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shaiyasstuff · 15 hours ago

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how to accidentally catch feelings while baby-sitting a man-child | sylus

synopsis : You were just a quiet, book-loving college student trying to survive academia and avoid emotional damage—until Sylus crashed into your life like a hot, smug hurricane who never left. For two years, he flirted, slept on your couch, fended off frat boys, and called you “wifey,” while you convinced yourself it was all meaningless chaos. But after one drunken kiss, a fake date, and the shocking revelation that he remembers everything and actually meant it, you’re forced to confront the ridiculous truth: Sylus isn’t just hot and dumb—he’s hot, dumb, and hopelessly in love with you. And unfortunately? You might feel the same.

content : fluff, college!au, sylus being drunk(not really), crackhead energy writing, comedy

writer’s note : i had too much fun writing this, and i mean TOO much

It was a Saturday night—which, in your world, meant a sacred ritual of staying in your dorm, reading a good book, and letting Spotify decide your fate with its chaotic shuffle.

A peaceful, introvert’s haven.

Your roommate had long since abandoned you for brighter, sweatier pastures, hollering, “I’m gonna get laid tonight!” as she tottered out in an outfit that could’ve doubled as a napkin.

You’d only offered her a solemn nod and returned to your paperback and playlist, cocooned in your sofa bed like a content little hermit.

Nothing could disturb your peace.

Until something did.

A knock.

You blinked at the door. Once. Twice. Frowned. Who knocks past 10 p.m.? Who dares?

Your mind immediately went to one person—your best friend, Sylus. The same Sylus who had texted earlier, bragging about some frat party he was going to “grace with his presence.” You had rolled your eyes then.

You were rolling them again now.

Still, you peeled yourself from the embrace of your blankets with a martyred sigh.

“Coming,” you muttered like a wronged Victorian heroine.

And there he was.

Sylus, leaning on your doorframe like a drunken Greek tragedy. The unmistakable scent of alcohol hit you in the face like an offended slap.

“W-Wha—Sy??” you gasped, arms flailing as you caught his teetering form.

He slumped against you dramatically, mumbling something that suspiciously sounded like “Need… y-you,” into the crook of your neck.

Your entire spine straightened. Goosebumps. Betrayal.

“Again?” you asked, somehow dragging his dead weight into your dorm like a disgruntled EMT.

You dumped him onto the sofa, where he sprawled like a starfish in distress.

“How much did you drink?” you asked, already grabbing your emergency water bottle—standard best-friend-care protocol. You tilted it to his lips.

He tried to drink it sideways.

You sighed, loud and long. “Of course you’re useless.”

His eyes fluttered open just a crack as he sipped at the water, managing to prop himself up with one wobbly arm like he was posing for a very tragic Renaissance painting.

“You’re so… nice,” he slurred, dragging the word out with an attempt at a smirk that looked more like a sleepy grimace.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “Yeah, yeah. Save the drunk flirting for someone who didn’t just haul your dead weight off the hallway floor.”

This wasn’t your first Sylus Situation.

Probably wouldn’t be your last.

You and Sylus had met on the very first day of college. You’d been an eager, introverted bookworm just trying to get to your dorm before anyone could talk to you.

And then—bam—Sylus. Tall, cocky, and very lost, standing in the middle of the corridor looking as confused as a cat in a swimming pool.

He’d stopped you by physically planting one muscled arm across your path and declaring, with absolute seriousness, “I need help finding the toilet.”

A moment you would never forget, nor forgive.

You had rolled your eyes back then too—but still showed him the way, mostly because he had somehow clamped onto you like a gym-sculpted koala.

To this day, you had no idea why someone at age eighteen had the physique of a Marvel extra, but you had learned not to ask too many questions when it came to Sylus.

Especially when he was drunk and whispering compliments like you were the second coming of hydration.

Now, two years in, you and Sylus were pretty much inseparable.

Not exactly by your choice, of course. He had basically crammed himself into your life like a determined cat forcing its way into a box half its size—and then refused to leave.

Ever.

But you, being the kind-hearted, ever-patient soul that you were cough pushover cough, didn’t really complain. Much.

In his own chaotic way, Sylus had proven… useful.

He was your self-appointed human shield against overly confident frat boys who thought “You read? That’s hot” was a seductive line.

More than once, he’d slung an arm around you and declared, “She’s taken. By academia. Leave her alone.”

You, in turn, had helped him survive the academic hellscape that was calculus. Which mostly meant sitting beside him during study sessions and watching him squint at formulas like they were written in ancient Sumerian.

At one point he tried to bribe you with tacos to do his entire homework.

You took the tacos and still made him do it.

It was an odd, messy sort of friendship. One built on sarcastic banter, mutual blackmail, and late-night ramen runs.

And maybe—just maybe—a little too much unspoken something lingering in the quiet spaces in between.

Like right now, for example.

He blinked blearily at you from your sofa, shirt slightly rumpled, hair a tousled mess, water bottle still clutched like a lifeline.

“You know,” he mumbled, “you’d make a great wife.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Drink your water before I drown you in it.”

He grabs the bottle and downs it in one dramatic go, like he was auditioning for a Gatorade commercial.

Then he thrusts it back at you with all the triumph of someone who just solved world hunger.

“There. I finished it,” he announces, his arm swaying a little as he wobbles in place, clearly very proud of his accomplishment.

You roll your eyes but take the bottle anyway, muttering something under your breath about man-children and alcohol tolerance.

You place it on the table and then, with the kind of exasperated sigh that only comes from long-term best friend duty, plop yourself down next to him on the sofa.

He immediately slouches, his shoulder knocking lightly into yours, like his body had decided it belonged at a thirty-degree angle from yours. You don’t move.

It’s not like this is the first time he’s drunkenly ended up in your space.

Sylus had a talent for turning up half-conscious on your couch like some sort of overgrown housecat that went out, got into a fight, and came back demanding affection and snacks.

Still, as he leaned a bit closer, you caught the faintest scent of his cologne beneath the layers of beer and poor decisions.

That same one he always wore—the one you refused to admit you liked.

He gave a tired little groan and let his head loll toward you. “You’re warm,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. “Like… those fuzzy blankets. But with better insults.”

You blinked. “Thank you, I think?”

He gave a lazy grin, eyes barely open. “Anytime, wifey.”

You smacked his shoulder with a throw pillow.

“OW.”

You had to admit—though only internally, and only under very specific, delusional circumstances—you might have feelings for the guy.

Not that you’d ever admit it out loud. Absolutely not. You’d rather eat a raw onion whole.

Besides, you and Sylus were practically heaven and earth. He walked through campus like he owned the place, girls tripping over their own feet just to bat their lashes at him. Your dorm mate had been one of them, once.

Keyword, once.

That ended the moment she got bold and tried to drape herself all over him like a weighted blanket in heat.

Sylus, being the tactful gentleman he was, had responded by physically lifting her off and shoving her away with all the grace of a bouncer at closing time.

She hit the floor with a squeak and a very visible bruise forming on her hip.

You’d been mortified.

While Sylus looked mildly annoyed, you were busy apologizing profusely, scrambling to help her up while simultaneously smacking him on the arm.

“What is wrong with you?” you’d hissed.

“She was being gross,” he’d replied simply, like that was an acceptable answer. “And touching me.”

“She’s a human being, not a leech!”

“A touchy leech,” he muttered, unfazed.

That was the thing with Sylus.

He never asked to be popular. Girls just looked at him like he was the answer to all their bad decisions.

But you? You were the one dragging him by the ear out of messes he caused. The one making excuses.

The one covering for him when he showed up drunk or bailed on class or told a professor their quiz “was an act of violence.”

You were the constant.

And somehow, in a very twisted way, you were okay with that. Even if your feelings stayed buried beneath layers of sarcasm and very loud sighs.

Especially now, when he was leaning half-asleep on your shoulder, muttering something about you smelling like books and cinnamon and safety.

And damn it, you liked that too much.

Your expression softened despite yourself when you heard the soft, steady rhythm of Sylus snoring.

He had slumped a little more against your shoulder, completely out cold now, mouth slightly parted in the most annoyingly adorable way.

With a small sigh, you leaned forward, grabbing the throw blanket from the armrest and carefully draping it over both your laps. He didn’t stir.

Just exhaled, warm and slow against your collarbone.

You reached for your book again, flipping back to the page you had abandoned during The Great Drunken Entry of Sylus.

And then, as if summoned by the universe purely to torment you, your Spotify decided to betray you.

Under the Influence by Chris Brown began to play.

Your heart dropped straight to your stomach.

“Oh, no,” you whispered like you were in a horror movie and the killer had just creaked open the door.

Because you remembered the last time this song had come on while Sylus was drunk—less drunk than tonight, unfortunately.

That time, he had turned to you, eyes low and voice deep, and said with a completely straight face, “This song represents the things I want to do to you.”

You had choked on your drink. He had passed out shortly after.

You had spent three business days trying to pretend it never happened.

And yet, for some completely inexplicable reason, you never removed the song from your playlist.

Why?

That was a question for your therapist.

You shot a nervous glance at Sylus’s sleeping form. He twitched a little, mumbling something unintelligible.

“No, no, no, no,” you whispered under your breath. “Don’t you dare wake up.”

He let out a soft sigh.

You stared at your phone, debating if skipping the song would be too loud and risk waking him.

You decided to risk it.

Your finger hovered—then paused.

Because deep down, despite your better judgment, part of you wanted to hear what he might say if he woke up again.

And that was the real betrayal.

You scrambled through your playlist like a woman on a mission, muttering curses at your past self while frantically searching for something—anything—less incriminating than Chris Brown.

Eventually, you landed on something soft and unassuming, a gentle acoustic ballad that sounded like it belonged in a rainy café montage.

Peace.

At last.

You settled back in, the weight of Sylus still warm beside you, blanket tucked around your legs, your book finally resting in your hands again.

You exhaled slowly.

And then, without warning, the air was violently knocked out of your lungs.

“Wha—!”

One second you were comfortably seated.

The next, Sylus had flipped you flat on your back, your book flying out of your hands with a soft thud.

A startled yelp escaped your throat, legs tangled in the blanket, brain scrambling to catch up to the fact that you had just been ambushed.

He hovered over you, forearms braced on either side of your head, eyes half-lidded but open—definitely awake now. Great.

“Sylus!” you hissed, face heating. “What the hell?!”

“Shhh,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse, like he hadn’t fully emerged from dreamland yet. “You moved.”

“I was reading.”

He blinked slowly, eyes flickering across your face with an intensity that made your breath catch.

Then he mumbled, almost like a confession, “Thought you left.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I—Sylus, I live here.” You tried to squirm, but he just shifted closer, lowering himself so his forehead bumped gently against yours.

“You smell like lavender,” he whispered.

You were going to die. Right here. Of cardiac arrest and secondhand embarrassment.

“And books,” he added softly, eyes fluttering shut again. “You smell like home.”

Your hands hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure whether to shove him off or pull him closer.

You did neither.

Because the worst part?

You liked hearing that more than you should’ve.

“Why are you… so cute?” he slurs, eyes glassy and unfocused, his breath warm against your lips.

You barely had time to process the question—if it was a question—before he leaned in and slammed his lips against yours with all the grace and coordination of someone who definitely shouldn’t be operating heavy machinery.

Your brain short-circuited.

Yep. He’s super drunk tonight.

It wasn’t even a kiss, really.

More like a very committed face-plant. His lips mashed clumsily against yours, all instinct and zero finesse, like his drunk brain had gone, “Target acquired—initiate smooch protocol.”

You froze. Arms still mid-air. Eyes wide. Mind absolutely screaming.

It lasted all of two seconds before he let out a satisfied little hum and promptly collapsed against you like a human pancake, burying his face into the crook of your neck as if the kiss had been a casual prelude to nap time.

“…Seriously?” you croaked.

No response. Just light snoring and a very warm, very solid Sylus draped across your body.

You stared at the ceiling.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

You were definitely not blushing.

Not still feeling the ghost of his lips against yours.

Not wondering why the hell your heart was racing like you’d just run a marathon.

Nope.

Totally. Fine.

—•

The next morning, sunlight peeked through the blinds, warm and accusing. You blinked groggily, only to realize that your limbs were pinned.

Sylus was still slumped against your body, face buried in your shoulder, arm thrown around your waist like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues.

He was out, dead to the world, breathing softly like last night hadn’t been a whole fever dream.

You stared at him for a long moment.

Then, very carefully—like you were defusing a bomb—you began to wiggle out from under him.

One leg. Then the other.

You held your breath as you slipped free, standing over him like some war-weary survivor of battle. He didn’t stir.

Honestly, you were impressed. You could have probably vacuumed the room and he’d still be there, drooling peacefully.

You didn’t have time to process it. Class was calling.

And you had never gotten ready so fast.

By the time you made it to your seat, slightly out of breath and still pulling your hoodie over your head, your mind was already spiraling.

The lecture blurred into a series of droning syllables you couldn’t quite absorb.

Because God, you hoped he didn’t remember.

If he did—if he looked at you with that signature smirk and said anything about last night—your soul might physically evacuate your body.

You kept your head down, notebook open but blank, your pen frozen mid-air.

And still, your thoughts wandered.

Back to the feel of his lips on yours—sloppy, warm, unexpected.

Back to the sound of his voice, low and slurred, calling you cute like it was a sin he couldn’t forgive.

Back to the way your heart had reacted like it was hearing something it had been waiting for.

Your teeth grazed your bottom lip, and before you could stop yourself, you caught it gently between them. Just to see if you could remember.

And—damn it—you could.

Which was exactly the problem.

Class ended faster than you realized.

One moment you were lost in a daze of accidental kisses and existential dread, the next, students were filing out around you and your professor was reminding everyone about next week’s quiz that you absolutely did not hear.

You packed your stuff in record time and bolted, telling yourself you’d walk it off. Or compartmentalize. Or, ideally, both.

It was a crisp morning, birds chirping, sun shining, world spinning just fine without dragging your dignity behind it. You were just starting to calm down, your feet falling into a steady rhythm along the pavement, when—

An arm slung over your shoulder.

You stiffened like someone had just hit your internal panic button.

“Thanks for not waking me,” came a familiar, smug voice from your right, laced with far too much amusement for someone who had been drooling on your hoodie six hours ago.

You turned your head slowly—like in a horror film—and there he was.

Sylus.

Disheveled but well-rested. Hair tousled. Hoodie slightly crooked on his frame.

Looking every bit like someone who had zero regrets and somehow still got eight hours of sleep.

And worse?

He was smirking.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

Then you exhaled, long and slow, a rush of relief loosening your spine. “So… you don’t remember anything?” you asked as casually as you could.

His smirk deepened. “Nope.”

You nodded, clutching your bag a little tighter. “Good. Great. Fantastic.”

He glanced sideways at you, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You look tense,” he said, as if you weren’t actively reliving one of the most unhinged nights of your life.

You kept your face blank. “Do I?”

“Mm-hm.” He leaned in slightly. “We didn’t do anything weird, did we?”

Your soul briefly tried to exit your body.

You cleared your throat, gaze fixed straight ahead. “Define weird.”

Sylus chuckled, his grip around your shoulders tightening playfully. “Knew I could count on you to protect my innocence.”

You resisted the urge to shove him into a bush.

Because he didn’t remember.

And maybe that was for the best.

Right?

—•

Later that afternoon, Sylus had peeled himself away from your side with his usual casual flair, stretching like a cat and shooting you a wink over his shoulder.

“Got a date,” he’d called, walking backward with that insufferable grin. “Don’t miss me too much!”

You managed a forced smile, waving him off like it was no big deal.

But it was.

Because the moment he turned the corner, a sharp, unwelcome pang bloomed in your chest. It wasn’t jealousy—not exactly.

Just… something heavy. Something tight.

Something you couldn’t name without digging into places you weren’t quite ready to go.

You sighed, long and low, and forced your feet toward your next class, pretending that maybe you’d feel better if you just kept moving.

Spoiler, you didn’t.

Classes passed in a blur, lectures droning like white noise in the background.

You tried to focus, really, but your mind kept drifting—back to last night, back to his weight against you, his breath on your neck, the taste of his lips.

Back to the way he didn’t remember.

And now here he was, out on a date, completely unaware of the emotional chaos he’d left you in.

You returned to your dorm that night with your brain fried and your heart somewhere under your shoe.

You flopped onto your bed face-first, ready to disappear into the mattress forever, when your phone buzzed.

Sy: getting drunk again tonight lol

You groaned, dragging your pillow over your head like it could block out both the light and your bad decisions. You tossed your phone aside with more force than necessary.

“He better not come here again tonight,” you muttered to yourself.

But even as you said it… a tiny, traitorous part of you kind of hoped he would.

And that was the worst part.

Of course he did.

Because why wouldn’t he?

You stared at the door for a solid five seconds after the knock. It was almost comedic at this point.

Like the universe had a twisted sense of humor and Sylus was its favorite punchline.

You dragged yourself up, already exhausted before you even turned the knob.

And there he was.

Leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t been out on a date just hours ago, like he hadn’t already hijacked your emotional equilibrium last night.

The now-familiar scent hit you immediately—his signature cologne, warm and clean, now drowned under the unmistakable sting of alcohol.

Not subtle this time.

He smelled like he’d gone swimming in a cocktail shaker.

He grinned at you, lazy and lopsided. “Hey, wifey.”

You stared at him. Blinked once.

Then sighed. “I literally said, ‘He better not come here again tonight.’”

He tilted his head. “But I always come here.”

You resisted the urge to bang your head against the doorframe. “You have a room. A perfectly good room.”

“But yours has you in it,” he said, like it was the most logical argument in the world.

And just like that, your heart did the thing again—the flutter, the ache, the full-body sigh of someone dangerously close to caring too much.

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him stumble in and flop onto the sofa with all the grace of a drunk swan.

He missed the armrest entirely and groaned into your throw pillow.

You closed the door.

“Don’t throw up on anything,” you warned.

“Never,” came his muffled reply. “I have standards.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure you do.”

As you fetched the water bottle—again, you glanced over at him. Hair a mess, face flushed, shoes still on.

And yet, somehow, despite it all—despite the alcohol and the chaos and the absolutely maddening way he lived inside your head—he still looked like home.

And that was the problem.

You sighed—again—and knelt beside the sofa, already in caretaker mode. It was routine now. Predictable. You unscrewed the cap of the water bottle with one hand and gently lifted it to his lips, not even bothering to ask this time.

But tonight was different.

Because he didn’t drink.

He didn’t even move.

He just stared at you.

Silent. Still.

Your brows furrowed as you held the bottle there, confused. “Sylus,” you said softly, nudging the rim against his bottom lip.

Still nothing.

You looked up, properly meeting his gaze—and froze.

He wasn’t out of it this time. His eyes, though glassy, were clear. Awake. Watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

Your hand slowly lowered the bottle.

“What?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

His head tilted slightly against the pillow, eyes never leaving yours. “You were biting your lip in class today.”

You blinked. “Wha—how do you even—?”

“I wasn’t that drunk,” he murmured, almost like an apology.

Your heart dropped.

He remembered.

The kiss. The things he said. The way he collapsed on you like you were something he could fall into without consequence.

He remembered everything.

Your voice caught in your throat. You straightened up a little, putting distance between you. “You said you didn’t remember.”

He smiled faintly. “I lied.”

And just like that, the air shifted—heavy, warm, dangerous. The room felt smaller. Your heart louder.

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t.

You just stared back, bottle still in your hand, feeling everything you’d tried to bury clawing its way to the surface.

He sat up with a sigh, rubbing a hand through his hair as if he could shake off the tension clinging to the air between you.

You watched him closely, bottle still in your hand, heartbeat pounding like a warning.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you—and said quietly, “I didn’t go on a date.”

Your brows lifted.

“I didn’t even drink tonight.”

That made you pause.

You stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly. And?

Your expression said it all. So?

He shifted, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced like he needed something to hold onto.

His frown deepened, not from annoyance but from something far more raw.

“Don’t you get it?” he asked, voice softer now—less teasing, more real.

You blinked.

No smirk. No sarcasm.

Just Sylus, stripped of his usual bravado, staring at you like he didn’t know what else to say—like the weight of what he felt had finally grown too heavy to carry without showing it.

And suddenly, everything felt louder.

The silence. The breath you didn’t take. The confession waiting just on the other side of his words.

Because maybe… you did get it.

You just weren’t sure you were ready to.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face in frustration like he couldn’t believe he was having to spell it out.

“Come here,” he muttered under his breath—low, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

But before you could even react, his hands were on either side of your face, warm and certain, pulling you toward him.

And then—he kissed you.

Not like last night.

Not messy or sudden or slurred with alcohol and adrenaline.

This kiss was different.

It was gentle. Intentional. His lips moved slowly against yours, like he was trying to say everything he hadn’t had the courage to say out loud.

Like he wanted you to feel it—feel him.

There was no rush. No stumble. Just soft, quiet honesty.

Your hands, unsure at first, slowly rose to grip the front of his shirt. His thumb brushed along your cheek, steadying you, grounding you.

And for a moment, the noise in your head stopped.

No questions. No what-ifs. Just the feeling of him—real, solid, and heartbreakingly tender.

When he finally pulled away, barely an inch, his forehead rested lightly against yours, breath mingling with yours in the stillness between you.

“I remember everything,” he whispered.

“And I meant all of it.”

“I’ve liked you for a long time.”

The words settled between you like something fragile and warm, and terrifyingly real.

You barely had time to absorb them before he sighed, shaking his head with a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated.

“For someone who’s considered a nerd,” he muttered, thumb brushing against your cheek again, “you’re so stupid.”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “Excuse me?”

He gave you a look—the one that always came right before he said something that would both annoy and fluster you to death.

“You seriously didn’t notice? Two years of me practically living in your room, fending off every guy who looked at you twice, ‘accidentally’ falling asleep on your shoulder, telling you a Chris Brown song described what I wanted to do to you—”

“I thought you were drunk!” you hissed, flushing.

“I was,” he admitted, smirking. “But that doesn’t mean I was lying.”

You stared at him, heart a riot in your chest.

He leaned in again, voice softer now.

“I liked you even before I knew what to call it. When you helped me find the toilet on the first day, and I thought, ‘Well. That’s it. Guess I’m not letting her go now.’”

You blinked, wide-eyed. “That was… the first day of college.”

“Exactly.” He grinned, nose brushing yours. “And you’re just now catching up?”

You opened your mouth to argue. Nothing came out.

He laughed under his breath, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. “God, you’re lucky you’re cute.”

You were still staring at him, wide-eyed, frozen in the moment like your brain had blue-screened.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

You had so many things to say, but your thoughts were tripping over each other in the hallway of your mind, arms full of emotional baggage.

He just chuckled.

Low. Warm. Smug.

That infuriating smirk curved at the corner of his lips again, the one that always spelled trouble and somehow still made your heart flutter.

“You really are slow,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Guess I’ll just have to make it clearer.”

And before you could process that ominous statement—

He kissed you again.

But this time, it wasn’t sweet or tentative.

This kiss was deeper. Hotter.

Full of all the pent-up feelings he clearly hadn’t been hiding as well as you thought.

He pressed you back into the sofa, one hand cradling the side of your face while the other slid around your waist like he already knew he belonged there.

You gasped softly against his mouth, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, body reacting faster than your brain could.

And he groaned—low in his throat, like just the sound of you was enough to unravel him.

He pulled back only a breath’s distance, lips barely brushing yours, voice rough. “Still think I’m joking?”

You couldn’t think at all.

And maybe, for once, that was okay.

You didn’t answer him.

You couldn’t.

Because the second your breath hitched, the second your lips parted like you might say something—he kissed you again.

And this time, it wasn’t hesitant.

It was consuming.

All heat and hunger and tension finally unraveling between two people who had been orbiting each other for far too long.

Sylus pressed you further into the cushions, his body aligned with yours like he belonged there. Like this had always been inevitable.

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, fingers curling just enough to make you shiver, while his mouth moved against yours with growing urgency—soft and then firm, teasing then demanding.

Your hands were in his hair before you even realized, pulling him closer, needing more. He groaned into the kiss, low and strained, like he’d been holding himself back for too long.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with restraint. “Always walking around in those stupid sweaters, acting like you don’t know what you do to me.”

You whimpered as his mouth trailed along your jaw, down the slope of your neck, finding that spot just below your ear that made your back arch slightly into him. His name slipped out of you before you could stop it—breathy, half-plea, half-warning.

He stilled for half a second, like he needed to hear it again.

“Sylus,” you whispered, and just like that, the last thread of control snapped.

His hands were under your sweater now, fingers splayed across your waist, not rushing—just feeling. Like he wanted to memorize you. Commit every inch of you to memory.

You gasped when his lips found yours again, this time slower, deeper. As if he were trying to tell you something he didn’t quite know how to say.

And in between every kiss, every breath, every graze of skin, you heard it loud and clear.

I want you.

I’ve always wanted you.

Only you.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, lips tingling, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.

Your hands were still fisted in his shirt, your bodies still pressed close, but you needed a second—needed to breathe. Because what the hell just happened?

“Holy shit,” you whispered, voice raw and dazed.

Sylus stilled, eyes searching yours, flushed and breathless. “Too much?”

You shook your head, still trying to catch your breath. “No. I just…”

Your brows furrowed, a stunned laugh escaping you.

“I’ve been walking around thinking you didn’t feel the same for two years?” you said, incredulous, voice cracking on the last word.

Sylus blinked, then tilted his head slightly, a small, helpless smile tugging at his lips. “You seriously didn’t know?”

“You hid it ridiculously well!”

“I practically moved into your dorm.”

“You ate my snacks and called me wifey. That’s not a confession, that’s just being annoying.”

He laughed, the sound husky and breathless. “I flirted with you constantly.”

“I thought that was just your default setting! You flirt with the barista.”

“I don’t press her against the sofa and kiss her like I’m about to lose my mind,” he muttered, his voice low, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Only you.”

Your heart clenched, hard.

The air between you shifted again, softer now—less fire, more gravity.

He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. “You really didn’t know?”

“I didn’t want to know,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “I thought… if I hoped too much, I’d ruin it.”

His fingers curled gently around the side of your neck, grounding you. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

You opened your eyes and found him looking at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense to him.

“I’ve been yours,” he said quietly, “since the first day you showed me where the toilet was.”

You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh—and kissed him again.

This time, you didn’t stop.

You kissed him like you were catching up on everything you hadn’t let yourself feel.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for this moment since that first awkward hallway encounter.

There were no more games. No more pretending. Just whispered names and stolen breath, soft laughs between kisses, and the feeling of finally, finally being seen.

By the time you fell asleep tangled in each other on the sofa—his hand on your waist, your head tucked under his chin—it was quiet.

Not the lonely kind.

The peaceful kind.

The kind that only comes when you’ve stopped running from something… and finally let yourself fall.

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