#unless the man bun is already a thing and im dumb

[yee-hawyeet]

Okay hear me out a DLC where we get to braid Charles hair and put Arthur/Johns hair in a man bun after it’s grown out.

[macbookpro-hard-drive]

weak [connor m. x fem!reader]

like what i do? consider buying me a coffee!

look i know ive been like. dead. but i sorta pushed myself to finish this in order to post Something

im so sorry ive been so inactive hhh ive been busy with work and college and 

warnings: 

         The first time you met Connor Murphy, he’d been leaning against a washing machine with a book tucked underneath his arm, fumbling with his wallet. The soft swears spilling from his lips seemed to fill the air, and part of you wondered whether you should just come back and do laundry later - considering the demanding weight of the basket in front of you was starting to become grating - or if you should just go in and do your laundry, despite the intimidating air he seemed to carry around him. The weight of your laundry basket barked at you, and you made up your mind and walked in, apparently immediately grabbing his attention. He looked up, saw you standing there awkwardly as you made eye contact before hurrying over to an empty washing machine to start making sure you had sorted shit correctly. The sound of a heavy sigh grasped your attention, your shoulders jerking slightly as heavy footsteps grew closer. You looked up, and there he stood - taller than you and built like a beanpole, hair pulled back into a low, lazily crafted bun.

        He didn’t say anything at first, sort of looking down to his wallet for a moment. Then his eyes caught yours as he shut the empty leather wallet, and jammed it into his pocket. You immediately grew tense as you nearly dropped the shirt you’d pulled out, and then your nails dug into it as you watched this complete stranger approach you. He sighed, then frowned, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

        “Fuck, sorry - hey, uh, do you have any extra change? Fuck, sorry - I don’t have anything smaller than a twenty and, uh-” he paused, “I ran out.”

        “That wasn’t smart,” you said without thinking, before immediately growing flustered. You dug into the bag you’d swung carelessly over your shoulder before heading out to do laundry, pulled out the coin purse you kept full of spare change - which was mainly shit that your parents kept sending you, as a ‘just in case’ you need it for whatever reason, despite the fact you’d been fine and more collecting coins rather than using them - and tossed it to him. The weight crashed into his chest, and he looked from the little black bag to your face.

        “What the fuck do you have in here?” He asked. Maybe your bag was growing a little heavy.

        But you failed to suppress a small smirk and answered him anyway. “Coins.”

        His eyes flutter from you to the bag and then back to your face. “... Gold coins?” He asked, unzipping the little pouch. Then he paused, before finally replying to you as he strode back over to his laundry. “Thanks.”

        “I want that back, y’know,” you said.

        “Yeah. Whatever. Sure. I’ll pay you-”

        “The rest of the bag, dumb ass.” You clicked your tongue, “don’t pay me back.”

        “Whatever.”

        So you continued what you were doing silently, debating whether you should plug in your headphones and turn on a podcast or something - or maybe see if this stranger will watch your shit just in case and run back to grab your laptop and plant down somewhere and see if you can knock out a bit more of one of your papers. You stood there in silent debate, realizing that this dude still had all of your change in his hands right as you went to find your quarters. You looked back to him, and he was just standing there, toying with the zipper mindlessly. He didn’t look back to you.

        “Yo. I’d like to do laundry, dude.”

        He looked back to you. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

        The next thing you felt was your bag hitting your chest, and you watched this dude smirk as he turned back to what he was doing, now finding his phone and fumbling around aimlessly with it instead. You debated asking his name - but in the end, you really didn’t care at that time. He finished his laundry, thanked you for your shit, and then walked out - hopefully with a plan to fold that shit once he got back to his dorm room. You plugged in your headphones, and left the sound of three brothers distract you from the bullshit amount of time you’d be sitting here. Could you leave? Sure. Did you trust it? Absolutely not - not after the last time when some asshole stole one of your hoodies. Sure, you got it back - but not without a few stains that you immediately struggled to wash out, causing for you to waste a fuck-ton of change with multiple washes.

        The next time you met Connor was late at night inside a coffee shop that wasn’t too far from your campus. The one in the building was closed, and you’d rather go buy a cup from wherever rather than try to find any coffeemaker and make it for yourself. Honestly, you just didn’t want to wake anyone up with the smell of burnt coffee - that would be a string of apologies you didn’t want to have to make. So you sunk into your boots, shoved your wallet into your sweatpants pocket, and set out to the nearest place you could find that was open - a small local joint, according to your phone. You were relieved to find that it was in fact open, and escaped into the shop, the sweet smell of coffee greeting you. The tired eyes of the barista greeted you, and you felt bad for coming in so late - how much longer was this place open anyhow?

        She let out a soft sigh, stretching as she walked over to greet you. College student. You could feel the exhaustion radiating off of her. You glanced at her name tag - Joanne - before she finally greeted you. She rolled her shoulders back, the soft pop audible even to you as she forced a smile, “welcome to the Bean Hut,” she said, “what can I get for ya’?”

        You glanced to the menu, rocking back and forth as you searched for something. You rattled off your order, trying to keep it as simple as you could so that she wouldn’t have to strain herself too much - because jesus, you were actually starting to get concerned for her health. You glanced over to the emptying case of different treats. She caught your gaze as she punched in your order, pausing as she debated something internally.

        “If you want something, get it. We throw away what we don’t sell,” she said, “waste of food but, fuck, what can you do?”

        “How much is the banana nut bread?” You asked. She rattled off a price, so you bought a slice for your roommate and a chocolate croissant for yourself, watching her unfold a paper bag with THE BEAN HUT printed on the front in stereotypical hipster coffee shop font. After a moment, you hurried and unfurled your money, handing it to her as you heard the front door of the shop open with a jingle, and glanced over your shoulder while taking the bag from her.

        You hadn’t introduced yourself to him before, as you didn’t have the chance to, but you immediately recognized the stranger as being laundry-boy. How many lanky dudes with man-buns were there on campus anyhow? Besides, you really couldn’t forget how fucking cold his eyes were. He scanned your face, taking in each detail as he tried to pin something to you because you were familiar but he just couldn’t pinpoint where.

        “Welcome to the Bean Hut-” Joanne had begun, only for Connor to glance from her to you, “oh. Connor. The usual?” She asked. 

        “Yeah - hot chocolate and a-”

        “A vanilla bean scone,” she finished, already in the process of punching in his total, “I know.”

        You looked over to this Connor, jamming your hands into your pockets, “are you gonna need some extra change this time, Connor?” It was dumb and it was nothing but it was enough to get his attention, as you caught his eyes flickering to you for a second as he opened his wallet.

        He pulled his card out of his wallet, handing it over to Joanne to run. He sort of smiled and said, “thought I recognized you,” before turning to face you. “I’m good. Thanks.”

        You weren’t sure if he was being friendly or what. That’s just how this dude seemed to speak - sorta unwavering, always with cold eyes and his hands hidden away in his jacket or jean pockets no matter what. But you just sort of forced a smile, rocking back and forth on your heels as you glanced over to Joanne, busy at work with making your drinks. “You come here a lot?” You asked, looking back to Connor.

        “Yeah. Usually.” 

        “Busy?”

        “No,” he sort of shrugged, “I just like the hot chocolate.” He left it at that, not pushing forward. You were a stranger - he didn’t have to spill his entire life story to you. This was just a fluke in fate, a mistake where your paths crossed again and it probably wasn’t meant to happen. At least, that’s what Connor thought - you looked like you were nothing like him, bundled up in warm sleepwear while he was stuck looking like he was going out for the night again. Connor didn’t do that. Connor didn’t like going out with his roommate to parties, he didn’t care for drinking unless he was home or somewhere he couldn’t fuck things up. You sucked in your cheeks, giving him a once-over.

        The first time you’d seen Connor, he’d only been in a t-shirt and sweatpants - the usual college attire, you’d come to learn - but now he stood before you in jeans that were baggy at the knee and ripped (factory ripped, you’d decided at the lack of fraying), leather jacket over a unzipped hoodie over plaid, and worn leather boots that you could see staring to stretch away from the soles, begging to be replaced soon. You finally spoke up, cutting through the awkward silence that had drawn between you, “going somewhere?”

        “Didn’t change.” He looked over to you, “are you working on a paper or-”

        “Yep,” you popped the ‘p’, “research paper. Physics. It’s boring.”

        “Boring?”

        “To most people, yeah.” You shrugged, “I mean, it’s cool and all, but I don’t even need it for my major. I just wanted the science credit-”

        “So you chose physics.” Connor stared at you with bewilderment, “y’know, there’s easier classes on campus-”

        “I took AP Physics my senior year in high school. I’m not going in blind, hon,” you tried to suppress the smallest little smile. He just stood there, watching you badly fighting back a smile, and then the crumple of a paper bag caught his attention as Joanne slid a medium-sized coffee-cup over to you, and then a bag to Connor, before turning back to her job.

        You barely had the time to take your drink and turn before Connor stopped you. “Hey,” he’d called, causing you to glimpse back at him over your shoulder. “It’s Connor.” He said, reaching back to the counter behind him, “my name- I mean,” he stumbled over his words, “Connor Murphy.”

        After a moment, you smiled. “[y/n],” you said, “nice to meet you, Murphy.” Then you were gone, the soft chime of a bell marking your exit as you took your walk back to your dorm. Connor Murphy. You committed the name to memory. Something told you that you’d meet him again - somehow. You lifted your cup to your lips, fighting back to urge to tear it away as the burning liquid spilled onto your tongue as you let the warm caffeine seep into your body, into your entire being. You’d have to go back sometimes. Maybe you’d run into Connor again. 

        If you were honest, you’d never been that much of a party person. Or, well, rather - you’d never been a ‘let’s go party with complete strangers and get wasted’ kind of person. Parties with friends? You were down - but now you were sitting in the corner of a room with a red cup in your hand, guarding the drink with your life. You’d lost sight of your roommate, slightly cursing that fact since she’d asked for you to keep an eye on her if she started drinking - which had happened almost ten minutes after the two of you arrived. On the better side of the spectrum, she’d worked up the confidence to finally talk that guy in her intro to theatre history class that you could tell was into her, and maybe they’d be making out somewhere. On the other hand, you’d get up and find her sometime soon, ditching your drink for the night because it was shitty beer, not even the kind of stuff that you could normally stomach. You’d hoped that maybe someone would have pitched in, maybe brought wine coolers or something with any more flavor than that sad grain water shit. But you’d stopped looking after a while, dodging between drunk freshmen and listening to girls coo over the smallest things - which made you fight back a smile, because drunk girls were always adorable in your opinion, some getting more giggly, and on the rare occasion you’d had one asked if you’d eat and try to feed you peanuts when you’d admit that you hadn’t. It was a sweet notion - fuck anyone who said that drunk girls were embarrassing. You’d punch a fucker for harassing a drunk girl, or any girl.

        The music seemed to increase in volume after minutes, leading you to finally push yourself out of your seat, finding the kitchen and dumping the shitty beer into a sink before you wandered with the intent of finding your roommate. To your surprise, she’d been sitting out back with journalism-dude’s arm around her shoulder, laughing at some video on his phone, headphones shared between them. You only smiled as you turned, wandering around inside with the hope of finding somewhere quiet. Bedrooms were a no-go, since you didn’t want to walk in on anyone fucking (the risk alone was too much for you, because how do you walk away from that sort of thing? You weren’t sure.) and bathrooms were only a somewhat safer bet. After a while of wandering, you’d finally found an unlocked bathroom that seemed empty when you knocked. And lo and behold, you opened the door to find a certain scrawny dude sitting in the bathtub, phone now pressed to his stomach as you pushed your way inside.

        “Are you fucking stalking me?” Connor said, staring at you with furrowed brow as he watched you shut the door behind you.

        “Shut up, Murphy.” You hesitated to lock the door, but glanced back to him, “mind if I-”

        “God, fucking please,” he scowled, before shifting slightly, giving you enough room to sit beside him if you wanted.

        You weren’t about to turn the offer down. The door clicked locked, and you crossed the tiny bathroom to sink into the spot next to him, snagging your phone from your back pocket in the process. “So why are you here?”

        “Roommate dragged me here.” Connor looked over to you, clicking his phone on and off mindlessly, “some shit about wanting to get out and enjoy college. You?”

        “Same thing, I guess,” you shrugged, “roommate’s crush was gonna be here and she wanted to talk to him. So I came along to make sure she doesn’t get into trouble-”

        “And now you’re doing that by hiding in a bathroom.”

        “She’s with that dude and they’re watching something together. She’s safe for right now, dude. I’m not shitty like that,” you frowned, “c’mon, Murphy. Do I seem like the kind of girl to just abandon her friend like that?”

        He shrugged, looking back to his phone for a second. “[y/n], right?” He asked, finally looking back over to you. You nodded. He shifted again, pressing his back against the corner as best as he could. “What’s your story?”

        “My what-” You’d started, “Murphy, what the fuck-”

        “I’m just trying to make fucking conversation.”

        You stared at him, watching as he rolled his eyes and went back to his phone without a word. Fine. “I was raised in a town not too far from here, I took a bunch of AP classes in high school so that I look pretty fucking good on applications, and now I’m here. Nothing special.” 

        He glanced over to you, not really responding at first. And finally, he sucked in a breath, and put his phone down as he finally turned his attention to you. “Guess we have that in common.” He said, and you perked a brow at that. “The ‘nothing special’ shit.”

        “Spill your story then, Murphy.”

        He smiled a little at that before looking away, licking his lips before he finally settled on a starting point. “Uh, I guess - I’m from out of state, I have a sh-” He stopped there, “I have a pretty okay sister and okay parents,” he said, both feeling a bit strained for him to say. “I, uh, dealt with some shit in high school, aaand now I’m here in a bathroom at a party.”

        You shifted, trying to find comfort in sitting against the edge of the tub and the wall. “I feel like you’re leaving out details. C’mon. Spill shit.” You paused for a moment, “you say something, I say something. Go.”

        Amusement flickered in his eyes as he smiled again, “alright. I took tap for years as a kid. Loved it,” he said softly, “and then I threw that out.”

        You nodded, pursing your lips together. What could you tell him? “I have a dog at home. Her name is Pepper and she’s the best girl in the world.”

        “I played baseball as a kid.” He drummed his fingers against his leg, “and threw that out later, too. It was fun, though.”

        “Nice.” You hummed for a moment, mentally scrolling through your library of things to tell. “I was in a production of Cinderella when I was ten as one of the stepsisters. It was the best fucking shit, and I kicked ass in the role.”

        He chuckled at the thought. “I wrote a lot of shitty teen poetry in high school.”

        “I still write a lot of shitty teen poetry in college,” you smirked as you brushed hair from your eyes. “Shitty teen poetry is fun, Murphy.”

        You watched him shift against the uncomfortable tub and wall. “I smoked a lot of weed.” He shrugged, “I don’t smoke as much anymore.”

        “Surprise, surprise.” You rolled your eyes, “never saw that one coming, Murphy.” Before he could protest, you elbowed him, “I’m kidding. You only somewhat look like a stoner.” You let out a heavy breath, trying to come up with another fact. “I have a little brother. He’s in high school.”

        “I have an annoying little sister. She’s also in high school. Jazz band.”

        “He’s on the soccer team - but he has been thinking about taking art classes again. He used to draw a lot.”

        “I draw a lot.” Connor said, “considering I’m an art major.” He smiled at you, “tell your brother to go for it.”

        “I’m undeclared.” You let out a sigh, “not sure yet. Maybe I’ll major in English or something.” You couldn’t fight back a smile, “can you draw me?”

        “Can I? Yeah, definitely, if you’re paying.”

        “Guess my poor college ass is just gonna have to take a rain check, Murphy.” You finally stole a glance at the time. “I should probably go check on Tessa. Walk me out, Murphy?”

        You pushed yourself up and out of the tub, spine popping in the process as it ached from the awkward curvature of the tub and wall. You stepped away, only to be surprised when Connor rose too, stretching as he stood, shirt riding slightly above his hips and giving you a glimpse of a sliver of skin. You tore your eyes away from that. You almost expected him to notice and greet you with a crooked smile and a “like what you see?” But he didn’t, double-checking his pockets for his phone and wallet - you begun to doubt that he would have even noticed your little glance. You unlocked the bathroom door, stumbling out into a quieter hallway with Connor in tow, and you wandered downstairs. When you couldn’t spot your roommate, you fished out your phone, only to find a single text there for you.

        Tess: journalism guy coming back w me, sorry

        You groaned slightly as you turned back to Connor, about to say something when he merely showed you his phone, sort of pinching at the bridge of his nose with annoyance. You understood why the moment you read the text.

        J: wont be back tonight. enjoy the dorm to urself.

        “Great. Our roommates are fucking,” you clicked your tongue, “or that’s just a really fun coincidence.”

        “He never shuts up about Tessa.” Connor jammed his phone into his jeans pocket, “c’mon. You’re staying with me, I guess.” He took you by the wrist, guiding you out of the party.

        “Cool. Fun. Sleepover with art major Connor Murphy. I’m down.” You said, excitement just oozing out of you - absolutely. Completely. Good thing he was guiding you, or you’d probably melt into a fucking puddle. You were glad Connor couldn’t read minds. He didn’t need to hear your stupid snarky shit.

        “You’re taking Jer’s bed,” he shrugged, “he won’t care. And if he does, then tough shit for him.” He released your wrist, letting you fall into step beside him. “Sorry.”

        “For what? Our roommates happen to be into each other. It’s just a coincidence, Connor.”

        He didn’t verbally respond. He only shrugged at that, and the two of you continued on your walk towards your dorm. Thirty minutes later, you’re standing in his room and he’s already stripped off his jacket without a second thought, before he started digging through his clothes. You didn’t expect for a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants to hit you a second later, as he looked over to you, eyes flickering down to the shirt that’d fallen to the floor. Minutes later and he turned away from you, making some comment about how he would say something about the bathrooms, but he didn’t need to risk someone finding ‘some girl on their floor’ right now. You only shrugged, turning away and changing as quickly as you could. His shirt and pants were longer than you expected, honestly - and maybe that was because he was a tall dude. 

        “That’s J’s bed.” Connor motioned toward one, “take it. He can deal.” He threw himself onto his own bed, comforter shifting.

        You walked over and set your phone down on the nearby nightstand before finally sitting down and watching Connor. “You draw, right? Can... I see some of your work?” 

        He just sorta glanced over to you as he plugged his phone in, the soft chime filling the pause in the air. Connor shrugged as he stood, walking over to his desk, picking up one wire-bound sketchbook that’d been sitting in the corner, holding it out to you. “Class shit.” He shrugged again, before picking up a smaller, Moleskine one that had been carelessly thrown on top of his laptop, and he tossed that one to you as well. “Pocket sketchbook. I draw random shit in that one.” And he gingerly picked up another, a landscape one, and walked that one over, sitting down beside you. “Aaaand watercolor shit.”

        You set the watercolor book and his pocket sketchbook on the bed beside you, flipping open the wire-bound one he’d first handed to you. Pages upon pages of tonal work - different objects, all with shadows dancing in different places - greeted you before gesture drawings saw, messily scribbled down with features often ending up slightly smudged. Connor watched you flip through the pages, before shutting the book once they turned blank. Next was his watercolor - one he seemed a bit more careful with, from how he brought it to you with careful grasp. You flipped it open slowly, a picture of a landscape there to greet you: lush greenery, mountains, and a lake. For some reason, you couldn’t shake the small home-y feeling you’d gotten from it. When you flipped through the rest of the pages, there were other landscapes, and some paintings of birds, and then the last was a vague sketch of a figure, done completely in greys. You shut the book, and Connor took it from you to deliver it back to it’s place on his desk.

        The last was Connor’s pocket sketchbook. You slipped the band off, opening it to find the first dated image was from over a year ago. Page after page was filled with the most mundane things - a girl with an ice cream cone, her grin wide and hair being blown in the wind; a sleeping dog,, a boy with an arm in a cast seated at a desk, trees, sometimes even pill bottles.

        “That’s from when I was fucking sick,” he scowled, “and my mom wouldn’t let me out of the house to do anything.” He tapped the sketch of the NyQuil bottle, “so I drew the shitty cold medicine she’d brought me.”

        You nodded, flipping through. Every so often, you’d find pictures of the same girl: some of her lost in music, some of her just curled up in an chair. When you finally looked up to say something to Connor, he licked his lips, already knowing your question. 

        “That’s my sister, Zoe.” He shut his eyes, shifting uncomfortably beside you.

        “She’s pretty,” you sort of hummed, “you’re really talented.”

        He sorta chuckled at that. “Thanks.” He slipped the sketchbook from your hands.

        “Kinda sad I don’t have anything to show you, unless you wanna read some shitty poetry.” He snorted at the comment. You elbowed him, “c’mon. I’m not kidding. You showed me your art, I can show you some of my amazingly shitty poetry next time we meet.” And then you paused, looking to where you’d set your phone down, and picked it up. “You,” you began, “should give me your number.”

        “Why-”

        “C’mon, Murphy. The universe obviously wants us to be friends or something.” You picked up your phone, pulling open the contacts, “why keep fighting that?”

        He couldn’t really argue with that. He took your phone from your hand, closing out of your contacts and opening messages, punching in his number before sending a text. Barely a second later, his phone buzzed, and he shoved your phone back into your hands. “Done.” He stood, stalking across the room back to his bed.

        You rolled your eyes at the string of emojis he’d sent himself, all taken from your most recently used. Original. You set your phone down, before finally crawling into his roommate’s bed without a second thought. “Night, Murphy,” you’d called out, and then a lamp flickered off, and eventually you managed to fight the foreign feeling of another person’s bed enough to drift off to sleep.

        Connor was a welcome figure in your dorm room - one floor below where his was. He’d often swing by after his classes, glad to find you curled up in bed with your laptop set on top of your lap desk. At first it was Connor sliding in after he came from classes. Later it turned to Connor bringing you a hot chocolate and a chocolate croissant, and more dumb conversation to keep you company while your roommate was usually out. Other than Connor’s visits, the two of you had started heading over to the library for study sessions, or out to a coffee-shop just to sit around and people-watch while talking about whatever life shit the two of you could come up with. Sometimes it’d be about his sister and things he did when he was a kid, other times it’d be you gloating about your brother’s soccer skills. 

        Connor had stretched himself out across the end of your bed, phone resting on his stomach as he stared up at your ceiling. You’d been invested in this story about some shit one of your friends had gotten into back during your freshman year of high school, typing at your laptop without pause the entire time. He marveled in your ability to multi-task, honestly, because he knew he would have veered off into typing at least half of his thoughts up by mistake. You slowly trailed off, voice growing soft as you stared at Connor, his focus intensely placed on your ceiling.

        “You okay?” You asked, stretching a leg out to nudge his arm. He finally glanced back over to you, propping himself up on his elbows.

        “Are you staying here for Thanksgiving?”

        You were caught slightly off-guard by the sudden question, but shook your head anyway. “No - why?”

        “Just... wanted to ask.”

        “Are you?”

        He shook his head after a moment. “Mom wants me to come home.” He paused, “but if you were staying, I could have probably gotten out of it-”

        “Do you not want to go home?” You interrupted him, closing your laptop and moving your lap desk aside. “I mean - you could come with me if you want, but you’d have to put up with my dad asking if you’re my boyfriend.”

        “No - fuck, I mean, I want to go home. Just...” He paused, “I don’t know. There’s a couple assholes I’m not looking forward to seeing.”

        “You’re from out of state, right?” You asked, forcing a small topic change. Connor had appreciated it, and simply answered you with a nod. “How are you getting home? I don’t see you driving anywhere, so...” You sucked in your cheek, “flying? Bus?”

        “Flying. I’ve uh... got a flight to catch Friday after-”

        “I can drive you? To the airport, I mean,” you clarified, “y’know. So you don’t have to Uber or anything.” 

        He stared at you. You writhed slightly in discomfort, shifting blankets around you before breaking your gaze away from his. “Okay?” He said, “why?”

        “... Because we’re friends? Because I might be heading out that way anyway since I literally pass by the only airport around here when I drive home, and I thought “well, gee, I could give my friend a ride” since I care about art major Connor Murphy, my snark-master of a pal?” You smiled, “unless you’re leaving from somewhere else?”

        “No - I mean, I am leaving from-” He stopped for a moment, “yeah - that’d be great... thanks.” 

        Zoe picked him up from the airport. She’d been leaning against her car that’d once been his, arms folded across her chest as she stood, waiting for him to finally move his ass and get out there. The sound of his bag rolling behind him filled the empty silence that he’d grown used to, the weight of his carry-on luggage starting to grow more and more frustrating with each step. He’d only thrown a couple books in along with his sketchbook, and now he was regretting it because his neck was stiff and his spine was stiffer and - fuck, did he ever mention he hated flying? His ears had popped and everything was still slightly muffled despite the fact he’d tried almost every trick he could come up with. The idea of a hot shower was utopian to him. Zoe didn’t greet him with a hug, but with her usual steely eyes as she popped the trunk before sliding back into the driver’s seat.

        Great. A fantastic start to Thanksgiving break. Only more thrills would await him. He shoved the handle of his luggage down, almost carelessly throwing the bag into the back of his sister’s car. With a slam of the trunk, Connor ignored the glare that Zoe threw him as he climbed into the passenger seat, his carry-on bag nestled in the floorboard between his legs. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He was greeted with a picture of you, smiling with your arm around some kid - “hope you had a great flight! 2nd fave art geek here thanks u for ur wise advice of ‘go for it’” - and he smiled slightly at your nickname for your brother. 

        Zoe caught a glimpse of his phone, barely a millisecond before he clicked it off. “Who’s that?”

        “Just a friend,” he shrugged. 

        “When’d you meet her?”

        “... September. Laundry girl.” He said. Zoe nodded. For the few times Connor had spoken to his family (as for the most part, they left each other alone, and it had usually been Cynthia calling Connor for an update in how he’s doing before passing the phone to Larry and then to Zoe), he was glad to see that Zoe remembered his little story of you.

        “Oh.” Zoe pressed her lips together. He looked over to her, watching her expression. She was thinking - probably trying to figure out as much as she could from that little glimpse of you as she could.

        “If you want to ask something, then fucking ask.”

        Zoe landed on one of the most obvious questions. “Is she single?”

        Were you? He didn’t recall you having a girlfriend or a boyfriend or anything. Besides - you’d probably spend more time with them than with him, right? Connor was... fine company, but definitely not better than a partner. “I don’t think so.”

        “Is she your type?”

        “I don’t have a-”

        “You like cute girls who aren’t afraid to say shit to your face, geeky boys who are shy - but if any of them are shorter than you then you’ve probably thought about dating them at least once.” Zoe looked over to him, “you have a type, Connor.”

        As he sat there trying not to gawk at how bold her statement had been, at how sharp her tongue was, his phone buzzed once more. When he looked down to see your name, he was glad to see the words “(but if you ever need an out, i’m here <3)” printed across the screen. He fought back a smile as he texted you his thanks, trying to ignore the glance from Zoe that would surely be followed up with more questions. To his surprise, she kept her eyes on the road and her mouth shut. Which, in his experience, usually meant that the moment they got home, she’d probably casually drop the “Connor has a girlfriend” bomb in front of their mom and then she would take to questioning him. To his surprise, she didn’t. At least, not until halfway through dinner while Connor was still prodding at the vegetarian lasagna his mother had made, absentmindedly answering her questions.

        Then Zoe said it, casual and cool after a long sip of water. The moment she set the glass down and begun to clean up around her, it just slipped out casually, “Connor has a girlfriend.”

        Before he could refute it, his mother was already beaming at the mere aspect of him having a anyone in his life. “Connor, is this true?” She was ecstatic and it slightly hurt him to crush her hopes.

        “No, uh, she’s just a friend,” he said, glaring at Zoe as she strode past to put her dishes away, “we, uh, met when doing laundry. Her building’s water got turned off for a few days,” he began to sink into his seat, “and she helped me out.”

        “What’s her name?” Larry piped up, surprising Connor. He was sure his dad wouldn’t care enough to ask questions. But the moment your name rolled off his tongue, his father nodded, mulling over your name alone. “Sounds nice.”

        The rest of the conversation was dominated completely by questions, making Connor dig up all the information he’d learned about you. The fact you were from not-too-far from campus, your little brother, what your parents did, your major - the fact you were smart and took Physics made his mother smile, because something about the idea of him (potentially, in her eyes) having a smarty-pants girlfriend pleased her. Most likely because it meant you could maybe help him and cue the whole study-dates turning into real-dates montage as the two of you fell for each other, since she had always loved the prospect of movie romances. He shoveled the rest of his meal into his mouth, thanking her before escaping to the solitude of his somewhat-empty room.

        Then came the day he ran into Jared Kleinman and his friends, overhearing the nerdy boy brag about “all the pussy he was getting at college” arrogantly. Fucking hell, Connor felt bad for whoever Jared’s roommate was - either the poor dude was legit getting sexiled over and over, or he had to deal with Jared trying to talk big game. Of course, as fate would have it, Connor couldn’t just walk into one of his favorite ice cream parlors, get his favorite flavor, and walk out - Jared had to spot him.

        “He-ey, Connor!” He called out, Connor glancing over his shoulder before paying for his cone and crossing the room, jamming his free hand into his hoodie pocket. Jared didn’t give him a moment to greet him or anything, “How’s college?”

        “Fine.”

        “Meet anybody?” He smirked a little, “I mean, I’ll be surprised to hear anyone would approach your psycho ass, but there’s always miracles.” He snorted.

        “Does it matter?”

        Jared feigned pain at the remark, “C’mon, Connor,” he immediately lowered his voice, “there’s no shame in being a virgin.” With a click of his tongue, he leaned back in his chair, now smirking again his stupid arrogant Kleinman smirk. Now he remembered why he couldn’t fucking stand Jared.

        Before he thought it through, he replied, “Yeah, well, good thing I have a girlfriend then.”

        Immediately he regret it as Jared immediately lit up, smirk never leaving. “Really? You got some proof there, Connie?”

        He nodded, and internally thanked the fact that you had a habit of taking selfies of the two of you - and was even more glad to find that he hadn’t deleted the few you took with his phone after he sent them to you. He never could have brought himself to do it - but he brandished his evidence, which was a picture with you pressed into his side, beaming with joy that you’d managed to steal his phone long enough for the picture. The phantom touch of your hand at his waist returned as he remembered just how close you’d actually been to him. “Her name is [y/n],” he said, watching Jared take in every aspect of the photo, just trying to scan the smallest hint that he was lying.

        Apparently, he found none. “Okay, then,” he said, “how long have you two been dating?”

        “Almost four months,” he lied, “we, uh, met in a gen ed class.”

        “Y’know, you could be lying, Connor. You two should Skype with me sometime,” Jared draped one arm over the back of his chair, “or, better idea: maybe you could bring her here for spring break. I’m sure your family would love to meet her, huh Connor?”

        He was gonna fucking kill him for being so fucking smug. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll talk to her about it.” Which translated to he’d have to convince you somehow because he can’t just let Jared know he lied.

        He waved Jared off, ignoring the cold drips of ice cream running over his fingers as he escaped to the safety of his - well, Zoe’s - car. The moment he turned on the engine, the gravity of everything he just said crashed down onto him. There was no way you’d actually agree to fake-date him, right? At least whenever Jared called or whenever you were here with him. And then the two of you could part ways and pretend the entire thing never happened and he’d come up with some elaborate reason why the two of you broke up. Connor let out a heavy sigh, picking up his phone and opening it to your contact info.

        This was going to come crashing down around him, wasn’t it?