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vibelladonna · 2 days ago

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✑ 𝒶𝓁𝑜𝑜𝒻 𝜗𝜚 𝓉𝓀𝒶𝓉𝒷 𝓂𝑒𝓃

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: The TKATB men have never met anyone like you—the calmest person they’ve ever encountered. No big deal. Your RBF makes it impossible to get a reaction, and they’re all baffled.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

It’s honestly kind of impressive how you can make them work for every ounce of emotion. But they’ll admit—it’s also kind of refreshing. Your calm presence is like a buffer from the madness they’re used to, and they kind of love it… even if they’d never admit it out loud.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

The Savior Who Can’t Save You from Chill

You don’t flinch. Ever.

That’s the first thing Crowe noticed. Not when the fire alarm went off. Not when Brittany tripped and spilled her entire iced mocha down your shirt. Not even when Geo elbowed you in the face while pushing Deryl back from eating his lunch.

Crowe made Deryl and Geo to at least sorry. You just blinked—slow, tired—and mumbled something like, “It’s fine.” And it bothers him.

Not because you’re rude. You’re not. You’re polite enough. Just… chill. Like emotionally bulletproof. And Crowe? Crowe’s used to people being a little shaky around him—he’s Crowe.

The prince is used to people reacting to him.

A smile, a blush, a flustered stammer when he offers to carry a book or holds the door. It’s not about ego—at least, he tells himself it’s not. It’s just the natural rhythm of things. Crowe moves with practiced ease, a calm kind of charisma that draws people in without ever asking for it. He doesn’t push, doesn’t brag. He just is—that rare mix of reliable and graceful, a warm presence in a chaotic world.

So when you walk through the door he’s holding open—without so much as a glance, much less a thank-you—he freezes. Literally stands there, hand still on the metal handle, blinking at the spot where you just were like someone paused his internal monologue. You don’t even slow your pace.

You just keep walking, headphones in, expression unreadable.

Like he’s the background and not the highlight.

He tries to brush it off. Maybe you didn’t notice him. Maybe you were late for class. Maybe—No. He watches people. He reads people. And you?

You’re a blank page.

The next morning is crisp—fall air slipping into campus with the kind of bite that turns breath to fog. Crowe finds you sitting on the edge of the outdoor fountain, legs crossed, absorbed in whatever cryptic thing is on your phone. Your sleeves are short, your fingers look cold, and the sunlight’s making your hair glow like it was painted there.

He walks up casually, jacket folded over one arm, pretending he hadn’t planned this down to the exact minute. “Cold?” he asks, tilting his head slightly, tone easy, eyes warm.

You glance at him, then at your own arms. One blink. Then two. “Nope.”

He stands there for a second, stunned by the sheer finality of the answer. No one has ever said no to him—to his kindness, beauty. No awkward fidgeting. No grateful smile. Just… denial and calm. “Right. Yeah. Just, uh…” He shifts on his heels, scratches the back of his neck. “Thought I’d ask.”

You nod and return to your phone, not unkind—just done with the interaction.

He walks away with the jacket still in hand and the gnawing suspicion that you’ve just bested him in a game he didn’t know he was playing.

A few days later, he sees you in the student café. Alone, as usual, tucked into the corner by the window, notebook open, pen tapping a steady rhythm that somehow keeps people away. He buys an extra muffin. Your favorite—your choice, the fancy one with the crumb topping. He knows you like it because he saw you buy it once.

‘Okay, maybe he noticed what time you usually get it, too. Shut up.’

“Hey,” he says, setting it gently on your table. “Messed up my order. Want it?”

You glance at the muffin. Then at him. Your stare is so flat it makes him briefly forget every word he’s ever known.

“You messed up your order?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “…No. I—yes. Yes, I did.”

You take it. Say, “Thanks.” No sarcasm, no side-eye. Just… neutral. You don’t smile. You don’t even blink like you’re amused. You just go back to your notes.

He walks away smiling anyway—because you took it. That’s progress, right?

He also dramatically dies inside. Just a little.

Few days afterwards, funny enough, you trip down the library stairs.

Crowe sees it happen across the atrium—he’s halfway to the reference desk when you misstep, the heel of your boot catching on the edge of the marble step. Time slows. Your notebook spirals out of your hands. Your bag swings wildly. A rogue water bottle rolls away like it’s been cast out of the narrative entirely.

You hit the ground in a quiet oof, knees first.

He’s already moving. Books left behind, he jogs to you, panic in his eyes and his brain screaming ‘Finally! Something happened!’

“You okay?!” he asks, crouching beside you, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he’s afraid touching you might vaporize him.

You sit up calmly. Smooth down your clothes. Reach for the water bottle without flinching. “Yeah,” you say.

He blinks. “You sure? You kind of went airborne.”

You shrug. “Yup.”

He stares at you, speechless. There’s a faint red mark on your knee and you’re brushing it off like a leaf fell on you. “…Okay,” he finally mutters, watching you stand like nothing happened. Like you hadn’t just face-planted in front of a fully stocked vending machine and half the second-year students.

You walk off with the same quiet grace you always have.

Crowe stands there a little longer than he should, holding your notebook because you forgot it. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe you wanted him to follow.

He hands it back to you in the hallway twenty minutes later.

You thank him with a slow blink. Nothing more.

That night, he’s flat on his back in bed, one arm over his forehead, staring up at the ceiling like it has the answers he needs.

“What are you?” he whispers, completely serious.

There’s no follow-up. No resolution. Just silence, and the distant sound of a campus raccoon raiding the trash cans below his window.

He doesn’t know why he cares so much. But he does.

You’re unreadable. Unshakeable. Like a test with no key. A poem with no ending. Everyone else clings to him like a lighthouse, but you? You are the storm. Controlled. Contained. A force all your own.

And the worst part?

He kind of wants to stand in the rain a little longer.

The next day, you're on the quad. Legs crossed in the grass. Back to a tree. Book in hand. One headphone in, the universal signal for do not engage unless you're bleeding out or on fire.

Naturally, Crowe takes this as a personal invitation.

You hear his steps before you see him—those calculated, almost-too-casual footfalls of someone pretending they’re not rehearsing what to say. He halts a few feet away, and for a second, just... looms.

You don’t look up. Yet.

He shoves his hands in pants pockets, scuffs his dress shoes against the grass like a boy with a crush, and clears his throat. “You’re really hard to read, you know that?”

You glance up from the page, face blank. Not annoyed, not curious. Just blank like always. “Thanks.”

His brows knit. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

You nod once, slow and deliberate. “Still sounds like one.”

Crowe’s mouth opens—closes—then opens again like his brain’s buffering. Poor thing. Still booting up. Finally, with all the drama of a Shakespearean side character, he exhales and drops beside you in the grass without being invited. Arms crossed. Shoulders tight. Like sitting near you is some kind of emotional workout. Such dramaticness. You can practically hear the mental soundtrack playing behind those eyes.

“So here’s the thing,” he begins, clearly rehearsed. “I’m usually pretty good with people. Not in, like, a manipulative way—well, okay, sometimes, but only with people who deserve it. Our frined group, mostly. But I get people. I can tell when they’re lying, or stressed, or hiding something.”

You don’t look up from your book, but one eyebrow rises like a drawbridge.

Encouraged, he keeps going. “But you? You’re just... I don’t know. Blank. Stoic. Like a final boss I don’t have the right weapon for. I’ve tried friendliness, food, mild acts of chivalry—”

“Your jacket smelled like blueberry cologne,” you say, suddenly and flatly.

Crowe freezes. “...What?”

You finally look up. Deadpan. “That’s what you offered. When you asked if I was cold. It smelled like you.”

“Oh.” His voice cracks. “You... noticed that?”

You blink. “You’re not exactly subtle. You hovered like a fruit-scented ghost.”

He looks like you shot him through the heart with a Nerf gun laced with pheromones. “I—I was just trying to be helpful.”

“Mhm.” You close your book slowly, deliberately. “It’s sweet. Really.”

Then, almost too casual, you add, “Though I wasn’t sure if smelling like you all day was part of the offer.”

Crowe chokes on absolutely nothing. His ears go pink. “W-what?! I mean—only if you want to smell like me. Not that—I mean—if that’s a bad thing, you don’t have to, obviously, I just—”

You reach over and tap his cheek. Not a slap. Not even a pat. Just... tap. Enough to fluster. Enough to win. He goes still like prey spotting a predator with killer eyeliner and a book collection.

“You’re cute when you malfunction,” you say simply, standing. “Anyway. Class.”

You sling your bag over your shoulder, step over his legs like he’s just part of the scenery now, and pause only once, glancing down with the faintest glimmer of mischief in your eyes.

“Oh. And Crowe?”

He blinks up at you, dazed.

“If I ever want your jacket again…” You let the silence draw long. Too long. Then: “...I’ll let you spritz it first.”

And with that, you walk off like you didn’t just fry every circuit in his brain.

Behind you, Crowe is still sitting in the grass, blinking at the space you left behind, probably questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

And for now? That’s enough.

I genuinely had no idea where I was going with Crowe’s part—but it accidentally became hilarious. He was supposed to have you wrapped around his finger, and somehow he ended up being the one simping. Iconic reversal, really.

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

The Poor Emo didn’t know what to do with you.

Sol remembers the first time he saw you in art class like it was a dream that never ended. You were already there when he walked in—seated in the back corner, half-hidden by your sketchpad and an expression so unbothered it might’ve been carved from marble.

It was as if you’d always existed in that exact spot, like some cryptid of academia, and he had just stumbled into your domain. His brushes clattered to the floor the second he saw you.

"Cool, cool," he muttered under his breath, "starting strong."

You didn’t even glance up.

He didn’t flinch when he knelt to retrieve his things, and he promptly slammed his forehead into the underside of the table with a loud thunk.

Didn’t blink when he whispered a pained “Ow. I meant to do that.”

And when he finally slid into the empty seat beside you, limbs too long and heart already sprinting, you barely tilted your head.

“...Hey,” he tried, voice cracking. “I’m Sol. Short for Soulmate, probably.”

You gave him a slow blink, as if rebooting.

He laughed nervously. “Kidding. It’s just Sol. Though, I mean—who knows what the future holds, right?”

You said nothing. Instead, you turned a page in your sketchbook with surgical precision and kept drawing. Like he was background noise. Like he was the weird one for assuming the laws of social interaction applied here.

Sol, naturally, took that as encouragement.

He tried to charm you the only way he knew how—through relentless talking and spiraling oversharing. Romantic poets, brushstroke theory, historical anecdotes, the emotional symbolism of color palettes—anything and everything to fill the void.

“So, uh—fun fact—did you know Lord Byron kept a pet bear in college because dogs weren’t allowed?”

You looked up for half a second. “That’s illegal.”

“I know, right? It’s also... kinda iconic.”

You returned to your sketch like nothing happened. He kept going.

“Anyway, I was thinking... blue tones are, like, emotionally repressive, but not in a bad way? Like melancholy chic. Y’know? No? Okay. That’s fine. Totally fine. Normal people definitely rehearse conversations in their heads and still crash them in real time.”

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t scoff. You just nodded once—slowly, deliberately—as if approving a particularly decent worm trying its best to be a butterfly.

Sol nearly combusted.

At first, he thought you hated him. Genuinely. You didn’t play along, didn’t mirror his awkward charm, didn’t even glance at him unless it was absolutely necessary.

But then he noticed. You didn’t leave.

You let him sit there, let him talk, let him trip over every thought and still never pushed him away. It wasn't indifference—it was something else. Something slower. He caught you looking once. Just once. Your gaze flicked over him like a scalpel, sharp and calculating.

You weren’t ignoring him. You were... assessing him.

And that terrified him. And thrilled him.

Because for someone like Sol—messy, frantic, stitched together with caffeine and nerves—you were gravity. You were the calm his chaos gravitated toward. A steady, unmovable center that refused to be shaken.

Which made you dangerous.

And Sol? Sol loved dangerous.

At first, he thought you hated him. Genuinely. You didn’t laugh at his jokes, didn’t meet his red-orange eyes, didn’t play along with his awkward charm. But you also didn’t leave. And that confused him more than anything.

Because eventually he noticed: your calm wasn't cold. It was steady. You were steady. Unbothered. A lighthouse in the middle of whatever storm he happened to be caught in. And for someone like Sol—messy, frantic, soft-hearted and always bleeding ink—that steadiness became addictive.

It wasn't long before the little things started to gnaw at him, quietly, persistently. The way you never seemed to notice how he always positioned himself near you, how his eyes would linger just a little too long on the curve of your jaw or the delicate way your fingers worked the charcoal. The way you would retreat into your own world, perfectly content in your silence, while his thoughts spun in circles around you.

The worst part? He wanted you to notice him.

To acknowledge him. To demand more of him than the fragmented attention he gave everyone else. But you never did. And it made him want you more.

He didn’t want to spook you. No, he couldn’t. You were... perfect in your distance. But the more he watched, the more he needed to know what made you tick. What would break that serene surface. The more you ignored him, the more desperate he became to make you see him. To make you need him, even if it was only for a second.

At first, he just followed you.

Secretly, of course. It wasn’t stalking—he told himself. It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t lurking in shadows with binoculars and a notebook (not yet anyway). It was more like… research. Observation. Field study. Like watching a rare animal in the wild—beautiful, elusive, unknowable.

Sol liked the idea that you existed beyond the confines of art class. That you had habits. Routines. Favorite vending machines and preferred park benches. He liked that you always ordered the same thing from the café but never stayed long. That you read with your headphones in but never played music loud enough for anyone to hear. He liked that you existed without explanation.

And when he saw you outside of class, his heart stuttered like a broken metronome. It wasn’t on purpose, not really. You just happened to be there. The bookstore near the station. The flower shop on 9th. The rooftop of the humanities building that was technically off-limits—technically.

If he ended up at the same places too often? Coincidence. If he lingered longer after you left, just to breathe the same air a few more seconds? Sentimentalism. If he started learning your routes by memory and adjusting his own schedule accordingly? Efficiency. Obviously.

It wasn’t stalking if the universe kept putting you in his path, right?

Funny enough, you never confronted him. Never called him out. You just... let it happen. Like the background hum of a streetlight—acknowledged but ignored. He’d sit a few seats behind you on the train. Enter the café ten minutes after you. Browse the same shelves, always three paces behind. Watching you exist in your natural, quiet way, all controlled expressions and slow blinks.

You didn’t hide yourself, but you didn’t invite him either.

You just… let him orbit. And for a while, that was enough.

Until one day, when you sat at your usual café table, bathed in the golden light of a late afternoon, sipping your overpriced tea and flipping pages like time didn’t exist—you spoke.

Without looking up. Without pausing your reading.

Just a casual, flat, clinical: “Are you following me?”

Sol’s soul left his body.

He short-circuited so hard he nearly dropped the biscotti he had dramatically not ordered because you didn’t order food either. Panic. Internal screaming. A brief debate about faking his own death and moving to another continent.

But then—then—you looked at him. Really looked at him.

And it was worse than if you’d glared. Because you weren’t angry. Or surprised. Or even remotely scared. You were just… curious. Calm. Like someone noticing the weather had shifted. Your eyes, unreadable as always, flicked over him like you were mentally cataloging a strange insect that had landed on your table.

Not threatening. Not interesting. Just there.

He swallowed. Hard.

And Sol smiled. That awkward, nervous sort of grin people wear when they’ve already been caught but want to pretend they haven’t.

“Wh—what? Me? Following? No. Nooo. I mean… maybe. In a very casual, non-criminal way. Like a—like a background character! Like a pigeon! Not a creepy pigeon. A chill pigeon. You know?”

You didn’t even flinch. Just turned the page of your book with a slow, deliberate grace and sipped your tea like he was nothing more than background noise.

“Well,” you said without looking at him, voice as flat and unaffected as ever, “as long as you don’t kidnap me, I don’t care.”

Sol blinked. The world stilled.

You never looked back at him again.

And that—that—was the moment he truly lost it. Fell for you in a way that was all-consuming. Rabid.

You knew. You always knew.

And you let him follow anyway.

The first time you invited Sol over, it wasn’t a declaration—it wasn’t even an event. It was casual. Offhand. “I’ve got some books you might like. Come by. Bring tea.” You didn’t ask. You instructed. And of course, he came. Eager. Polished. Carrying your favorite tea—of course he knew what it was. He knew everything.

You greeted him like he was just another parcel at your door. Unwrapping nothing. Revealing nothing. Your apartment was neat, quiet. Like you. Sparse color. Dim lighting. Shadows where light should be. He liked it. Too much.

He sat on the floor beside your low table, sketchbook on his knee, eyes flicking to you over the edge of his pencil. You read, as always—expression unreadable, fingers trailing over pages as though the words whispered only for you.

He wanted to interrupt it.

He wanted to destroy the calm you wore like armor. Wanted to know if you'd tremble. If you'd crack. If you'd shatter the way he had. But you didn’t.

You stayed composed. Mute. Unbothered by his fidgeting, his glances, the way his leg bounced and his pupils tracked your every move.

You were halfway through unpacking the books when the buzzer went off.

“Food’s here,” you said, glancing at the intercom, voice devoid of urgency.

Sol looked up from his spot on the floor, sketchbook balanced on his knee. “Want me to get it?”

You shook your head, already moving toward the door. “Nah. Just make the tea, will you? The kettle’s already hot.”

He nodded a little too quickly. “Of course.”

And you were gone.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the atmosphere shifted. He stood slowly, eyes scanning the room before drifting toward the kitchen.

Your favorite blend sat prepped beside the stove—chamomile and lavender, faintly sweet, soothing.

The kind of flavor you described once as "a bedtime story in a cup."

He liked that. He remembered everything.

As steam curled from the pot, Sol reached into his coat pocket.

A small pill. Clear. Colorless. Nearly tasteless, from what he’d read. Not dangerous in small doses—just enough to make you drowsy. Vulnerable. Pliable.

He didn’t think you’d notice.

You never really seemed to notice anything when it came to him. And that was the problem. So maybe… maybe that’s when he decided. When the tea had steeped enough, he poured it into two identical tea cups. No patterns, no labels—just plain white porcelain. Clean. Deceptive. He added the drops carefully. Stirred it into your cup. The one he set on the right side of the tray.

A gentle burn of guilt flickered in his chest. But it was drowned out by something stronger. Desperation. Longing. The unbearable weight of wanting to be seen by you.

Really seen.

By the time you returned, balancing a brown takeout bag and two sets of chopsticks, he was already setting the cups down on the coffee table with practiced ease.

“Perfect timing,” he said, too brightly.

You set the food down without comment and moved to sit across from him again. He handed you the right cup. Your fingers brushed the ceramic. Held it, warm and fragrant in your hands.

Then your gaze lifted—sharp, steady—and settled on him.

“Can you grab the sugar?” you asked. Calm. Flat. Polite.

His heart skipped. “Yeah. Sure,” he said, standing immediately. Maybe too quickly. Anything for you. Always. He turned his back.

And that was all it took.

With a quiet grace, you reached out. Switched the cups. Left no trace.

By the time Sol returned, humming to himself with the sugar container in hand, your expression hadn’t changed.

You waited until he’d settled in again. Until he reached for his cup. Then, almost imperceptibly, you smiled. Just a fraction. The kind of smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. The kind that made people nervous, but never sure why.

Sol didn’t notice. Not yet.

He raised the cup to his lips with a soft, content sigh.

And you watched him drink. Watched the trap close. Quiet. Patient. Pleased.

When Sol stirred, the world was soft edges and slow motion. His body refused to move properly—his muscles limp, joints heavy, vision slightly blurred. The warmth beneath him was too much, like he was wrapped in a blanket of heat and confusion. A strange fog clung to his thoughts.

Then he noticed it. The weight. The presence.

You were on top of him.

Straddled across his lap, your posture impeccable, knees pressed firmly into the rug on either side of his hips. Hands folded loosely in your lap like you were meditating. Poised. Balanced. At peace.

You weren’t holding him down. You weren’t holding anything.

You didn’t need to.

He blinked, trying to clear the haze from his mind, but you were already watching him. Quiet. Unmoving. Eyes sharp, yet unreadable.

“You tried to drug me,” you said, like someone pointing out a slight crack in the ceiling. No judgment. No emotion. Just fact.

Sol's lips parted. His tongue was thick, uncooperative. “I—I didn’t mean— That is, I just thought—” His words stumbled over each other, messy and frantic, so at odds with the stillness in your gaze.

You tilted your head, studying him. Like a curious observer watching a small, clumsy animal. “Shh,” you said. Calm. Not unkind. “Don’t ruin it with excuses.”

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat catching like a rock.

You leaned forward just slightly—close enough that your perfume ghosted over his skin. Layered over something far more sinister. “Poor thing,” you murmured, voice so low it barely touched the air. “Didn’t think I’d notice?”

Sol tried again, slower this time. “I just wanted… I didn’t think it would hurt you. I swear—”

“I know,” you said simply. Your fingers brushed over his collar, then his cheek. So gentle it almost felt affectionate. Almost.

“But you still made a choice,” you continued. “So now I’m making mine.”

Your smile came slowly. Soft. Serene. The kind that made his blood turn to static. “I’m just getting my lick back, Sol.”

His breath hitched as your fingertips traced the curve of his jaw, as if testing the edges of what he feared... or maybe craved.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you asked, voice almost dreamy. “To be close. To be vulnerable. To be mine.”

And he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could only watch as you leaned in again, the world shrinking until it was just you and him and the unbearable calm in your voice.

“You’re lucky I like you,” you whispered, brushing your lips—not against his—but to the shell of his ear. “Otherwise I’d be far less polite about all this.”

You pulled back, still smiling.

Sol didn’t know whether to beg for forgiveness or thank you.

But you just sat there. Composed. In control. Right where you wanted to be. Right where he had wanted you. And he finally understood the difference between possession and surrender.

You weren’t his. But he was already yours.

I’m sorry, I just love bullying Sol like the tragic man he is. Can’t help it~

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Oh my, the archer respected you right away. That alone was rare.

Understand, Geo was used to attention. Unwanted, exhausting, meaningless attention. People asked him out the way someone might bid on a luxury item they didn’t understand—coveting the surface, clueless about the weight beneath it.

Women giggled in hallways, brushing too close. Men winked with performative bravado. Some were subtle, some were bold, but they all had the same shallow hunger in their eyes. Then eveyone else is mixed between.

They liked his face. His body. His money. His aim.

Not one of them knew him.

He despised it. The fakeness of it. The repetition. It was all noise—loud, grating, and hollow. So when Crowe called him over one day between training sessions, saying, “Geo, come meet someone,” he braced for it. Another admirer. Another forced smile. Another waste of time.

You stood beside Crowe, arms loose at your sides, expression unreadable. Calm. Still.

Geo sized you up immediately. Pretty, sure—but too composed. Too… unaffected. You didn’t look impressed. Or nervous. You didn’t even blink when his gaze met yours. Crowe said your name. You didn’t offer a hand. You just looked at him. Right at him. And held the stare. Then few seconds passed. Then another.

Geo’s jaw flexed, something twitching behind his eye. He tried to decipher your expression, but there was nothing to grab onto. Not curiosity. Not admiration. Not even intimidation. Just silence. And it unnerved him.

No one ever looked at him like that—not without wanting something.

He scoffed, soft and sharp, looking away as if dismissing you. But his neck was warm. His ears burned. He hadn’t meant to look away first.

Something about the way your eyes tracked him made his skin feel too tight. He didn’t like it. He did. And later—much later—he would admit to himself that was the moment everything shifted.

Because you didn’t want him.

You didn’t fear him. You didn’t need him. You saw him.

And for someone like Geo—guarded, solitary, used to being worshipped or avoided—being seen was far more dangerous. And far more addictive.

It started small.

Inconspicuous, even. Geo didn’t linger. Geo never lingered.

He was the type to enter a room with intention, finish his task, and leave before anyone could start a conversation. Precision wasn’t just part of his archery; it was baked into how he lived. Efficient. Unbothered. Remote. Until you.

It wasn’t conscious, not at first. Just… a coincidence. You were always sitting in that same spot in the library—top floor, back left corner, beneath the wide window that filtered in light shine across your notes. Head down, earbuds in, eyes glazed.

Studying, probably. Or maybe somewhere far away inside your mind.

He didn’t mean to stop. Didn’t mean to sit at the table across from you. Or choose the one chair that let him steal glances between pages of his book. But something about the stillness around you... it was magnetic. Anchoring.

So he stayed.

And then he did it again the next day. And the next.

Eventually, it became a habit. Geo would finish training, towel off the sweat, toss his bag over his shoulder—and without fail, his feet would carry him to you. Even if just for ten minutes. Even if he only got to watch you scribble something he’d never ask about.

He told himself he liked the silence. That it helped him focus.

But the truth? He liked you in the silence. The way you didn’t flinch when he sat down. The way your body didn’t shift away like most did. You didn’t shrink, didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to fill the void between you. You just let it be.

That was dangerous. Addictive. Peaceful.

And infuriating.

Because then he started noticing things. Stupid things.

Like how you always twisted the end of your hair when you were stuck. Or how you would space out so intensely that you once walked directly into a vending machine and apologized to it under your breath.

You bumped into desks. Into door frames. Into people.

It drove Geo insane.

You moved through life like your body was a vessel and your mind existed somewhere else entirely. It was careless. Vulnerable. A target. He hated that. Hated the way it made his pulse spike. So, naturally, he started walking near you more often. Not that you noticed—your earbuds were usually in, your gaze faraway—but his presence was always there.

One step behind.

He caught your elbow once when you tripped on a stair.

“Careful,” he muttered, more irritated than concerned. “There’s gravity here.”

You just blinked up at him, calm as ever. “Is there?” What.

He didn’t let go immediately. Crowe noticed it long before Geo even began to suspect anything was wrong. At first, he found it hilarious. Geo? Following someone around like a stray cat? That was new. The same Geo who scoffed at relationships, rolled his eyes at gossip, and couldn’t care less about anyone unless they were useful in a fight or debate?

That Geo was now orbiting someone like a moon pulled out of alignment.

It was cute. Weirdly so.

But the humor faded fast. Because the more Crowe watched, the more it stopped looking like a crush and started looking like a problem. Geo’s eyes didn’t just glance your way anymore. They locked. Tracked. Focused with a strange intensity that made Crowe’s instincts bristle. Not necessarily dangerous—just… alert. Hyper-aware.

Like Geo was cataloging every movement, every interaction, every person who dared get too close.

And then there was the way his jaw tightened when your name came up in conversation. Or how his hand twitched—barely, but noticeably—when someone else laughed a little too loud in your direction. Like he was waiting for a reason to react. For someone to slip up.

That was when Crowe decided to poke the wolf.

“You know you’re acting weird, right?” he said casually one day after class, swinging his bag over one shoulder. “Like. Weird weird. Not your usual 'grumpy hermit' thing. This is new.”

Geo didn’t even glance at him. He was crouched on the bench, methodically tying the laces on his shoes.“No, I’m not.”

Crowe snorted. “Uhh, you nearly bit Deryl’s head off for being near them.”

Geo rose slowly, controlled, like a storm carefully leashing itself. “He nearly knocked them over.”

“He was trying to say hi,” Crowe said, squinting at him. “And he didn’t even touch them. Like, at all.”

Geo didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.

The silence said plenty.

Crowe’s grin spread slowly, wicked and knowing. “So. You like them.”

Geo froze, just for a second. His neck snap over to Crowe and voice was flat, expression unreadable. “I don’t like anyone.”

“That’s what makes this even better,” Crowe said, unable to contain his amusement. “They’ve got you spiraling and you don’t even know what to do with it.”

Geo turned his back, brushing past him with the same cold indifference he usually reserved for people who wasted his time.

But Crowe wasn’t fooled. Not even a little.

Because just before he walked away, he caught it—the faint flush blooming at the tips of Geo’s ears, stark and obvious against his pale skin.

The worst part for Geo wasn’t the pull. He was used to craving things he couldn’t have—control, stillness, clarity. No, the worst part was the ambiguity.

You were an enigma wrapped in casual disinterest.

You didn’t flirt. Didn’t fawn. You didn’t even acknowledge him half the time beyond the most basic courtesy. Your resting face didn’t help, either—expression calm, eyes detached, a soft fog of disinterest hanging around you like armor. Mysterious. Unreadable. Infuriating.

Geo hated not knowing where he stood.

Were you amused? Bored? Annoyed?Did you even see him, or was he just background noise in your day? He found himself replaying your replies, your glances—every small, forgettable exchange, searching for meaning where there might be none.

Did you like what he said about black cats? Did you roll your eyes when he walked away, or did you watch him leave? Did you think about him when he wasn’t there?

He hated how much he wanted to know.

Because Geo didn’t do feelings. He didn’t do longing. But with you?

He was starting to feel like he might drown in it.

Like, funny thing was—Geo wasn’t much of a talker. Not when it didn’t serve a purpose. Silence was usually his shield, his comfort.

But lately? He’d started talking more—like the dumbest shit to juat to see what you was gonna say about it. Nothing strategy or academics or anything remotely useful. Just... pointless things. Nervous things. Words spilled out not because they mattered, but because you did. And he was trying—fumbling, really—to get past the fortress you kept around your thoughts.

“You ever notice how people walk faster in the rain, even if it’s barely drizzling?”

You didn’t look up from your notebook. “Probably evolutionary instinct.”

He blinked. “...Right. I guess that makes sense.” It didn’t.

But he’d take it. Another time: “Do you think red ink makes teachers angrier?”

You shrugged. “Maybe. It bleeds more.”

He nodded slowly, even though the comment made his brain short-circuit a little. What the fuckk is he asking you? Bleeds more? He didn’t ask. He kind of didn’t want to know. And his personal favorite, said too quickly, too quietly: “Was I annoying just now?”

This time you looked at him. Neutral. Calm. Unblinking. “No. You’re fine.”

That did something to him. Something he didn’t want to name.

You never gave him more than you had to. No fluff. No fake smiles. But never less, either. Just enough. Just barelyenough to keep him coming back like a moth to a flame that might not want him.

“Keep talking, please.”

Three words. He spiraled over them for a week.

See, Geo didn’t do spiraling. He did logic. Discipline. Controlled environments. A life outlined in clean margins. He liked structure. He liked precision. He liked potted plants—orderly things in orderly containers. They lined his dorm windowsill like little green sentinels, trimmed and watered to perfection.

He liked the haunting calm of Japanese opera humming low through his headphones as he read over tactical reports or fine-tuned his form. He liked watching old shadow puppet performances on mute, the flickering silhouettes clean and exact, silent and sharp like the arrows in his quiver.

He liked peace.

But you?

You were none of those things. You unsettled him.

He didn’t know how to contain you in a sentence, a system, a pot.

And ever since that day—those three words—you began to echo in the quiet parts of his mind, uninvited and unrelenting.

He’d hear your voice while practicing archery, in the stillness before the release. Soft. Measured. Your tone settled behind his ribs like a smooth stone—cool, balanced, a weight that grounded and unsettled him all at once. He became addicted to that calm you carried like a second skin.

To the subtle way you dissected the world without urgency, like nothing could touch you. The way you never reached for him, yet never pushed him away either.

And when you did break that quiet mask?

When your lips curled into a faint smirk that felt like a secret being let slip— When you laughed, once, just once, at something ridiculous he’d said about vending machines or Crowe’s lack of subtlety or Sol’s refusal to sleep indoors like a normal person—

It ruined him.

He replayed it in his head like a crime scene. Where had it come from? What variable had changed? Was it the way he tilted his head? The exact phrasing? The timing? Could he reconstruct it? Could he make it happen again?

He didn’t tell anyone.

Not Daryl, who would tease. Not even Crowe, who might see too much too quickly and laugh like it was some thrilling scandal. Because the truth was ugly. Brutal. Simple. Geo didn’t just want your silence anymore.

He wanted your secrets. Your thoughts. Your time.

He wanted to sit so close the silence became yours together. He wanted to take up your focus and hold it hostage. He wanted to know how your mind worked the same way he studied arrow velocity and wind resistance—perfectly.

Geo wanted you.

Not in the loud, possessive way others chased things. No. He wanted you quietly—in that same private, reverent way you gave yourself to the world. Careful. Restrained. Deliberate. Like a rare artifact locked behind glass.

So when he invited you out one night, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t broadcast. Not even Crowe knew—not that Geo would’ve tolerated his commentary anyway. It was a simple text. Blunt, brief.

Geo: Come with me tonight. Dress nice.

That was it.

No time. No place. No explanation. Just enough to be intriguing. Just enough to make you pause. He didn’t call it a date. Of course he didn’t.

But he also wore a tailored jacket. Charcoal black, sharp-cut, the collar slightly popped like he didn’t mean for it to be perfect—but it was. He’d tied his hair back, neat and minimal, not a strand out of place. His usual scowl had softened into something unreadable.

You’d stared for a second longer than you meant to. He didn’t comment.

And still—you couldn’t tell if it was a date.

He’d met you at the corner of campus, where the streetlights flickered like tired fireflies and the buildings loomed like sleeping giants. He didn’t offer an arm. He didn’t hold your hand. He didn’t try to impress you with flashy words or flattery.

Instead, he walked beside you, kept you inner part of the sidewalk, not in front or behind, just with you. Matching your pace. Occasionally watching your expression when you weren’t looking.

He took you to an fancy japanese rooftop restauranrt, tucked above a quiet alley, hidden between a used bookstore and a forgotten tailor’s shop. No signs. No crowd. Just a view of the city at night, stretched out like ink and gold under the stars.

Soft lanterns swayed above the terrace. Warm tea was already waiting—he’d ordered your favorite without asking. A delicate dish of fruit and sweets sat between you, untouched for the first ten minutes because neither of you moved to break the stillness.

He didn’t say much at first. Just sat there.

Watching the skyline. Listening to the quiet.

You looked at him. He was watching the reflection of candlelight flicker in your eyes like he was studying the shape of a constellation.

He finally spoke. "You like places like this, right?"

You didn’t respond right away. You were still trying to name whatever this was—whatever this night had become. The silence hung between you, but not like a weight. With Geo, it never was. It was just... present.

Like fog rolling through the brain. Your mind, meanwhile, was lost.

‘Was this a date? Or just an oddly elegant detour?’

Still staring out over the rooftop railing, you let the city lights flicker against your skin a moment longer before murmuring, “Yeah. I do.”

He didn’t look at you, but you saw it—the tiniest shift in his posture. The corner of his mouth curled upward, barely. Not a smile, not exactly. More like a fleeting trace of relief that never made it all the way to his eyes.

Soon afterwards, through the winding streets, the silence followed like an old companion. Not awkward. Just... comfortable. Familiar. Geo mentioed of driving you back to your place, so you and him were walking back to his car, it was short walk however it felt long.

You walked beside him in step. Always in step.

Geo moved like he choreographed his whole life. Every step nice. Hands in his pockets, posture too perfect, like even his slouch was planned. His coat flared slightly behind him, catching wind every now and then, a reminder of how damn dramatic he looked against the streetlights.

You glanced sideways, smirking. “You always this extra when going outside? Rooftop café, city view, candlelight? The only thing missing was a violinist….”

He kept his eyes forward, but his brow twitched—barely.

You’d caught him.

“It wasn’t a date.”

You tilted your head, playful. “Didn’t say it was.”

There it was. The silence again.

Tighter this time, stretched like elastic between you.

Without breaking stride, you leaned in and bumped your elbow into his ribs. Just enough to annoy. “But if it was, that jacket makes sense now. You looked like you were gonna propose. Or sword fight a man at dawn for my honor.”

“I liked the jacket,” he replied, flat and unimpressed, like he was reading from a cue card.

You whistled low. “I liked it too. Didn’t know you owned fancy clothes.”

That earned you a sideways glare—sharper than the last, but still not a full reaction. You pressed in anyway. “I mean, no offense, Geo, but you dress like a confused colorful grunge most days. You wore a purple hoodie last week. With fishnet tights. Under skinny jeans. With dress shoes. Like what the hell is your aesthetic? Sexy haunted thrift store?”

He actually scoffed this time. His mouth twitched again, fighting something. Probably the urge to shove you into traffic. Probably also trying not to laugh.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, voice dry as winter air.

“Only a little,” you said, grinning now, riding the high of his mild irritation.

You walked backward for a few steps, facing him with your hands tucked behind your back, head tilted like you were studying a painting in a gallery. “Be honest—were you gonna kiss me if I leaned in tonight?”

Geo didn’t miss a secoud in his stride, but the set of his shoulders betrayed him—they tensed, just enough for you to notice. “No.”

Your grin stretched, slow and wide. “Are you lying?”

“No.”

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” he said again, but this time the word dragged out like it didn’t want to exist. Strained. Delayed. Like his mouth and brain were syncing on dial-up.

That did it—you burst out laughing. Not a small laugh. Not one you tried to hide. A full, loud, unapologetic laugh that echoed down the quiet street like a spark caught in wind.

Geo muttered something under his breath, barely audible.

“What was that?” you asked, gleefully stepping back into stride beside him.

“I said—” he exhaled like it physically pained him to say it aloud, “—you must know, deep in that ridiculous brain of yours, I don’t do that.”

You sighed, rolling your eyes before looking back at him. “Geo, love, I do know that. But it’s so much fun watching you glitch.”

“I don’t glitch.”

“Oh, you glitched. So hard. When I mentioned kissing you, I saw the lag. It was glorious.”

He rolled his eyes, and you could practically hear the disdain layered in it. “It’s not the idea of kissing. It’s you making it a joke.”

You sidled closer, still wearing that faux-pout.

“Aw, so you have thought about it?”

His gaze flicked away like a reflex. “You’re unbearable.”

“And you secretly love it.”

“I tolerate it,” he muttered.

You bumped your shoulder against his, light and warm. “That’s practically a love confession coming from you.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t move away, either.

Instead, your hands brushed again, like they had been doing on and off all night. This time, instead of letting it pass, you turned your palm and slipped your fingers through his—casual, but not careless. The contact was feather-light at first, like you were giving him the choice to pull away.

He didn’t.

His hand stayed in yours, fingers tense at first, then slowly easing. The contact was simple. Small. But it shifted something in the air between you—gentler now. Still charged, still chaotic, but quieter. Softer. More certain.

You walked the rest of the path like that—side by side, your fingers intertwined like it was the most natural thing in the world. The teasing faded, but the quiet wasn’t empty. It was warm, like the last bit of sunlight before dusk slips away. It hummed with everything you didn’t say aloud, but both of you felt anyway.

Geo’s hand was steady in yours, but there was a slight tremble you didn’t miss. And when you glanced sideways, you caught it—just the faintest hint of color blooming across his cheeks, high and soft and so very real. Not from embarrassment. Not from discomfort.

But from you.

He wasn’t flustered because of the idea of love or attraction in the usual way. That wasn’t how he operated, and you knew that—respected it like sacred ground. He wasn’t the type to fall headfirst. He was cautious, calculated. Guarded.

But somehow, you’d still gotten in.

Not by breaking down his walls, but by curling up inside the quiet spaces he never thought to defend. You didn’t just sneak past his boundaries—you rewrote the map. You made your way into his world, not like an invader, but like a constant. A presence he hadn’t realized he’d always needed.

Maybe he wouldn’t ever whisper flowery confessions or write you sonnets on rainy nights. Maybe he’d never be the one to make grand romantic gestures or say the words the way others did.

But he showed it—every time he didn’t pull away. Every time he stood a little closer. Every time he let you tease him and didn’t push back too hard.

He wanted you.

Wholly. Constantly. Quietly.

The drive back to your place was quiet. Not awkward, not tense—just quiet in that strange, comforting way that happens when two people understand each other without needing to speak.

Geo slowed the car to a stop in front of their place, the low hum of the engine giving way to a silence that settled gently between them. He turned the keys in the ignition and sat there for a beat, staring out through the windshield like he could stall the inevitable.

But routine still mattered to him. Predictability. He slipped out of the driver’s seat and circled around, already reaching for the passenger side door before he could think too much about it.

Of course he was going to open the door for them. He always did.

But this time, as he opened it and extended a hand to help you up, as he took your hand in his—soft fingers curling around his—and let him pull them to their feet. No hesitation. No witty remark. Just that quiet confidence they always wore like armor.

But instead of stepping away or offering a breezy goodbye, you leaned forward and wrapped their arms around him. A real hug. No half-hearted pat on the back, no joking squeeze to keep things light. This one was full-bodied, firm, and warm in a way that caught him entirely off guard.

Your head rested briefly against him, and he could feel your breath—slow, steady, purposeful—like you were grounding themselves in him. Or maybe grounding him in them. He didn’t know anymore.

Geo froze.

His hands hovered in the air for a moment, unsure—almost trembling with hesitation—before he gave in and returned the embrace. Not because he understood it. Not because he was used to this kind of closeness. But because it felt like the most natural thing in the world to hold them like that, like something in him recognized this moment long before it arrived.

You held him a second longer than necessary, then slowly stepped back, just enough to meet his gaze. No teasing glint in their eye, no smirk tugging at their lips. Just softness. Calm. Like this, too, was inevitable.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” You said, voice low and certain. It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a promise. It was a fact. And then, before he could respond, you turned and made their way up the steps toward their door, disappearing into the quiet night with that same effortless grace they always carried—like they hadn’t just slipped something heavy and permanent into his chest.

You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

Because Geo was still standing there with the door open, arms slack at his sides, heart thudding like he’d just been thrown into a storm he didn’t see coming.

The night was quiet again.

But now, it pressed in around him—heavy, echoing.

Because what made it worse wasn’t the hug.

It was how real it was. How unguarded. How much it meant even though they hadn’t said a single word about it. You didn’t need to wreck him with sharp words or chaotic antics. Not anymore.

You could destroy him just by caring, calm. Just by being you.

And you had.

He’d never say it out loud—not even to himself. But standing there alone in the hush they left behind, he knew, clear as day:

You wrecked him. Every. Damn. Time.

I love writing about my man. Maybe it sounds a little too good to be true sometimes—but that’s the beauty of it. He lives the way I imagine him.

✑ 𝒽𝓎𝓊𝑔𝑜

Ohhh wow. Baby boy absolutely lost on your calmness.

Hyugo was a creature of energy—buzzing, bouncing, chaotic in a way that could light up an entire hallway. It was his language. His method. The very way he connected to the world: by making people react. Laughter, blushing, a rolled eye, even a scoff—he craved it all. So when he first crossed paths with you, arms crossed, expression unreadable, voice like calm rain on a tin roof? He short-circuited.

You weren’t shy. Just neutral. Calculated. Like you were perpetually observing, choosing your responses on a need-to-use basis. When he grinned and asked, “Hey, what’s your favorite snack?” and you said, “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” in that flat, knowing tone? He blinked. Then paused. Then whispered under his breath, “Okay… wait, what?” It was like trying to flirt with a locked vault that somehow slid him his own reflection back in response.

He should’ve been discouraged. Should’ve moved on. But instead, Hyugo got invested. You became his favorite puzzle. He started sending you cursed memes at 2 AM, just to see if you’d crack.

You didn’t.

You just left him on read—sometimes with the read receipt turned on, like a passive-aggressive mic drop. He’d find you sitting on the campus quad, peaceful and still like a perfectly trimmed bonsai, and he’d throw himself dramatically across the grass beside you with a whisper of, “Miss me?”

You never even turned your head. Just dropped his forgotten homework back into his open bag and said, “It’s due in two hours.” Somehow, you always treated him like he was your responsibility—like someone had to keep track of the hurricane that was Hyugo, and you had simply accepted the task with quiet resignation. Not because you were emotionally attached (though you were), but because he couldn’t be trusted to function like a human being without guidance.

What made it worse—what really got to him—was that you kept up with him. Effortlessly. While he was skipping class to “help the janitor with roof maintenance” (translation: napping on the forbidden rooftop), you were the one sending text reminders like clockwork.

“Assignment due by midnight. I shared the answers. You’re welcome.”

“You left your bookbag at my place. Again.”

“Drink water. I know you didn’t.”

It was enough to make him melt. But in classic Hyugo fashion, he didn’t let up. He kept trying—because your rare, deadpan one-liners? The way you occasionally tapped his arm or looked up just long enough to meet his eyes? It fueled him for weeks.

Of course, Sol couldn’t help but comment on it. One afternoon, as Hyugo dramatically flailed behind you in the walking on camups—arms full of chaotic gestures and failed attempts at catching your attention—Sol leaned against a locker with a smirk. “You know,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded with judgment, “you look real desperate right now.”

Hyugo didn’t even break stride.

“Says the guy who’s been rearranging his bangs for twenty minutes because his crush might walk past the art room.”

Sol blinked.

Hyugo continued, casually tossing a wink over his shoulder, “At least I know mine. And they actually talks to me.” Then he turned back around and whispered, “Even if it’s just to tell me I missed another deadline.” He sighed to himself.

It was late afternoon when Hyugo found you again—alone on the third-floor balcony of the library, tucked where the sunlight couldn’t quite reach. You were reading, as always. One leg crossed over the other, expression unreadable, as if the world outside the page didn’t exist.

He leaned against the railing next to you, unusually quiet.

No dramatic entrance. No exaggerated greeting. Just silence.

You noticed, of course. But you didn’t look up, not yet. You knew his patterns, the rhythm of his noise. This quiet? It was... off.

“I’m going to get that new ‘Devil Storm Re:Slash’ game tomorrow,” he said finally, fingers drumming the metal rail. “The deluxe one. The one with the exclusive artbook and the collector’s pins and—whatever, it doesn’t matter.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, the sound neutral. Polite. Expectant.

He hesitated, then turned to face you more fully. “I, uh... I wanna be first in line. Like, I’m talking ‘wait-outside-the-store-all-night’ first.”

Your eyes lifted from the page, slow and deliberate. “And?”

Hyugo shifted his weight, scratching the back of his neck. “And... I want you to come with me.”

A pause. Not because you were thinking.

Just because you knew he wanted a pause. He wanted something from you. Something more than the usual routine.

Finally, you said, “Okay.”

He blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I said okay.”

“You mean like… okay okay? As in—you’ll actually come with me? No emotional hostage situation? No guilt-tripping me into finishing homework first?”

You closed your book. “You want me to come. I’ll come.”

The simplicity of your agreement hit him harder than he expected. No sarcasm. No negotiation. No teasing deflection. Just yes.

Hyugo stared at you, his smile faltering for the first time that day. And it was then he admitted—mostly to himself—that he wasn’t just chasing your reactions because they were rare. He was chasing them because he needed them. Because they made him feel real. Grounded. Seen. And he had spent so long being loud, obnoxious, energetic—hoping someone would respond, even just a little.

“…Why’d you say yes so fast?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light, like it wasn’t a real question.

You looked at him, calm and steady. “Because you asked like you meant it.”

That silenced him.

No quip. No dramatic hand wave. Just Hyugo, heart stuttering in a chest full of noise, wondering how you always knew exactly when to be quiet—and when to say the exact thing he wasn’t ready to hear.

“…Cool,” he muttered after a beat. “Cool cool cool. I mean. You’ll regret it. I’m bringing snacks. And my anime playlist. You’re gonna suffer.”

You stood and grabbed your bag. “I’ll survive. You should finish your Art project tonight.”

“Ugh. You suck.”

You shrugged. “You’d miss the deadline otherwise.”

He watched you walk away with your usual grace, untouchable as always—but somehow, that one word, okay, kept echoing in his chest louder than all the times you ignored his memes combined.

And Hyugo, for once, didn’t feel like a joke. He felt chosen.

The next morning, 3:47 AM sharp, you and Hyugo stood outside the grimy, fluorescent-lit game store at the edge of town.

Hyugo looked like he belonged in a disaster documentary—blanket around his shoulders like a cape, hood up over messy hair, clutching a thermos of coffee with the intensity of a man on the brink. His breath fogged in the air as he bounced on his heels, eyes sparkling with sleep-deprived determination.

“We are making history right now,” he declared, voice a little too loud for the ghost-town hour.

You glanced at him, hands in your coat pockets, utterly unbothered. “There’s literally one guy ahead of us. History is generous.”

“That’s Greg. Greg doesn’t count. He lives here.”

Sure enough, Greg—early 40s, heavy parka, portable chair, expression like a man who had seen things—gave a solemn nod from his post at the door. He did look like a part of the building.

Hyugo leaned closer to you, whispering like it was a covert op. “He told me once he camped out for ‘Call of Duty: Geriatric Ops.’ Said it was worth the frostbite.”

You raised a brow. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Time passed in strange, slow intervals. Hyugo talked enough for both of you. Animated. Rambling. Telling you the entireplot of the last three Devil Storm games, complete with sound effects and voice impressions.

“And then this demon prince guy, right—he sacrifices his arm for a cursed scythe, but plot twist, the arm was already cursed so now he’s double cursed, and his childhood best friend—who's secretly the reincarnation of the goddess of violence—is like, ‘Noooo, you idiot!’ and then boom! Emotional trauma and boss fight.”

You blinked. “How many hours did you play this?”

“More than I studied last semester.” Not shocking.

He offered you some snacks from his backpack—Takis, sour candy, a suspiciously melted granola bar. You declined all of it. And yet… somewhere between his fourth dramatic retelling and his brief existential crisis about Greg being closer to the door than him, you reached into your own coat and pulled out a thermos of hot chocolate.

You handed it to him wordlessly.

He stared at it like you'd just given him a family heirloom. “For me?”

“No, for Greg.”

He held it to his chest like it was sacred. “I’m going to marry you.”

Your smirk was enough to make him choke on air.

By the time the doors finally opened—at exactly 8:00 AM sharp—Hyugo was vibrating with so much energy he nearly knocked over a cardboard standee of the game’s main character. Greg gave you both a solemn salute as you entered.

Hyugo was the first to grab the deluxe box. You were second. He held it up like a trophy, grinning at you like a kid who won a goldfish at a fair.

“You know,” he said, eyes bright, “most people would’ve told me to shut up five hours ago. But you? You just stood there. Kept me warm by sheer vibe.”

You blinked slowly. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

And he laughed. Loud, unfiltered, the kind that echoed through the store. As the adrenaline of the game release wore off and morning light finally began to bleed across the sky in soft, grey-blue streaks, Hyugo turned to you, game case tucked under his arm like sacred treasure.

“Alright,” he said, stretching his arms above his head with a dramatic yawn. “Now we celebrate. And by celebrate, I mean greasy food and a dangerous amount of syrup.”

You gave him a nod of approval. “You’ve earned it. Somehow.”

“Somehow? I braved hypothermia, public embarrassment, and Greg’s war flashbacks. That deserves at least three waffles.”

The two of you started walking, the quiet of the early hour wrapping around you like a blanket. It would’ve been peaceful—until the clouds that had been gently looming all morning decided to unleash a sudden downpour. No warning, no sprinkle, just a full-on sky tantrum.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” Hyugo yelped as the rain hit, both of you instinctively bolting toward the nearest shelter—a lonely, flickering bus stop with a crooked bench and questionable graffiti.

You ducked under the cover, brushing water off your sleeves. Hyugo, on the other hand, looked like a wet cat. His hair clung to his forehead, hoodie soaked, shoes squeaking as he flopped dramatically onto the bench.

“This is what I get for tempting fate,” he muttered. “She’s a cruel mistress. Just like my ex.”

“What,” you said.

“Exactly. And yet, she still haunts me.”

That got a small, involuntary snort from you. Barely audible.

He heard it.

His eyes snapped toward you. “Was that… was that a laugh? Did I just unlock something?”

You exhaled slowly, amused despite yourself. “Maybe.”

“Oh my god, I need to write this down. Note to self: rain plus fake ex equals minor chuckle.”

You shook your head, a real smile pulling at the corners of your mouth now. He was ridiculous. Loud, chaotic, over-the-top—and yet, never annoying. Never too much. Always just enough.

Then he hit you with another one. Eyes wide, faux-serious: “What if we die here? What if the bus stop is haunted? What if Greg follows us and demands tribute?”

And that was it.

You laughed. A soft, quiet thing at first—but then it grew, warm and unexpected, spilling from your chest like something you hadn’t meant to let out. Not the sarcastic chuckles he was used to, not the exasperated sighs.

A real laugh.

Hyugo’s own breath caught. His mouth parted slightly, eyes fixed on you like he was seeing something rare and holy. “…Whoa,” he whispered. “That’s what you sound like?”

You tilted your head, a little teasing. “Disappointed?”

He shook his head slowly, as if afraid he’d miss a moment of it. “No! That’s going in my top five core memories. Alongside the time I saw a seagull steal a slice of pizza.”

You stepped toward him, still smiling, and reached out—cupping his damp cheeks gently in your hands. His skin was cold from the rain, but his eyes were warm, brighter than ever.

“Thank you,” you said, quiet but sincere. “I haven’t laughed like that in a while.”

Hyugo didn’t speak at first. He was too busy blinking like an idiot, the faintest shade of pink dusting his cheeks. Then he smirked, just barely.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured. “But now you’re in trouble.”

“Why?”

“Because now I know how to win.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands stayed where they were. And he leaned in ever so slightly, like even if the rain kept falling, this—this moment under a sad, flickering bus stop—was already the best part of his day.

Yeah. You didn’t always give him what he wanted.

But when you did? It was everything.

That calm authority? It wasn’t cold. It was dangerously caring. And when you did finally touch his arm, gently reminding him to study? He short-circuited so hard he nearly walked into a vending machine.

You weren’t just his crush. You were his grounding wire.

And he didn’t stand a chance.

Ngl this was cute as hell to write, love Hyugo

350 notes · View notes

mesmeraizen · 1 day ago

Text

GGRRAAHHH CROWEEE

✑ 𝒷𝓊𝓃𝓃𝓎 𝓈𝓊𝒾𝓉 𝜗𝜚 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒, 𝓈𝑜𝓁, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝑒𝑜

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Who doesn’t love a good bunny-suit fanfic? This little piece was inspired by the incredible artwork of @alienfreak124. I’m always in awe of her creations—her OC is so cool!

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

This also reminds me the legally blonde movie when Elle wore her bunny, sitting at a Halloween party.

[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]

✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒

You’re in your room, standing in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a plain black dress.

It’s simple, safe, and exactly the kind of outfit you’d usually wear to a small party. You tilt your head, trying to decide if “simple” is too boring. The party isn’t exactly a big deal—just a casual gathering—but there’s a nagging thought in the back of your mind:

Crowe’s going to be there.

Before you can overthink it, there’s a sudden knock at your door. “Hey! Open up!” Brittney’s voice is unmistakable—high-energy and impossible to ignore. You sigh, already knowing she’s about to upend whatever plans you’ve made for the evening.

When you open the door, Brittney bursts in like a hurricane, her arms overflowing with what looks like… fur? No, it’s worse. It’s a bunny costume—a black bodysuit with matching ears, thigh high socks, and heels so high they look like a twisted form of punishment.

“Oh no,” you say immediately, holding up your hands in protest. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on!” Brittney waves the outfit in front of you like it’s the Holy Grail. “It’s perfect! It’s fun, it’s flirty, and you’ll steal the spotlight! Imagine the look on everyone’s faces when you walk in wearing this. Especially Jericho.”

Your stomach flips at the mention of his name, but you shake your head. “There’s no way I’m wearing that. I’ll look ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous?” Brittney scoffs, planting her hands on her hips. “Please. You’ll look hot. Besides, when was the last time you did something bold? Live a little!” She leans in, grinning mischievously. “And, you know, like I said he might notice.”

You roll your eyes, before releasing a sigh, “Britt, I’m not trying to ‘steal the spotlight.’ I just want to blend in.”

“Blend in?” She gasps like you’ve just insulted her personally. “Blending in is for cowards. And you’re not a coward, are you?”

“...You’re guilt-tripping me.”

“Is it working?”

Unfortunately, yes. You stare at the bunny suit like it’s a wild animal that might bite you, but part of you can’t help wondering: What if Brittney’s right? What if Crowe actually notices?

“Fine,” you say, at last, snatching the costume from her hands. “But different heels and if I look stupid, I’m blaming you.”

Brittney claps her hands in triumph. “You’ll look amazing, trust me! Now, hurry up and get dressed—I need to see the final look.”

You sigh and shut the door, holding up the bunny suit with a mix of dread and curiosity.

This is either the best idea or the worst mistake.

The moment you step into the party, a hush falls over the room—or at least it feels like it. The warm glow of string lights strung across the ceiling doesn’t do much to soothe the nerves twisting in your stomach.

You keep your head down, gripping a drink you barely remember picking up, and try to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re dressed like a bunny in a room full of people dressed... normally.

Brittney, of course, is loving every second of it. She’s practically glowing as she flits around the room, dropping comments like, “Isn’t she adorable?” and “Doesn’t she look amazing?” to anyone within earshot. You glare at her from across the room, but she just winks and mouths, “You’re welcome.”

You hover near the edge of the crowd, trying to blend into the background. It’s ironic, considering the ridiculous outfit, but you figure if you keep still enough, maybe no one will notice.

That plan works for about five minutes—until you catch a familiar figure out of the corner of your eye.

Crowe.

He’s leaning against the wall near the bookshelf, casually sipping from a glass, his posture as effortlessly relaxed as ever. Even in the soft glow of the party lights, he’s sharp, dressed in his usual clean, put-together style that somehow manages to look both formal and casual at the same time.

He always looks like he belongs on a magazine cover—button-up sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he listens to someone talk.

You freeze, torn between retreating to the nearest shadowy corner and pretending you haven’t seen him, or... well, doing something else. But then, as if sensing your eyes on him, Crowe looks up—and the moment his gaze lands on you, it’s like the rest of the party fades into the background.

You brace yourself, half-expecting him to laugh or make some snide remark. Instead, his eyebrows lift slightly, and the corner of his mouth quirks up into what might just be the faintest hint of a smirk. He takes another sip of his drink, sets the glass down, and begins making his way toward you.

Oh no.

Before you can figure out an escape route, he’s standing in front of you, tall and composed, with that cool, unreadable expression that makes your heart do ridiculous things.

His expression is calm and unreadable, but there’s a sharp glint in his eyes that immediately sets you on edge. The drink in your hand suddenly feels useless as you clutch it tightly, wishing you had anything to focus on besides the way Crowe’s gaze is very obviously trailing over your bunny suit. Slowly.

“Nice to see you decided to... dress up,” he says, his tone dripping with amusement as he comes to a stop in front of you. His eyes flicker from your bunny ears to the tights and back to your face, where your mortified expression only seems to fuel his teasing.

“This wasn’t my idea,” you say quickly, feeling the need to defend yourself. “Britt made me wear it. She said it’ll steal the spotlight or whatever…”

Crowe raises a brow, “Britney suggested this..?” then soft smile appears once again as he leans just slightly closer. “Oh, I believe you. But she didn’t make you come to me wearing it, did she?”

You sputter, your face heating up. “I didn’t come to you! You walked over here!”

“Did I?” he asks innocently, his smirk widening into something outright devilish. “Must’ve been the bunny ears. Hard to miss.”

You glare at him, your mind racing for some kind of witty comeback, but it’s hard to think when his gaze keeps darting to your legs, the curve of your waist, and then back to your face, like he’s deliberately making a show of it.

“Well,” he says after a beat, his tone maddeningly casual. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Your brain short-circuits. He did not just say that.

“Excuse me?”

“About the spotlight,” he clarifies, his smirk softening into something almost... fond. “You’ve certainly got everyone’s attention.”

You rolled your eyes, “I look ridiculous,” crossing your arms over your chest, turning your head away from his gaze.

It wasn’t long before you felt his finger under your chin to look at him once more, his deep blue eyes filled with warmth, “I wouldn’t say that now,” he counters smoothly. His voice drops a little lower, just enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Not that I’m complaining, of course. But I’m curious—how many people have tried their luck with you tonight?”

Your eyes widen. “W-what?”

You can’t decide whether to tell the truth to him or strangle him.

“Come on,” he says, his smirk turning positively wicked. “In that outfit? Like you said, half the room is staring. Though...” He leans in, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I doubt anyone else is appreciating it quite as much as I am.”

Your breath hitches, and you’re sure your face is about to burst into flames. “Crowe, you can’t just—”

“Say the truth?” he interrupts smoothly, stepping just close enough that you can catch the faint scent of his blueberry cologne. “Oh, I can. And I will.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, Crowe’s gaze shifts, scanning the room. The teasing glint in his deep blue eyes is replaced with something sharper, almost protective, as he takes in the prying eyes of the other partygoers.

“It’s way too many people here,” Crowe mutters, his voice low enough that it feels like the words are meant only for him. Then he glances back at you, his eyes softening in a way that makes your breath hitch.

“Let’s leave.” He mumbled.

“What?”

“I said, let’s leave.” His hand brushes lightly against your elbow, the fleeting touch sending a spark up your arm. His gaze lingers on you, unreadable but heavy with something unspoken. “Unless you’d prefer to stay here and let everyone keep gawking at you like you’re... on display.”

Your eyes dart around the room, catching a few glimpses of the subtle but unmistakable stares in your direction. The air feels suffocating now, and the idea of staying in this crowded space seems unbearable. Still, you hesitate, caught off guard by the sheer intensity of his presence.

“Fine,” you say at last, forcing an air of nonchalance even as your pulse quickens. “But if you’re planning to tease me, I’m leaving the second you start.”

Crowe laughs—a deep, smooth sound that does nothing to steady your nerves. “Don’t worry,” he says, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smirk as he places a hand lightly on the small of your back to guide you toward the door.

“I’ll behave.” Yeah… You’re not entirely convinced.

Before you can second-guess your decision, the two of you are stepping into the cool night air. The sharp contrast to the party’s stuffy warmth sends a shiver down your spine, but it’s not just the chill that has you trembling.

Crowe’s steps are deliberate, his presence magnetic as he walks you to his car. He unlocks the passenger door with a smooth motion, holding it open for you before rounding the car to slide into the driver’s seat.

The quiet thud of the door closing feels heavier in the silence, the hum of the engine breaking the tension only slightly.

“Brittney’s going to wonder where I went,” you say softly, partly to yourself, as Crowe pulls out of the driveway.

“I’ll text her later,” he replies, his tone calm but firm. “She’ll survive.”

The car is hardly lit, the glow of passing streetlights casting fleeting shadows across his very much prince features. You can feel his gaze toward you every so often, lingering just long enough to make your skin tingle.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged—like the air before a storm. You’re hyper-aware of every detail: the way his hands grip the steering wheel, the faint scent of his blueberry cologne filling the small space, the way his jaw tightens whenever you catch him sneaking glances.

“You shouldn’t let her talk you into things like that,” he says suddenly, his voice lower now, almost rough.

“Like what?” you ask, even though you know exactly what he means.

He glances at you briefly, his lips pressing into a thin line before his expression softens. “Like wearing something that makes every guy in the room look at you like they’ve forgotten how to think.”

The words are sharper than you expect, tinged with an edge of possessiveness that makes your breath catch.

“I thought you didn’t mind people staring,” you counter, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I don’t,” he says, his fingers tightening on the wheel.

“Unless it’s you wearing such a bunny suit.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and electrifying. You look over at him, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s no teasing smirk now, no easy charm—just raw, unguarded honesty in his gaze as he pulls the car to a stop at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere.

He turns to face you fully, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark with something unmistakable.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, the words rough with restraint.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. The heat in his gaze is overwhelming, and you feel pinned in place by the sheer intensity of it.

“I’ve been trying to keep my distance,” he continues, his tone rough and uneven now, “but seeing you tonight, dressed like that, letting everyone else see you like that…” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It drove me crazy.”

The air in the car feels thick, charged with an unspoken tension that’s almost suffocating. Your pulse pounds in your ears, your breaths shallow as you sit still, unsure of what to say—or if there’s even anything you should say.

The silence stretches out, heavy and electric, until Crowe shifts closer to you, his movements deliberate yet almost hesitant.

His hand rises, and for a moment, you think he might stop midway. But then his fingers gently brush against your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is light, almost feather-soft, yet it lingers—his fingertips trailing against your skin just long enough to leave a burning imprint.

“Please tell me to stop…” he murmurs, his voice deep and velvety, the faintest edge of uncertainty in his tone. “…before I do something I’ll regret.”

A shiver races up your spine at the feel of his touch, and the heat of his proximity makes it impossible to think straight. Your breath hitches, and you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. You manage to meet his gaze, his eyes dark and searching, as though he’s looking for any sign of hesitation.

“And if I don’t want you to stop?” you whisper, your voice trembling but carrying a weight of undeniable desire.

His breath catches, his chest rising sharply as though you’ve just knocked the air out of him. His eyes widen, a flicker of disbelief flashing across his usually composed face. His lips parted slightly as if to speak, but no words came out.

Instead, he tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to convince himself he heard you correctly.

You don’t reply right away—words feel clumsy in the intensity of this moment. Crowe’s gaze still lingers on you, steady and deliberate, traveling down the length of your figure and then back up again.

His deep blue eyes seem darker in the dim light, their usual warmth replaced by something unreadable, something that makes your pulse race. His soft smile was still there, faint but unshakable, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Your breath catches, and for a second, all you can think is how badly you don’t want this moment to end. Then, before your mind has time to catch up, your body moves on instinct. Slowly, deliberately, you move your body forward—out of the passenger seat closing the distance between you and him.

His head tilts slightly as he watches you, his soft smile faltering, replaced by a soft gasp for just a heartbeat as you climb onto his lap.

Your knees press into the seat on either side of him, the soft material of your tights brushing against his thighs as you warp your arms around his neck looking at him.

For a brief moment, neither of you speaks. The air feels heavy, charged with something neither of you can name. His reaction is filled with disbelief.

He inhales quickly, his chest rising against yours, and his hands lift instinctively to your hips. His grip is firm yet hesitant, his fingers flexing slightly on the tight spandex of your bunny suitas though he’s testing the reality of the situation.

You’re glad you caught him like this—off-guard, unguarded. It’s rare to see him anything but happily composed, but now? Now, his usual teasing and confidence feels shaken, his calm veneer cracking just enough to let you peek underneath.

“Don’t regret this…” you whisper, your voice low and thick with emotion. “Please don’t stop, Jericho.”

The tension in his shoulders eases, but only slightly. His body remains taut beneath yours, every muscle coiled like a spring. His hands tighten against your hips as if anchoring himself—or maybe anchoring you. He leans forward, and the closeness is dizzying.

His breath fans against your neck, warm and teasing, and goosebumps rise across your skin in response. His hands shift from your hips, sliding upward in slow, deliberate movements that leave you breathless.

His thumbs trace over your waist, the faintest pressure sparking heat in their wake. His fingers move higher, brushing against your sides, and you can’t stop the way your body responds, arching slightly into his touch.

Soon his lips hover near your ear, his voice low and husky, dripping with intent as he murmurs,

“I won’t.”

May got a little carried away here…

✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁

You don’t know how it happened.

So okay, you do know how it happened—you were dumb enough to bet against Hyugo. The guy might be obnoxious, loud, and silly as hell, but unfortunately, he’s also good at literally everything.

Somehow, that fact slipped your mind when you let him talk you into betting on the last round of a stupid game at a party.

It was one of those chaotic, anything-goes types of games, the kind where people are shouting over each other, rules barely make sense, and luck has just as much sway as skill. You don’t even remember what it was called—something involving a blindfold, ping pong balls, and a lot of yelling. I’m kidding here…

All you know is that Hyugo had that stupid grin on his face, the one he always wears when he knows he’s about to win.

“Come on,” he’d said, his voice dripping with smugness as he leaned against the table. “You scared or something? What’s the worst that could happen?”

And like an idiot, you fell for it. “I’m not scared,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.”

Big mistake.

Because five minutes later, you were standing there in stunned silence, staring at Hyugo’s triumphant face as he held up his winning ping pong ball like it was an Olympic gold medal.

“Wow, that was almost too easy!” he said, laughing as he clapped you on the shoulder. “You really thought you could beat me?.”

You scowled, already regretting your life choices. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. What do you want?”

His grin widened, and you instantly knew you were doomed. “Oh, don’t worry,” he said, his voice practically oozing with fake innocence. “It’s nothing crazy. Just a little outfit change for, let’s say... an hour?”

Your stomach dropped. “What kind of outfit change? I have a movie night at Sol’s place later,”

And now here you are, standing in Sol’s dimly lit studio apartment, wearing a bunny suit that makes you feel about three sizes too exposed and questioning every decision you’ve ever made.

How the tf did Hyugo knew your size anyway?

The small space smells like popcorn and energy drinks, and there’s a paused horror movie on the screen, but all of that pales in comparison to the look on Sol’s face.

He hasn’t stopped staring since you walked in.

The guy is sitting on his beat-up couch, one leg tucked under him, the TV remote hanging limp in his hand. His mouth is slightly open, and his face?

Bright red.

Like, glowing tomato-red, borderline matching the devil on the movie poster behind him.

“…What are you doing?” he finally chokes out, his voice cracking just enough to make you raise an eyebrow. He clears his throat and tries again, this time deeper: “I mean, what’s this?” He gestures vaguely at you, but his hand is shaking a little, so it’s not exactly smooth.

You cross your arms, trying to tug the hem of the crotch area down to show less skin, but there’s no saving it—it’s just too short. “Lost a bet to Hyugo from party earlier today,” you mumble, your voice flat, as if that explains everything.

Sol squints at you, the disbelief radiating off him in waves. “Hyugo made you do this?” His tone flips between outraged and incredulous. His eyes dart down to the whole getup— floppy bunny ears, the thigh-high socks, even a little button tie—and then snap back up so fast you think he might’ve given himself a neck cramp. “Ugh… He’s the worst sometimes.”

“Yeah, thanks for the groundbreaking insight,” you deadpan, shooting him a withering glare. “I figured that out the moment Hyugo handed me this thing.”

Sol drags a hand through his perpetually messy hair, clearly grappling with some kind of inner turmoil. “You didn’t have to wear it, though,” he mutters, his usual grumbly tone edged with something oddly defensive. “You could’ve just… I dunno, said no.”

You blink at him, unimpressed. “Oh, sure. And let Hyugo post that video of me tripping like an idiot in front of the entire campus? An excellent alternative, Sol. Really genius stuff.”

He makes a weird noise in his throat, half a groan, half something else, and he mutters, “Still better than this…” But his eyes betray him.

Because despite the whole 'ugh, this is dumb' act, Sol keeps looking. Like, really looking. His gaze lingers on your bunny ears, the curve of the bodysuit, and the thigh-high socks that are making you wish the couch would swallow you whole. Every time his eyes travel down, they snap back up so fast you’d think he got whiplash.

“What’s your problem?” you snap, crossing your arms over your chest, mostly for your sanity. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, dragging his hand down his face with a groan. “Whatever. I’m not the one dressed like…” His words trail off as he waves vaguely in your direction, his ears reddening again as if even describing the outfit is too much for him.

You sigh and plop down on his old couch because there’s literally nowhere else to go in this shoebox of an apartment. As soon as you do, Sol freezes like you’ve just stepped on a landmine. His whole body stiffens, his hands gripping his knees, and you swear he stops breathing.

“Relax,” you say, kicking off your heels with a sigh. “It’s not like I want to be here in this dumb outfit either.”

“You don’t look unhappy,” he mutters, barely audible, but you catch it.

Your head snaps toward him, catching the faintest flicker of his eyes darting to your outfit before immediately locking onto the popcorn bowl on the coffee table like it’s his last lifeline. His face is ‘burning’, and it only gets worse when he realizes you caught him looking.

“Excuse me?” you ask, leaning in slightly because you can’t let him off the hook that easily.

“I didn’t—” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat so violently it’s almost painful. “I just meant—uh, never mind.” But his ears are practically glowing, and you can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

“Sure, okay,” you say, sighing as you settle deeper into the couch, before you mention, “It’s not like you’ve been staring at me like a creep since I walked in or anything.”

“I wasn’t staring!” he blurts, far too defensively for someone who was. He drags a hand through his hair, the strands sticking up even more as he groans like he’s on the verge of losing it.

“Oh, you weren’t?” you tease, tilting your head. “Are you calling me a liar?”

He shifts uncomfortably, his eyes flicking to your legs for half a second before darting away. His hands curl into fists on his lap, and his breathing sounds... uneven.

Fast.

One second, you’re sitting on the couch, awkwardly avoiding his gaze, and the next, you’re swept up off the cushions. His arms slide under you, one wrapping around your back and the other hooking beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly into a bridal carry.

“Sol!” you shriek, your hands instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders. “What are you—put me down!”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lowers himself back onto the couch, keeping you securely in his hold. Your legs dangle awkwardly over his arm, your heels threatening to slip off, and you’re acutely aware of how close your faces are now—his warm breath brushing against your skin, his sharp eyes fixed on yours.

“Relax,” he mutters, his tone gruff but oddly soft. “You were fidgeting too much. Thought you were about to hurt yourself or something.”

“Hurt what now?!” you snap, glaring at him even as your cheeks flush. “I wasn’t—Sol, that doesn’t even make sense. Let me go.”

“Not yet,” he says simply, his grip tightening slightly as if daring you to try and wriggle free.

You glare at him, but the heat of his gaze makes it hard to keep your composure. His eyes flicker down for a moment—trailing from your flushed face to the curve of your legs draped over his arm. He’s trying to play it cool, but the way his jaw clenches and his ears turn a faint shade of pink gives him away.

“Your legs are cold,” he murmurs after a beat, his voice quieter now.

“I wonder why,” you deadpan, trying to ignore the way your heart skips at the hint of concern in his tone.

His lips twitch a shadow of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “This outfit isn’t practical.”

“Well, I didn’t exactly pick it,” you grumble, squirming slightly in his hold.

“Stop moving,” he mutters, his voice dropping an octave. His hands shift slightly, one sliding along your back and the other brushing against your thigh as he adjusts his grip. The casual intimacy of it makes your face burn hotter.

“Sol...” you warn, your voice shaky.

But instead of answering, he leans back slightly, settling you more comfortably in his lap. The movement makes your head spin—partly from the sudden shift, but mostly because of how close he is now. You’re practically curled up against his chest, his arm still supporting your legs while his other hand rests firmly against your back.

And then he looks at you again.

Really looks at you.

His orange-red eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, the teasing, grumbly version of Sol you’re used to is nowhere to be found. There’s something different in his expression now—something serious, almost vulnerable, and it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You should be more careful,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing lightly against your knee. His hands slide from your hips to your legs. “These heels could’ve hurt me,” His thumbs trace slow, deliberate circles along the tops of your thighs, sending shivers up your spine.

Your mouth opens to respond—maybe to defend yourself, maybe to yell at him, you’re not sure—but then his hands shift lower, skimming over the curve of your calves. He grabs one of your feet, his fingers curling around your ankle as he starts tugging off your shoe.

“Sol, I can do that myself—”

“N-No,” he practically begged. His cheeks are pink, his expression strained like he’s trying to keep it together. “Please, just let me.”

You’re too stunned to argue. He’s slow about it, almost hesitant, his calloused fingers brushing against your skin as he removes one shoe, then the other. When he’s done, he lets his hands linger for a moment, his thumbs brushing over your bare ankles.

His eyes flicker back up to yours, and there’s something desperate in his expression now like he’s holding himself back from doing something stupid. “Why do you always have to make this so hard?” he mutters, half to himself.

“I’m making 'it' hard?” you blurt, your voice shaky.

“You showed up like this,” he counters, his gaze sweeping over you again. “Looking like... this.”

He leans closer, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. His hand slides up, tracing a line from your ankle to your knee, then up your thigh, stopping just shy of where the hem of the bunny suit begins. His knee presses a little closer, and you suck in a sharp breath.

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me right now?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your brain short-circuits. You don’t even know how to respond to that, especially not when his eyes are locked on yours like he’s waiting for an answer.

“Sol,” you finally manage, your voice barely audible. “You’re being weird.”

“I know,” he mutters, his lips twitching into a crooked, almost self-deprecating smile. “I’m always weird. But you make it worse.”

And with that, he dips his head lower, his breath ghosting over your lips like he’s daring you to stop him.

Please don’t make him stop…

✑ 𝑔𝑒𝑜

Geo hadn’t thought much about your text at first.

You were running late—what else was new? He was used to it by now. You’d told him to let himself in with the key under the mat since you were still getting ready, and, well, that’s what he did.

Your apartment was as familiar to him as ever: the faint smell of your scented candles. Geo plopped onto the couch, scrolling through his phone to kill time. After about ten minutes of waiting, he sighed loudly, tossing his phone onto the coffee table.

“Why do I let you do this to me?” he muttered, dragging himself to his feet. He made his way down the hall, the hardwood floor creaking faintly under his boots.

The door to your bedroom was cracked open, soft light spilling out into the hallway. He tapped lightly on the frame with his knuckles. “Hey, we’re gonna be late, y’know. What’s taking you so—”

He pushed the door open mid-sentence, stepping inside. And then he stopped.

His brain short-circuited.

There you were, standing in front of your full-length mirror, fiddling with a pair of floppy bunny ears.

A very, very skimpy bunny suit clung to you like a second skin, all shiny black fabric and sheer tights that showed just enough to drive someone insane.

The plunging neckline, the dangerously high cut of the bodysuit, the tiny bowtie collar around your neck—it was absurd. Ridiculous. And yet somehow…

You looked stunning.

Geo froze in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His trademark sarcasm, his quick wit, his effortless aloof expression? Gone. His brain? Absolutely empty.

His mouth opened like he wanted to say something—anything—but no words came out. Just absolute redness across his pale face.

You noticed him then, spinning around so fast that your bunny ears flopped dramatically to one side.

“Geo!” you shrieked, your voice an octave higher than usual. “What the hell are you doing? I thought you were out on the couch.”

“What am I doing?” he echoed, his voice cracking slightly as his eyes flicked over you, up and down, up and down, like he couldn’t stop himself. He quickly snapped his gaze upward, focusing on the very uninteresting ceiling. “What the hell are you wearing?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “It’s for a charity event,” you muttered defensively. “Crowe asked me to help raise donations.”

Geo’s jaw clenched, his fingers twitching at his sides as he tried to keep his gaze anywhere but directly on you. His eyes betrayed him, though, darting back to your legs, your waist, your— “What kind of charity involves… that?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at your outfit like it was some kind of alien artifact.

You groaned, turning back to the mirror to adjust the bunny ears again. “It’s a themed event, okay? College students are more likely to donate if there’s… I don’t know, incentive?”

“Incentive…?” Geo repeated, “And Crowe ask you wear that? Crowe?” His tone was somewhere between disbelief and outrage. “What is wrong with him? Is he insane?”

“It’s not that bad,” you said defensively, though your voice wavered because, yeah, it was kind of bad. “It’s for a good cause!”

Geo crossed his arms, his lips pulling into a tight line. “No. Nope. Not happening. You’re not walking out of here dressed like that. I don’t care if it’s for world peace.”

You threw your hands up. “What are you, my dad? Relax, Geo. It’s fine.”

“Fine?” He frowns, irritated, his eyes accidentally drifting downward before snapping back up to your face. He looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. “You look like—you—ugh, never mind.”

You raised an eyebrow, placing your hands on your hips, can’t you not get any more cuter!? “I look like what?”

“Forget it.” he sighed, his face turning an even deeper shade of red. “Just… just go change or something."

“I can’t!” you said, exasperated. “This is the whole point of the event!”

Geo groaned, dragging a hand down his face in pure exasperation. His usual sharp wit was dulled by whatever internal battle he was clearly losing. “Why do I have to be the one to deal with this? Literally anyone else would’ve been better. Anyone.”

You crossed your arms, giving him an incredulous look. “You’re the only one with a car who wasn’t busy,” you shot back, matter-of-fact as ever.

Geo huffed, throwing his hands up dramatically. “You should’ve just taken the bus, then!”

“And have creepy men ogling me the whole ride? Absolutely not,” you retorted, your tone sharp. “You’re a much better option. Like it or not.”

“Well,” he muttered, clearly flustered as his hand shot to the back of his neck, his eyes darting anywhere but at you, “…I’m regretting it now.”

You sighed, turning back to the mirror and fiddling with the bunny ears again, your patience wearing thin. “Look, if it’s that big of a deal, just wait outside. I’ll be done in a sec—I just need to put on my shoes.”

For a moment, you thought he might actually listen. But then Geo took a step closer, his posture shifting. The embarrassment still lingered in his tense shoulders and flushed face, but there was something else now—something almost… resolute.

Before you could ask what he was doing, he reached out and grabbed your wrist, turning you around so fast you nearly stumbled.

“Geo?” you asked, startled by the sudden intensity in his gaze.

He didn’t answer. Instead, without missing a second, he pushed you backward with a firm but careful hand, and your back hit the edge of your bed. You let out a startled gasp, barely managing to catch yourself as you propped up on your elbows.

“Hey! What the hell—”

You froze as Geo knelt in front of you, his hand gripping your ankle firmly but gently. His other hand reached out for your heels, which had been discarded nearby, and he snatched them up with a quick, fluid motion.

“You need to hurry up,” he grumbled, his voice low and laced with irritation as he slid the first heel onto your foot. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his fingers brushing against your sheer tights as he adjusted the strap. His face, however, was a different story—flushed red and rigid, like he was barely holding himself together. “So just—shut up and let me handle it.”

You blinked, your mouth opening to protest but no words coming out. Geo hadn’t spared you a glance, too focused on fastening the strap with a level of concentration that was almost comical.

“You’re—” you finally managed, but your voice wavered as his hands moved to your other foot.

“And you’re taking forever,” he shot back, not missing a beat. His grip on your ankle tightened slightly as he secured the second heel, his eyes resolutely fixed downward.

Is he actually blushing at this?

Your eyes narrowed, “You seem red there,” you teased, leaning back on your hands and watching him with a growing smirk. “What happened to all your sarcastic remarks, Mr. Smartass?”

“Shut up,” he muttered through clenched teeth, still not looking at you as he finished adjusting the second strap.

His fingers brushed against your ankle again, lingering just a second too long, and you swore you saw his ears turn even redder. Deciding to test your luck, you slowly crossed one leg over the other, making the movement deliberately graceful.

Geo’s aquamarine eyes flicked up instinctively at the shift in movement, and when he realized what he’d done, he snapped his gaze away so fast it was almost whiplash-inducing.

“Stop doing that,” he muttered, his voice lower now.

“Doing what?” you asked, feigning innocence as you tilted your head and batted your lashes at him.

“You know what,” Geo shot back, his jaw tightening as he focused way too hard on the buckle of your heel, his fingers fumbling slightly.

“Aw, is the Geo, the all powerful and scary is embarrassed with me in a bunny suit?” you teased, your voice dripping with playful mockery as you leaned forward slightly, one of your legs crossing just enough to invade his space.

The toe of your heel pressed lightly against his chest, and you tilted your head, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips. “I didn’t think you’d get so flustered over a little outfit.”

Geo, ever the picture of calm composure, froze mid-motion. His hands, which had been casually adjusting the cuffs of his jacket a moment ago, were now completely still.

For a second, it was like time itself had paused. Slowly—deliberately—his gaze lifted, locking with yours.

Fuck.

His eyes, normally narrowed and calculating, were different now. They seemed darker, more intense, clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t annoyance, nor was it the usual stoic indifference he wore like armor.

Whatever it was, it had you swallowing hard.

The teasing smirk on your face faltered just slightly as curiosity crept in. You tilted your head to the side, your lips parting faintly as you tried to read him, to figure out what was going on behind that icy stare. “Geo?” you prompted softly, your narrowed eyes searching his face.

Still, he didn’t look away. He couldn’t seem to.

It was kinda hard—and kind of thrilling, if you were honest. Normally, a jab like that would earn you a dry, sarcastic retort, something sharp-edged that would put you right back in your place.

But this time? Nothing. Whatever comeback he’d had locked and loaded vanished the second your teasing grin softened into something more uncertain.

The silence stretched, tension thickening between the two of you like a coiled spring. You couldn’t tell if it was your own heartbeat hammering in your chest or his, but the moment felt impossibly fragile.

“Seriously, say something,” you murmured, a hint of nervous laughter creeping into your tone.

You pressed your foot just a little harder against his chest, trying to get any kind of reaction. “You’re starting to freak me out.”

His gaze flicked briefly to your leg—the curve of your calf, the ridiculous heel perched at the end of it—before snapping back to your face.

“You shouldn’t play games you can’t win,”

Your breath caught for half a second. His hand moved, wrapping firmly around your ankle—not harshly, but with enough pressure to make your pulse skip a beat. With one smooth motion, he guided your leg away from his chest.

“You don’t get it,” he said suddenly, his voice quiet but firm, his tone a complete shift from his usual snark.

The intensity in his voice caught you off guard, and your expression faltered. “...Don’t get what?” you asked, your playful tone slipping into something more hesitant.

Geo’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as if he were trying to hold something back. He stood abruptly, the sudden motion making you flinch slightly. His eyes immediately flickered with regret at your reaction, and he took a deep breath, trying to collect himself.

“Shit,” Geo muttered under his breath, running a hand through his already messy hair. His back was turned to you, but the stiffness in his posture betrayed his frustration. He exhaled sharply, shoulders rising and falling as though wrestling with something he couldn’t quite say.

“Geo…” you started softly, the sharp edge in your tone from earlier now replaced with concern.

“Don’t,” he cut you off, his voice strained and hoarse, like the words were being dragged out of him. “We’re not going to the charity event. You’re staying here. End of discussion.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “What?” you exclaimed, still perched on the edge of the bed. “You can’t just decide that for me!”

He turned to face you, amber eyes blazing with a mix of irritation and something you couldn’t quite place. “Watch me.”

Before you could react, Geo stalked toward your desk, snatched a hoodie draped over the chair, and practically threw it at your face with surprising precision. His hands lingered just long enough to tug it snugly over your frame, the fabric swallowing the delicate silhouette of your bunny suit.

“You’re not going anywhere in that,” he said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. He stepped back slightly, his gaze flicking over you as though ensuring his makeshift cover-up was secure. “If Crowe wants donations that badly, he can wear the damn bunny suit.”

Your jaw dropped, words caught somewhere between outrage and disbelief. “Geo, bro, you’re being absolutely insane right now”

“Don’t call me bro. And yeah, probably,” he admitted, flashing a grin that was more sharp edges than warmth. “But at least I’m not letting you walk into a room full of idiots who won’t be able to keep their eyes—or their thoughts—off you.”

Heat crept up your cheeks at his bluntness, and you folded your arms tightly across your chest. His words hung in the air, heavy and unyielding, and the tension between you grew like a palpable thing.

“You’re seriously overreacting,” you muttered, but your voice lacked its usual bite.

“Am I?” Geo shot back, stepping closer. His towering frame cast a shadow over you as his gaze locked onto yours, burning with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. His voice dropped, low and deliberate. “Do you even realize how—” He stopped abruptly, his jaw clenching as if swallowing the words was the only way to keep them from spilling out.

“Realize what?” you pressed, your own voice barely above a whisper now, caught somewhere between defiance and curiosity.

Geo’s eyes darted to the floor, then back to you, before he let out a low, frustrated growl. In one swift movement, he stepped forward, his hands gripping your shoulders as he pushed you gently but firmly down onto the bed.

“Geo, what the hell—”

Your protest was cut short as he followed, his weight settling over you in a way that was far from aggressive but left no room for escape. His arms slipped around you, pulling you into a tight embrace as his head dropped to your chest.

The world seemed to stop as you felt the warmth of his breath against your collarbone. He didn’t say a word, his face buried against you, his grip almost desperate.

You froze, your hands hovering uncertainly in the air. “Geo?” you murmured, your voice soft and unsure.

“Just… shut up for a second,” he muttered, his voice muffled against you. His tone was softer now, tinged with vulnerability that made your chest ache.

“Let me have this.”

Your hands hesitated before they slowly lowered, one settling against his back, the other threading cautiously through his hair. His body tensed at first but then melted into yours, his hold tightening as if he were afraid you’d disappear.

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” he mumbled, his voice raw and unguarded. “And not used of handling it.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the weight of his words—and his closeness—stealing the air from the room. Whatever you were going to say died on your tongue as you let the moment stretch, the sound of his breathing steadying against you.

“Oh,” you said finally, your voice quieter now.

“You’re not making any damn sense. Like we’re going to be late for the event,” you murmured, trying to keep your tone soft but firm.

“Good,” he muttered into your chest without lifting his head.

“Good?” you echoed, your brows furrowing. “Crowe’s going to kill me if I don’t show up. And you promised to drive me, remember?”

“I don’t care about Crowe or the stupid event right now,” he grumbled, his voice low and slightly muffled. “It’s not important.”

“Not important?” You leaned your head back against the bed in disbelief. “You’re acting like the world’s ending because of a bunny suit, Geo. What’s really going on?”

He finally lifted his head slightly, just enough to look at you filled with intensity that made your breath catch. “You still don’t get it, do you?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly, a mix of irritation and something deeper.

“I don’t want anyone else looking at you the way I am right now.”

Your heart skipped a beat, his words sinking in and leaving you momentarily speechless. “Geo…” you started, but he didn’t give you a chance to finish.

Instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips brushed the curve of your neck. You tensed under his touch, your breath hitching as his teeth gently grazed your skin.

“Just give me five minutes,” he whispered, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. His lips pressed softly against the spot he’d just bitten, lingering for a moment before pulling back slightly.

“Five minutes, and then I’ll get up, and we can go. Deal?”

You blinked, trying to process what just happened, your body feeling like it was on fire where his lips had been.

“Geo, that’s not—”

“Five minutes,” he repeated, cutting you off. His tone was quieter this time, almost pleading as his eyes locked onto yours, filled with a vulnerability he rarely let you see.

“Please.”

Oh shit, a please??. Five minutes it is then.

#the kid at the back vn #tkatb vn #tkatb #the kid at the back x reader #tkatb crowe #tkatb sol #tkatb geo

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