unexpected immersion into this world. It's strange, but in a way, it's been a long time since anything felt so familiar. Still, for as much time as he spends in your clinic, he's surprised he doesnāt walk away smelling of antiseptic spray. Maybe itās because heās never been your patient, but he wonders if itās more than that. Maybe itās because heās become such a regular fixture in your clinic that the place itself has started to seep into him. Itās a funny thought, one that crosses his mind every time he enters your doors to see you putter around in that rhythm you've built for yourself. He watches the way you navigate the clinic, how you hum quietly under your breath when youāre absorbed in something, and how you somehow always know just when heās lingering near the doorway. It makes something warm stir in his chest.
Aside from him, you donāt seem to have many patients to tend to. Billy doesn't exactly need regular checkups, given that he's more machine than man, and the rest of the gang is often off on other assignments or busy with their own affairs. Now, though, he notices something thatās been creeping up on himāheās stopped avoiding you at every turn. At first, it was a conscious effort. Heād slip out when you werenāt looking, retreat into the shadows of the clinic or take a walk to avoid running into you when you were... being youāa healer, a talker, an enigma he didnāt quite know how to handle. But now? Itās different. You seem to be everywhere he goes. Your presence is subtle, but it's thereāyour voice drifting from one corner of the clinic, your footsteps moving purposefully down the hallway. And heās... used to it. More than he ever thought heād be. The awkwardness he used to feel is slowly dissolving though thereās still a part of him thatās wary of what it means. Heās learned, in his own way, to appreciate the way you move, the way youāve managed to fit yourself into his world.
It manifests in small momentsāsubtle, fleeting, but undeniable. It happens when he sees your fingers blindly reach for something on the counter, and before you can even finish your motion, heās already sliding the object into your palm. The first syllable of your sentence leaves your lips, but itās already too late; heās finishing your thought, speaking the words as if they were his own. Even when you glance at something, then back at him, thereās a strange, quiet understanding. He doesnāt need you to say anything more; he can read the flicker of your thoughts in the way your eyes linger, in the soft shift of your gaze. Itās almost too intimate for him to process, this unspoken bond. His instinct is to push it away, to retreat back to the isolation heās known for so long. But there's something strangely comfortable in itāsomething that makes him feel a little less alone, a little less like he's always on the outside, watching the world pass by. It doesnāt make sense, but it doesnāt feel wrong either.
He doesnāt exactly know what to make of itāthis strange dance, your steady rhythm next to his stumbling between the two of you. Itās like walking through a fog, not sure if youāre heading in the right direction but trusting the path enough to keep moving forward. There are still moments when he feels like heās on the edge of something. Heāll catch you looking at him just a bit too long, those small moments of curiosity. Whatās even more surprising is how much heās starting to do the same with you. He doesnāt always understand you, doesnāt always know the right things to say, but when he catches you working, lost in your thoughts, focused on a task, he finds a strange sense of peace in it. Itās a new thing. Before, heād find any excuse to walk away, but now, he lingers. He stays in the space, watches the way you move with a quiet concentration, and feels that flicker of somethingāmaybe curiosity, maybe even admiration.
He can tell you're starting to loosen up around him, too. Even when he doesnāt respond to what you say in the way you'd hope, you donāt seem to take it to heart like you used to. Thereās no hint of irritation, no sharp edge to your words. You donāt push, donāt demand more than what he can give, and thereās something about that that makes him feel... safer? Less like he has to keep his guard up at all times. Bits and pieces of his old personalityāthose little flashes of the person he used to be before everything became so fracturedāare starting to creep out from under the heavy layers of his walls. They find their way to the surface in quiet moments, in the brief pauses between conversations where you almost catch him smiling at something you've said, or when a wry comment slips out without him even thinking. Itās as if the parts of him that used to retreat into the background, hiding in the shadows of his old self, are slowly being coaxed out.
"Orange Sunset, my ass," he mutters, comparing it to the other like some kind of makeup detective. One might be slightly redder, or maybe itās just the lighting messing with him. Why does anyone need this many shades of orange anyway? From the corner of his eye, he catches a clerk staring at him, probably wondering why some scruffy guy in tinted glasses is agonizing over lipstick like his life depends on it. He ignores them, sighing as he tries to recall Burniceās exact tone when she made the request. Did she sound sarcastic? Was this a joke? Because if it was, itās on him now.
He lets out a deep sigh, the weight of his confusion finally settling in. Yup, he's throwing in the towel. This whole "getting the right shade" thing? Itās beyond him. He has no idea what the girls were thinking when they handed him that list. Honestly, he figures he should just wait for you to come back from the pharmacy across the street. Maybe then, youāll know exactly what to get, and they wonāt think heās the worst at shopping ever.
Before he can wallow in his lack of makeup knowledge for much longer, he hears a snicker, followed by your voice, "You want to try some on? There are testers available, but I wouldn't recommend putting them on your lips. Cross-contamination and all that."
He turns just in time to see you walk into the store, a white folded bag in hand. You pause for a second, your hand pressed against your face like youāre hiding a smile. It's the same expression you made when he approached you with the invitation to come with him back to the city, eyes glued to the ground the entire time. Lighter places the two tubes of lipstick down, his unamused expression deepening as he shoots you a look.
"Whatās with that look?" you tease, clearly amused. "I personally think you'd look great with a bit of color. We can even ask someone to do a color match for you and find your foundation shade."
āI think theyād rather kick me out,ā Lighter mutters, his eyes flicking down at himself like heās seeing his mismatched appearance for the first time. He shifts uncomfortably, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched in a defensive way, "I look out of place."
"On the contrary, I think you need to get your eyes cleaned out." Your voice is teasing but thereās an edge of affection in it, the kind thatās almost imperceptible if youāre not paying attention. The kind of teasing that cuts just enough to be fun, but not enough to wound. Lighter shoots you a glare, but he knows itās probably not landing the way it used to. It's a hollowed one, more of a reflex than anything intentional. Heās not sure if itās because youāve grown more used to his stares or if heās just losing his touch altogether. Either way, he can tell by the way your grin stretches across your face that it doesnāt bother you as much as it once wouldāve.
Heās not entirely sure how he feels about that.
"Look," your hand unconsciously reaches out to tug him down, and, almost without thinking, he follows. He bends down slightly, tilting his head so heās eye level with you, the close proximity sending an unexpected jolt through him. He's suddenly hyper aware of your fingers curling against the leather of his sleeve, how your breath warms against his cheek, and just how close your face is to his even when you're looking at everyone around him.
āYouāre practically out of one of those dramas where the rugged boyfriend goes out to get his girlfriendās 'personal needs,'ā You lean in closer, your voice dropping to a whisper in his ear. Thereās a mischievous glint in your eyes as you tease him, almost too easy to notice. You lower your tone, dropping your words like a soft secret into his ear, āIām sure every girl here is living vicariously through this."
You pause, eyes scanning him up and down with that smirk still tugging at the corner of your lips. It lingers for a moment, like you're reading him, sizing him up, before your words hit him, āIād say youād also fill the single dad role, but you donāt look old enough for that typecasting.ā
Lighter blinks, a confused frown flashing across his face. He has no idea what youāre talking about, but the way your eyes twinkle suggests it's something... positive? At least, he thinks it is. It's hard to tell when your teasing tone is wrapped up in that playful spark.
Before he can even try to sort it out, you give him a light pat on the back, the action unexpected and almost fond, āSeriously, weāll find your lost sense of humor soon."
While the days in the Outer Ring are hot and sweltering, the nights bring a biting chill, driving its residents indoors, where only Nitro Fuel and dim lights keep the cold at bay. The boss had invited him to join her and the rest of the girls for an after-party celebrating their new champion, but heād waved them off, telling them to go on ahead and promising to join later. That promise hangs in the air now as he walks alone down an abandoned street in Blazewood, the quiet pressing in around him. The scarf around his neck feels heavier than it should. Heās never worn one before, and the fabricās coarse brush against his skin almost itches. Yet, despite the unfamiliar texture, itās warm. His fingers trace the small ornament stitched into the cloth, a detail meant just for him. Itās new, like so many other things, and heās still trying to process it all. Everything around him has shifted so suddenly. Billyās departureāsoaring to new heights yet still tethered to the ground somehow. His own unexpected promotion to the forefront. The chaos in between. Itās overwhelming, surreal even, like being thrown into a story he doesnāt quite know the script for. And this scarf, with its peculiar weight, feels like a silent reminder of it all. He glances down at the ornament again, feeling the smooth metal beneath the pads of his fingers. Itās strange, having a physical marker of his place here.
When he first joined, he thought of the gang as just another boxing show, another carousel of passing faces heād forget as soon as the next fight rolled around. A means to an end, nothing more. Look at him now. He almost wants to pinch his younger selfās cheekājust like a certain doctor does, though she insists itās to ākeep him humble.ā. Nowadays, his title as the undefeated champion is only rivaled by how many times he can dodge Lucy's fists whenever he unconsciously picks her up. Itās become a routineāher standing on her tiptoes, stretching for something just out of reach, and him swooping in before she can so much as grumble. She's quick with her jabs, but heās quicker. The footwork he once honed in the ring is now reserved for avoiding the creaky spots on the painted wooden floorboardsāPiperās after-breakfast nap is sacred, and waking her up is a crime punishable by death or, at the very least, her pointed glare. His ālossesā pile up bottle by bottle, courtesy of Burniceās sticky fingers and her talent for swiping extra Nitro Fuel. She always claims victory in their drinking contests, though heās the one stuck carrying her home afterward. And sure, maybe he hums her favorite song while walking her back, but if anyone asks, heāll deny it outright. Then thereās the boss, still as loud and demanding as ever, though now he shoulders the oddly specific responsibility of keeping her stash of romance novels a secret. It's a heavy weight, in a way, but heād take a hundred bruises in the ring before heād let anyone find out about her guilty pleasure. Itās funny how things turn out. What started as a pit stop, just another stepping stone in his aimless journey, has become something he wouldnāt trade for anything. Each quirky routine, each odd connection, has woven itself into a life he never expected to want. Yet, some things still remain the same.
His posture relaxes as he soaks in the occasional breeze, letting it cool his skin before he comes to a stop. Itās the usual fanfareāsnickers and the grating sound of metal pipes dragging through the sand, a clear attempt at intimidation. He sighs, cracking his neck and adjusting his glasses with a practiced air of disinterest. Pulling his scarf up to cover his nose, he glances over his shoulder toward the group thatās been loitering on the outskirts of Blazewood for the past week. They donāt look particularly tough, their mismatched outfits and lack of coordination betraying their inexperience. Probably a newly formed gang, he guesses, especially since thereās no sense of camaraderie between the members. Theyāre all bravado and no bondālone wolves forced to share the same pack. He straightens up, hands slipping casually into his pockets as he sizes them up. Thereās no need to get too worked up over this. He has a party to attend.
A simple scare should have been enough to send them running for the hills, leaving the town in peace. At least, thatās how it should have gone. It should have started with a few taunts, the kind that barely even register on his radar. It should have escalated with the rival gang growing annoyed and one of them jumping the gun, rushing at Lighter with more ego than skill. It should have ended with him throwing two well-placed punches toward the leader, the crackle of fire igniting briefly in his gauntlets, enough to remind them who they were dealing with. And it should have concluded with them scattering like leaves in the wind, Lighter strolling back to the after-party with a few extra bottles of Nitro Fuel as a peace offering for showing up lateāthough he knows full well the girls wouldnāt have minded.
Thatās how it should have gone.
But then one of them had to open their mouth.
The words hang in the air like a bad omen, laced with an ill-advised threat toward a certain doctor. And for the first time in a long while, Lighter feels something snap.
The familiar burn of anger flares in his chest, spreading like wildfire. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling into fists without thought. The world around him blurs, his focus narrowing to the gang member who had the audacity to speak your name. He doesnāt hear the rest of their jeers; all he can hear is the pounding of his own heartbeat.
For the first time in what feels like forever, Lighter sees red.
"Lighter! Lighter, stop! Jeez, pull yourself together, you bullheaded prick!"
Your voice cuts through the haze, sharp and grounding, like a lifeline dragging him back from the abyss. Thereās a lot of blood. Too much. It stains the ground, splattered on his knuckles, pooling beneath the poor bastard who dared to run his mouth. The smell is what finally does it, sharp and metallic, twisting his stomach into knots. He stumbles back a step, his chest heaving, his mind reeling. His breaths are short and shallow, his vision swimming.
And then thereās you.
Youāre always thereāalways managing to catch him at his worst. Always steady when heās falling apart.
"Hey, hey, easy there," you say, your voice softening as you approach him. You raise your hands in a calming gesture, palms open, careful not to startle him further, "Look at me. I won't touch you but look at me. Right here, okay? Watch."
You inhale deeply, motioning with your hand as if to guide him.
āBreathe inā¦ā
He follows, though his breath is shaky and uneven.
āGood, now breathe out,ā you continue, exhaling slowly and mimicking the motion with your hand, āGood, good. You're doing well. One more time.ā
You repeat the steps, your tone patient and measured, until Lighterās chest stops heaving and the ringing in his ears fades. The blood-soaked street feels a little less suffocating, the weight on his chest a little less crushing. The sharp tang of blood begins to fade, replaced by the sterile cleanliness of your presence. His hands, still trembling, drop to his sides. The fight in him has ebbed away, leaving exhaustion and shame in its wake. He doesnāt meet your eyes, doesnāt say a word.
His first day and he's already gone and screwed it all up.
āJeez, you really did a number on him. Weāll need to patch him up,ā you mutter, crouching down to get a better look at the poor sap sprawled on the ground. Bloodās still dripping, his fellow gang members already fled with their tails tucked between their legs, but he's still breathing. You glance over your shoulder at Lighter, whoās standing there frozen, his fists clenched and his face an unreadable mask, āCome on, I donāt have the arm strength for this."
Lighter doesnāt move, doesnāt even blink. His shoulders are rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, like heās trying to make himself disappear. He's never reacted like this in a long while.
You sigh, standing up and stepping closer. Slowly, you reach out, and after a moment, he lowers his head, his posture deflating. His muscles tense as your hand makes contact, but he doesnāt pull away. Your fingers find his cheek, and with no hesitation, you pinch it. Hard. He flinches, more out of reflex than pain, and you feel the corner of your lips twitch upward.
āThere,ā you say, your tone lighter now, patting the same cheek you just pinched. Your thumb smooths over the faint red imprint left behind, and for a moment, the tension in his body seems to ease. Itās not much, but itās enough to break through the fog in his head. His shoulders drop a little further, his fists unclenching. He lets out a breath he doesnāt realize heās been holding, the weight of your touch grounding him just enough to find his footing again.
"What's got you so scared?"
A lot of things, if heās honest. Despite the cool and rough persona he wears as Lighter, the undefeated champion of the Sons of Calydon, heās scared of more than heād ever admit. He canāt stomach the sight of bloodāit churns his insides and makes his skin crawl. Heās painfully awkward in social situations, fumbling through conversations like a rookie boxer tripping over his own feet. He still messes up Caesarās name sometimes, even though heās been around long enough to know better. But none of that compares to the fear that grips him now. Heās petrified of losing the people he cares aboutāagain. That fear sinks its claws into him and doesnāt let go, dragging him back to memories heād rather bury. Itās why he builds walls, high and impenetrable, around all the words he never got to say. They sit there, locked away, heavy and suffocating, so he doesnāt have to face them or the pain they carry. What if those walls break? What if he lets you see whatās inside? Would you stay? Or would you run, leaving him stranded in the mess he doesnāt know how to fix? Worse, what if admitting he needs help means losing the little control he has left? Itās easierāsaferāto keep everything hidden. But as the silence stretches on, he wonders how much longer he can keep it all locked away.
"Yeah, well," you mimic in the same tone of voice, "You shouldn't have to."
Lighter realizes, a little too late, that heās been neglecting the plaster and glue holding his fortress together. For a long while, heās tuned out the sounds of crumbling debris and the sharp groan of widening cracks. Heās gotten so used to it, the noise faded into the background, like an annoying hum he could ignore. But when he finally looks up, his so-called fortress isnāt much of a fortress at all. Itās rubble nowāscattered cobblestones barely clinging together, a patchwork of failure. And yet, for the first time, he doesnāt feel the urge to grab a hammer and pickaxe, mix the concrete, and start stacking the stones again. It all seems like too much effort for something thatās bound to collapse, no matter how carefully he tries to build it. Whatās the point of piling up walls that are only going to be torn down again? For once, the more obvious choice feels⦠freeing. Maybe he doesnāt need to patch up every broken piece or keep retreating behind whatās left. Maybe, just maybe, itās time to leave it behind entirely. Time to walk up and out of the wreckage, away from the shoreline where heās been stranded for too long.
He knows itās inevitable. For the undefeated champion, he sure has been folding a lot. Itās embarrassing, really. Heās so screwed. Somewhere along the trek up the mountain, he tripped over a branch and fell onto the untraveled pathāand somehow, somehow, heās done the one thing he swore heād never do again. Heās in love. Opening up to the Sons of Calydon, letting them see into the tiny fissures of his heartāthat was one thing. But this? This is overkill. The worst part is that his body has decided, after years of running on autopilot, that this is his standard default. The switch to turn it off has rusted over, and now he canāt budge it even a little.
Heās grateful for his glasses; otherwise, everyone would know how his eyes always seem to linger on you, even when youāre all the way across town. How he quickly sits up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest, whenever you enter a room. How he moves his red scarf to cover his mouth when his lips start to curve too high, almost like a chipmunkās grin. How he breaks into an awkward sweat when he offers you help, terrified that you might reject himāgod forbidābecause if you do, heāll spend the whole night replaying it in his mind, over and over, like a broken record. And how Piper, knowing exactly how to get under his skin, will casually say your name just to watch him freeze, making his heart race all over again.
Before, when he decided to lie to himself and shove his emotions down deep, it was easy to embody that indifferent attitude. Now? Now things are different. When you tug at the ends of his sleeves, when he instinctively bends down to hear you whisper some teasing remark about his opponent, he can't help but let out a soft huff of amusement, his lips curving into a small smile he can't quite hide. When he's lounging on the couches during their many parties, arm sprawled out across the backrest, and you join him, leaning against his side, he used to barely register it, continuing to watch the festivities like it was no big deal. But these days, itās all he can focus on. The way your proximity affects him, the subtle shift in his attention when you're near. And then there are the check-ups. Donāt even get him started on those. Heās been half-dressed around you more times than heās been fully clothed, and now, suddenly, his body decides it wants to get embarrassed? Itās as if his mind finally caught up to whatās been going on, and heās not sure if heās more frustrated or flustered.
Whatās even worse is that he can tell youāre different now, too. Heās been in your orbit for so long, circling around the same familiar path, mostly because youāre always there, pulling him back when he drifts too far. You refuse to let him wander off, not entirelyālike youāre always keeping an eye on him, tethered to him somehow. But now, it feels like the strings are fraying. While he's finally starting to push forward, to test the limits of whatever's been silently building between you, youāre pulling away. And it sucks. It sucks in a way that gnaws at him, this dull ache in his chest that he canāt shake off. He wants to reach out, to bridge the gap, but itās like heās fumbling in the dark, and you're slipping through his fingers, even as you're right there.
As much as Lighter wants to give you 100% of his attention, he hasnāt gotten a wink of sleep. It's only a matter of time before the girls state an intervention and it doesnāt take long for them to corner him. No escape routes left, no way to dodge the inevitable. They close in, their grins wide and knowing as they make sure he has nowhere to go but to surrender. He tries to play it cool, shifting his weight from foot to foot, but the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. Finally, after what feels like hours of relentless teasing and subtle pressure, the words tumble out of him. Their championāLighter, the undefeated and untouchableāhad been crushing hard on their doctor. Sure, it took two hours of wrangling and dusty clothes, but in the end, they had their win. If you could even call it that.
"Wait, wait, officer, wait!" Lucy shouts, her voice filled with exaggerated disbelief. She even stamps her foot for emphasis, and her helmet slips askew from her dramatic movements, adding a comical touch to the scene, "You mean you're in the 'we might be more than friends in the feelings department, but still not in the confirmation phase' period? That's the most iffy period!"
"I guess so..." Lighter mumbles, still stuck on the floor beneath the combined weight of Burnice and Caesar. Heās desperately trying to worm his way out of their hold, but itās no use. The girls share a look that heāll never quite understandābecause apparently, women have this telepathic connection that they all seem to possess. They turn back to him, wide-eyed, as if theyāve just uncovered some huge revelation.
Ah. Those were the wrong words to say.
"Whaat?! What is this new development?! Why didnāt you tell us?!" Lucyās voice rises an octave, as her eyes gleam with excitement. She practically jumps up and down, trying to process the new information like a live-wire.
"When? Where? Who?!" Burnice fires off her questions faster than Lighter can even blink, leaning in so close that her face is dangerously close to his. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated with the thrill of gossip.
Then, Caesar clamps her hands on his shoulders, her usual carefree demeanor replaced by something much more serious. The intense gaze she locks onto him is a complete mismatch for her typical bubbly personality, making Lighter feel an unsettling tension.
"Are you being blackmailed?" she asks, her voice flat.
It was the wrong decision to let the girls know that he was crushing hard on the new hire. It started innocently enough, but soon enough, they forced him into their room for what they called a "girls' night," and it quickly escalated into a marathon of magazines with increasingly specific titles. He had barely survived the first few issues, which ranged from "How to Tell If Someone Likes You" to "What to Do When You're an Emotionally and Socially Repressed Individual Who Hasn't Felt the Touch of a Woman and You Don't Want to Come Off as a Creep and Get HR Involved." What the hell kind of magazine even has a title that long? Did the author do that by accident? Was that intentional?
All in all, what he's learned is that he needs to be more talkative, but not too muchājust enough so he doesnāt seem like he only cares about himself. But also, heās supposed to ask questions about you and show interest in your hobbies, but not too many questions because that could come off as probing. And then thereās the smiling part: he needs to smile more, but not too much teeth or it'll seem intimidating, but just wide enough so it looks natural.
He thinks he's going to ask Lucy if she can use his head as a baseball.
"That was... a lot sadder than I thought it would be," you say as the credits roll, the melancholic piano score lingering in the air like an unresolved question. The weight of the story hangs between you, tangible and heavy. It was a tale of two ill-fated lovers who never managed to align their lives, perpetually missing the timing needed for their relationship to truly blossom. And just when it seemed there might be hope, everything unraveled into a hollow, bittersweet endingāone slowly succumbing to corruption, and the other staying by their side despite knowing how it would all end, sacrificing their own happiness just to hold onto the fleeting moments they had left together.
The credits roll, but Lighter doesnāt really notice them. He leans forward, elbows digging into his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. The darkened screen in front of him might as well be a blank canvasāhis mindās elsewhere, swirling around the movieās ending, still echoing in his chest.
Itās funny, really. The story hit close enough to home that it shouldāve left him with that familiar ache, that gnawing feeling in his gut like it always did in the past. Two lovers caught in a cycle of bad timing, one slipping away while the other stays behind, trapped in a choice they canāt undo. Yeah, it shouldāve made him feel something, some kind of sorrow or regretābut it didnāt. He just feels⦠fine. Maybe thatās whatās bothering him. He knows he should feel more, but heās been through too much of that pain before, and heās not that guy anymore. Not the guy who drowns in what-ifs and could-have-beens. Heās learned how to move on. Heās learned how to survive the worst things life throws at him. A shift beside him brings him out of his thoughts. He glances over at you, your form curled up against the couch, arms wrapped loosely around the pillow. Youāre quiet, almost unreadable, but thereās something about you that makes him feel like heās not alone in the room. Like somehow, without doing anything, youāve managed to pull him from the edge of his thoughts and into this shared silence.
For a moment, he wonders if he should feel more disturbed by the movie, or maybe feel bad about how unaffected he is. Itās odd, like somethingās wrong because heās not torn up about it, because he's not emotionally wrecked. He glances back at the screen and sighs, but itās a different kind of sigh. Itās not regret. Itās relief.
Maybe the truth is, heās finally found some peace with himself. Sure, heās still haunted by some old ghosts, but they donāt have the same grip on him. Heās learned to live with the scars, to accept that he canāt control everything. He thinks thatās what the movie tried to say in the endāabout choice, about letting go, about moving forward even when itās hard. He watches you for a moment longer, his gaze lingering just enough for him to realize that youāre not just here, you're with him. Thatās enough for him. Thatās all he needs. Heās grown. Heās fine. His fingers twitch, still resting against his knees, but for the first time in a long time, heās not holding on to anything.
"Yeah," he finally says, his voice low and a little rough, "It hits harder than you expect, doesnāt it?"
"I don't know... I think the ending was kind of lame," you say, your voice cutting through the lingering weight of the movieās somber tone. You shift slightly in your seat, trying to find the right words to explain. "If I were stuck in the Hollow, I think Iād want to run out and keep living on in their memory, you know? Like, make it mean something. If I knew I was the reason my lover passed... Iād be kind of pissed."
Lighter, leaning back on the couch with his arms crossed, raises a brow at your comment. His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than usual, as though heās trying to figure out if youāre joking or not. When he speaks, his voice carries a faint hint of amusement. "So, dramatic sacrifices arenāt your thing, huh?"
"Itās not that," you reply, shrugging as you glance at him, "I just think... if someone gave up everything for me, itād feel wrong to waste it. Like, whatās the point of their sacrifice if I just give up too? Iād owe it to them to live a life thatās worth it, to make something out of it."
You glance away for a moment, the weight of your own words settling in. Itās a thought thatās been with you for a while, ever since you first realized how fleeting everything really is. People sacrifice so much, sometimes without even realizing it, and youāre not sure how you would handle knowing someone gave up everything for you. Could you live with that? Or would the guilt eat you alive? Thereās a deep part of you thatās always felt that need to honor those sacrifices, even if it meant carrying the weight of their legacy on your own shoulders. You meet his gaze again, but this time your expression is softer, less defensive. Itās not that youāre opposed to the idea of sacrificeāfar from it. You just want to make sure it isnāt in vain. And sometimes, it feels like the best way to show gratitude is to keep moving forward, no matter how hard it gets.
"I think you're a tiny bit biased," Lighter teases, tilting his head slightly, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and curiosity,
"What about you?" you counter, leaning forward just enough to rest your arms on your knees. Your gaze lingers on him, expectant and challenging, "If you were in that position, what would you do?"
Lighterās breath catches for a split second, and he shifts his posture, suddenly aware of the weight of your question. Itās a simple enough question, but the way you ask itāintense, unwaveringāthrows him off balance. His mind starts to race, torn between deflecting and actually answering. He leans back, crossing his arms loosely over his chest, trying to buy himself a little more time to come up with something smooth, but his usual quips feel hollow now. He takes a deep breath and looks away, out toward the window where the dirt and sand stretch on for miles. For a moment, heās quiet, too quiet. The easy confidence he usually projects feels distant, and the silence stretches longer than heād like.
Itās not that he doesnāt know what heād doāhe does. But the idea of voicing it out loud, especially now, with you watching him like that, makes him hesitate. He knows itās supposed to be a simple hypothetical, but everything feels like itās loaded with more meaning than it should.
"Iād like to give it a try," he says at last, his voice lower now, "The notion of dying for love."
You blink, momentarily stunned by the unexpected sincerity in his voice. For a split second, the usual teasing edge in his tone fades, replaced by something deeper and more vulnerable.
"Huh, really?" you ask, your brows lifting in genuine surprise, trying to piece together the shift in the atmosphere between you.
"Yeah," he responds, his posture shifting as he crosses one leg over the other, the usual air of nonchalance creeping back into his demeanor. He leans back just a little, the teasing grin returning to his lips, but it doesnāt quite reach his eyes. Thereās a flicker of something, a hint of something heās trying to keep buried beneath the surface, "Why so surprised, firecracker?"
You canāt help but smile at the nickname, but the weight of what he said lingers in the air, pulling your focus. You take a breath before speaking, your tone soft but firm, almost as if youāve been carrying the thought for a while. Your voice holds a quiet certainty, a belief that resonates with something deep inside you, "I don't know... I feel like you'd do everything you could to save the person you care about, or at least keep living in their memory."
His gaze falters for a moment, something flickering behind his eyes as your words settle in. Itās as though the impact of your statement lands heavier than he expected, like it cuts through the layers of his usual defenses and hits a raw nerve. It stings, more than he cares to admit. Thereās a strange ache in his chest, a tightness that only grows as he processes your words. Heās not sure why itās affecting him like this, but itās almost painful how close you always are to the truth. How easily you manage to sift through all the rubble, the chaos, the noise inside his head, and find the small, hidden pieces of gold buried deep within. It terrifies him a little, how you seem to understand him without him even having to try. How you can see past the walls heās so carefully built. He just hopes you donāt notice how tightly his jaw is clenched, or how his chest feels like itās about to cave in.
"Besides," you add, your voice softening as you meet his gaze. "I donāt want you to die. Iām sure your lover would think the same."
"Iāll try my best," he says with a half-hearted chuckle, though his voice betrays something deeper, something unspoken. "But, uh, no guarantees."
"Then, for both our sakes, I hope you never fall in love."
Ahā¦you might be a bit too late on that.
-+-+-
"I've fallen in love with you."
The words crash into the silence, sending a jolt through you that leaves your heart thumping erratically in your chest. You spin around, your eyes wide with surprise, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, time seems to stretch out. It takes him a beat longer than it should for him to realize what heās just said, the weight of it sinking in like a stone. The vulnerability in his words suddenly hits him full force, the tension between the two of you thickening in the space thatās opened up.
The words slipped out before he could stop them, an unexpected ease in their release, and now they hang in the air, heavy and undeniable. His heart stops for a moment, watching you, eyes wide like you've been struck by lightning. Everything seems to slow down, every detail in the roomāhow the light falls on your face, how your breath catchesāfeels magnified, as if the entire world hinges on this one, fragile moment.
And then it hits him. He actually said it. His stomach lurches, the realization settling deep like a rock in the pit of his stomach. He didnāt mean for it to come out so clearly, so openly, and now the consequences of his words hang over him like a storm cloud.
The silence that follows is deafening, and every second that ticks by only seems to stretch the space between you both, making it feel like the world is holding its breath. He scrambles mentally for somethingāanythingāto undo it, to take the words back, but it's too late. They're out there, raw and exposed. His pulse pounds in his ears, and suddenly the room feels too small, too suffocating. Did he say too much? Too little? Was it the wrong thing to say?
He watches you, frozen in place, his chest tight with uncertainty. This is it. The moment is already unfolding, and he canāt change it now. Itās out there, hanging like a thread between you both, waiting to unravel. He waits for you to speak, but the longer the silence drags on, the more he wonders if heās just made the biggest mistake of his life.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, and his eyes can't seem to pull away from you. Every inch of him wants to speak, to say something, anything that might undo the tension creeping up his spine. But nothing comes. His mind is blank, his throat dry, and he can feel the weight of your stare, both curious and uncertain. He half expects you to run, to say something that would make everything snap back into place, to laugh it off or tell him heās out of his mind.
But you donāt.
Instead, you stand there, still, your gaze not wavering. There's a moment where the world feels impossibly heavy and yet so, so fragile. His heart beats faster in his chest, a frantic rhythm he canāt control. His palms feel clammy. The longer you remain quiet, the more he feels like heās hanging off a cliff, just waiting for the ground beneath him to disappear.
But then, finallyāfinallyāyou take a breath, and the tension breaks, if only slightly.
"Iā¦" Your voice is soft, hesitant, as if you're still weighing the words that should follow his confession. Itās a quiet exhale, but it feels like itās shaking loose everything thatās been keeping you both in place. He watches you carefully, hanging onto every word, his heartbeat slow and deliberate now, the heavy silence between you hanging in the air like a fragile glass ornament about to shatter. What is she going to say?
"Are you dying?" you say and the world both tilts and rewinds, before sparks appear and it falls off the record player. He sincerely doesn't know how to respond to that. So he does the next best thing, honesty.
"Not that I'm aware of, I feel like you'd know that best doc."
"Ah sorry. That was the wrong thing to say. I...I didnāt think youādā¦" you trail off, eyes flickering to the floor briefly before meeting his again, something unreadable flashing in your gaze, "I didnāt think youād say that."
His chest tightens. It's not a rejection, but it's not exactly a declaration of reciprocation either. The uncertainty in your voice makes him want to take a step closer, to close the distance between you two, but he's terrified. Terrified that if he moves, heāll push you further away instead of bringing you closer.
"I didnāt either, I didn't plan for this," he admits, the words slipping out almost without him realizing it, "But yeah. I really like you."
"Oh..." you interrupt gently, your voice a mix of hesitation and something softer, more understanding, "... how long?"
Lighter freezes for a moment, the question catching him off guard. His eyes flicker toward the floor as he grapples with the weight of it, the answer to something he'd never really considered before now. How long had he been feeling this way? How long had he kept this locked up, buried under the surface?
"How long...?" He repeats your question, his brow furrowing as if heās just now realizing the depth of the situation. He takes a deep breath, letting the air settle in his lungs before speaking again, the words coming out slower this time, as if he's trying to find the right ones, "I donāt really know... a while. Longer than Iād like to admit, I guess."
He glances up at you, his gaze a little hesitant, but thereās something in it that wasnāt there before. Maybe itās the vulnerability thatās starting to seep through, or maybe itās just the raw honesty in his voice. Either way, he canāt help but wonder how much longer youāll stand there, waiting, as if expecting him to unravel in front of you. Your eyes search his face for any sign that youāve said the right thing, that youāve cracked open a door he might have kept shut for so long. But you just stand there, waiting for him to continue, your expression soft, almost... hopeful?
"You didnāt think Iād feel that way, huh?" Lighter asks, his voice betraying a hint of surprise, as if heās been caught off guard by his own admission. He lets out a slight, self-conscious chuckle, trying to smooth over the tension that still lingers in the air. Itās a bit forced, a little too casual, like he's trying to disguise the weight of the words he just shared. He rubs the back of his neck, his fingers brushing against the cool skin there, clearly unsure of what to do with himself now that the silence between you has shifted. "Guess Iāve been a little good at hiding it." He shrugs, though itās more of an awkward gesture than anything else.
You study him for a moment, watching as he fidgets, his eyes darting away for a moment before he looks back at you, like heās unsure of whether to keep speaking or leave it at that. Itās almost endearing how out of place he seems, trying to hide behind the nonchalance heās so good at, but itās not enough to mask the vulnerability creeping in at the edges.
"But... now that it's out there..." he trails off, as though the weight of his own admission is still sinking in. His voice falters just the slightest bit, and for a second, itās like the walls between you both crack just enough for something real to slip through.
"Yeah, now that it's out there..." you murmur, your voice quiet, almost contemplative, as you let the moment settle. Itās like something you both knew but hadnāt fully allowed to surface until now. The air feels different, almost lighter, as if the unspoken tension that had lingered between you for so long has finally found a release. Neither of you moves, both caught in that delicate pull of the moment. Thereās a strange sense of stillness, as if the world outside of this room has faded away, leaving only the two of you in this quiet, shared understanding. You donāt need to say anything more, not yet. But something has changed, something deeper than words. And neither of you knows exactly where to go from here, but it doesnāt feel as scary as it did before. It feels... natural, in a way. Like itās been building without either of you realizing it.
For once, you both just sit there, letting the silence stretch out, but itās different now. Itās not uncomfortable, not loaded with awkwardness. Itās the kind of silence that follows when something unspoken has been finally brought to light, and neither of you feels the need to rush to fill it.
Lighter clears his throat, his awkwardness creeping back in. "So, uh..." He scratches the back of his neck again, looking anywhere but at you. "I was wondering... since, y'know, weāve, uh... gotten that out of the way..." He pauses, clearly searching for the right words, but they don't seem to come easy.
He exhales slowly, the air caught in his chest like heās about to dive into cold water. "Would you maybe... want to go out sometime?" He stammers, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for a split second before darting away again. "Like, on a... date? Not that I'm... asking you to or anything... itās just... y'know, if you... want to."
You blink, surprised by the words but not exactly sure how to respond at first. Itās a question that catches you off guard in the best possible way, and you can feel the butterflies stirring in your stomach.
"Yeah," you say, your voice slightly higher than usual, betraying the nerves building up inside you. "I... Iād like that. A date, yeah."
Lighterās eyes widen for a moment, as though heās trying to process your response. Then, his face flushes, a mixture of relief and embarrassment flooding him all at once. He clears his throat again, looking anywhere but at you, as if heās trying to escape from the awkwardness of the moment.
"Alright, then. Iāll, uh... figure out the details." He shuffles awkwardly, hands in his pockets, clearly trying to regain some composure. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel, stiffly walking toward the door.
You, too, turn away at the same time, and the two of you end up facing the door, like a pair of statues frozen in your own awkwardness. Lighter grips the door handle, pausing for a second before pulling it open. His feet move on autopilot as he steps out, but as soon as the door closes behind him, heās hit with a wave of relief that comes crashing over him. He sinks to the floor, his back against the wall, hands pressed to his face as he lets out a groan, half-exasperated, half-relieved.
"Oh god," he mutters under his breath, his cheeks burning. Heās never been this embarrassed in his life, but at the same time, the pressure that's been building in his chest all this time lifts just a little. The nervous excitement of asking you out still lingers, and he laughs softly at himself. "What did I even say?"
On the other side of the door, you stand frozen, heart still thumping wildly in your chest. You let out a breath, shaky but relieved, and press your palm to your face. You feel like your entire body is buzzing with both excitement and embarrassment. That was... ridiculous. But at the same time, thereās this goofy grin spreading across your face, and you canāt stop it if you tried.
You lean back against the door, smiling to yourself. "Oh god," you murmur to yourself, eyes sparkling with a mix of nerves and happiness. "What just happened?"
And on both sides of the door, there's nothing but a goofy, content smile and the lingering sensation that something has shifted between you two.
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Not necessarily a tag list, but I remember you were all asking for a part 2. Here is your part 2 lovelies.