So, Since You Gave Us Some "Stu Saying The L Word" Content ...

So, since you gave us some "Stu saying the L word" content 👀...

Could you give us some "Billy saying the L word" content?

A/n wait...i kind of love this

i actually spent an unreasonable amount of time debating scenarios that felt accurate to the way i think billy would say it for the first time lol

----

The corner of your mouth drags down before your lips part. Not even a full second later, your eyebrows pull together sharply. Shock and then concern.

You don't read every night in the same way that Billy doesn't sneak into your room every night. It might not be always but it's enough to have its own routine, enough to practically be expected.

Billy never thought that your reading would particularly matter to him. But it didn't take long to learn that after the first page or two, you lose yourself in your own world fully. He doesn't have to hide or resist the urge to study you.

You turn the page and pull whatever you're using as a bookmark from behind the back cover. He's seen you use things as logical as receipts and as random as hair ties to mark your place. Tonight it's a bright pink square of paper curling at the corners. A sticky note, which is what you normally use when you have something important coming up that you're terrified of committing. He'll check it before leaving in the morning, update himself on whatever essay or extra curricular is weighing on you a little extra these days.

"Good chapter?"

You nod once, more to yourself than to him. "Pretty good," you set the book down on your nightstand, "They brought back a plot point they hadn't mentioned since the first few chapters in a total plot twist."

Billy nods, "Cool."

It's not much, but you don't need a lot when it comes to talking about whatever you're reading. A part of him's glad that you're hinting at being on the chattier side tonight. You had been pushed towards moody earlier today. It wasn't anything blatant enough for him to justify asking you about it, but it did tug at his chest a little. Nothing too sappy or strained, just a pinch of discomfort that only bothered him enough to be noticeable. Like the momentary sting of a paper cut.

"Mhm," you hum, letting yourself sink a little deeper into your pillow, "It was a good distraction, I guess."

He turns his head, trying to pick apart the slight pout of your lips. Billy spends more time than he'd ever admit to anyone taking in the details of every look and subconscious gesture, like there's something to decode in the way you pick at your nails or draw your eyebrows together.

At first, the weight he placed on what you were feeling used to make him want to resent you. Even now that he's grown more accustomed to you mattering, sometimes the general concern twists itself into something brutal.

A flare up of that more volatile version of compassion is starting to burn in his chest. Your hair is pulled back loosely and you're in his T-shirt, an older one he doesn't remember you taking. It's one of his looser ones and the collar is partially stretched out so it slides down your shoulder enough to expose most of your collar bone. It makes you look small, fragile.

"Distraction?"

"Long day," your nails pick at the edge of the T-shirt, shifting the fabric higher up your thigh. "Nothing that deep."

Billy resists the urge to roll his eyes. You can keep whatever's bothering you to yourself while you're out because that's different. There are social pressures and prying ears. But now it's just you and him. "C'mon."

He hadn't seen the signs with his mother before it was too late. In the aftermath, it all became clear. She went from telling him each feeling, from expressing the kind of trust that only comes from a bond that can't be recreated to quiet before she left. Closed off and tired.

Your eyes squint slightly. "Tell me." He tries to keep it light, earnest and curious in the way that any good boyfriend should be, but he can feel the strain in his throat. And even worse, he can see the way you note it.

Billy lifts an arm, gently bumping his fist into your arm in an attempt to make things feel easy again. It works, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips as you let out a partial laugh. "Please?"

"It's stupid," you mumble, and for a second Billy thinks you might be blowing him off, "Just that we got our math quizzes back today and I did so bad, and not bad in a 'oh I didn't get the grade I wanted' way. Like bad bad, and the quiz was based on what our test is going to be on and I just--I don't get it no matter how much I study. And Chris Peterson sits behind me and he saw my grade and he's being such a smug asshole about it."

For a second, all he can focus on is trying to put a face to a name that feels like it should be familiar. Is Chris Peterson that football player that likes to trip freshmen that get too close to him in the lunch line? Or is Chris Peterson the kid with a retired wall street hotshot dad that never shuts up about his contacts in the city? Or someone else entirely? Billy decides that it doesn't matter, if he's bad enough to get you to call him a smug asshole then he has to be an openly terrible person?

His fingertips brush against your bent knee, a gesture that has you relaxing against him. The reaction anchors him to the present. "What did smug asshole Chris Peterson do?"

You sigh, pushing yourself to sit up. "Ugh." You take Billy's hand, squeezing his palm. "He's always been kind of annoying, making comments about me keeping up and how I'm lucky I'm pretty." Billy feels the admission like a punch to the chest. How long has this been going on? Why didn't you tell him earlier? "But today--he saw my quiz and very loudly made a joke about how he's just so willing to teach me something and that he could help me with cherry picking, too."

Billy's surprised by how tightly you're squeezing his fingers. The feeling is the one thing keeping him from getting too caught up in imagining what it'd be like to find Chris Peterson and give him a call with Stu. It'd be so easy. "It's stupid, I know, but--"

"Not stupid." His voice is low, a soft whisper he's didn't think would successfully cut you off. You have a habit of shrinking in on yourself for the sake of others, something Billy would find incredibly performative on anyone else.

You smile, a gentle tug at the corner of your lips. "Thanks."

He turns over his hand without taking it from you. "Want me to beat him up?"

You let out a small laugh. "Yeah, I think he needs it." Carefully, the nail of your pointer finger traces down the line of his palm. With no warning, you tense. Billy watches you carefully, noting the slight crease between your eyebrows. "Billy." He freezes, thinking through everything he's said to you. Maybe something slipped out while he was imagining taking his time tearing Chris Peterson into pieces. You lift his hand, twisting his wrist so that he has to look at his palm. "You didn't say anything."

He blinks, finally noticing what you're referencing. A cut against the side of his palm that's deeper near his fingers than it is at the edge of his hand. A byproduct of a fishing hook incident while out on the water with his dad. Sure, it hurt at first but majority of the cut was shallow and no part of it was heavy enough to warrant stitches. His dad had pressed a rag against it for a minute longer than necessary to stop the bleeding and that was that.

But the tone you're using to scold him makes it seem like he forgot to mention that he lost a limb. He fights against a smile. "What? It's a cut?"

You glare. "It's a...wound." You set his hand down on your leg gingerly. "And I was squeezing your hand." The sentence is gasped out like you just realized you've committed some terrible crime. "I'm--"

"It's fine." And it is, he hadn't even registered the cut in relation to you.

You're not accepting that response, bending his wrist to get a better look at the scratch. "What happened?" Before he can answer, you're moving on to another question, "Did you even clean it?"

Another thing that he doesn't get to respond to. You push him off you gently, mumbling something about infections as you disappear into the bathroom. In less than a minute you're back, cradling supplies in your arms.

"It's not a big deal." There's no point in saying anything about it, you've already made up your mind. "On my last fishing trip, a hook snagged me."

Billy watches as you climb back into bed, crossing your legs beneath you. "Doesn't make me feel any better." He sighs as you take your time settling his hand against his lap.

As you start to dab around the redness, the moment hits Billy square in the chest. You're fully attentive of him, eyes locked on the scratch, a slight pout on your lips. "You're lucky you don't have tetanus."

Heat is starting to crawl up his face. There's some kind of joke he should make, a comment about how dramatic you are or that he can't remember you completing a medical degree. Instead, all he can get out is a painful, "It was a new hook."

You look up long enough to throw another glare in his direction. Billy knows you're trying to be serious, a little threatening, but like usual, it just makes that unsettling fondness burn even hotter than usual. He swallows down the feeling like bile. His father's voice pushes itself into his head, ramblings of what it means to care about someone...the weakness that comes from love.

Oh. The thought stings. He winces as you dab a glob of Neosporin onto the broken skin.

"Sorry." You mean it, your voice a soft hiss like you share his hurt.

An antsy-ness he's not used to makes something beneath his skin crawl. "Fine," he manages, "It's fine."

For a second, he thinks you notice. You're so good at reading him that sometimes Billy has to remind himself to not hold it against you. you don't mention the hard way he forced out his words or give any indication that you think anything's weird. You're too good at that, too, at knowing when he can handle being called out and when to act like nothing's changed.

You let go of his hand, keeping the back of his palm on your leg. Your hand reaches for a rectangular box that you dropped onto your bed when you sat down. Band-aids.

"Uh--I thought I had some neutral ones, but all I have left are my colorful ones." He runs through your sentence, taking his time reading your tone. Are you pretending not to notice or did you actually miss it? The not knowing paired with his recent realization make his stomach feel hard. "I promise not to give you a pink one."

He should tell you that he doesn't need a band-aid. He's not a child that needs coddling and he's definitely not some love sick little kid that lets you do whatever you want. Instead, all that comes out is, "You can pick the color."

You grin, shaking the box as you rifle through your options. "I could be really mean right now." You sound so happy, it makes the stabbing feeling in chest worth it.

After a second of searching, you make your final selection, peeling back the thin paper and gently pressing the band-aid in place. He looks at his hand as you smooth down the edge of the band-aid. "Purple?"

You nod, clearly content with your choice. "You have a purple vibe."

He bends his fingers, trapping yours against his palm. "A purple vibe?"

"Yeah," you push against his fingers with no real intention of trying to escape, "Like--I can't put it into words, but it's--it's a good thing, promise."

Billy tilts his chin down in what's meant to be a brief nod. You press your fingertips into his palm. It's supposed to be some kind of play fighting, but even that is overwhelmingly gentle. "What're you thinking about?"

He presses his lips together, "Nothing."

You look at him, openly pouting. Before he can call you out on it, you let out a sigh and let your body lean forward until your forehead lands against his arm.

"Nothing," you repeat it into his shirt, dropping your voice an octave to make fun of him.

"You're dramatic," he whispers it without any bite.

You let out an annoyed huff, and Billy lifts his still free hand to smooth your hair. The two of you sit there like that until you break the comfortable understanding by lifting your head off his shoulder just enough to look at him.

"C'mon," you're openly trying again, which is rare. Maybe he does seem off. "You made me tell you."

"Hm..." He makes a show of wrinkling his nose, "I don't think I made you."

You sit up a little straighter, forcing Billy's hand to slide onto your shoulder. You lift your freehand to bump a fist against his forearm. "Please?"

"You," the admission leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Your eyebrows draw together, but the look behind your eyes is warm. "I don't want to pry--"

"Since when?"

You move your hand to flick the back of your wrist. "About me good or about me bad?"

He swallows, unsure of what the right answer is. What the true answer is. The question twists in his head, burrowing itself somewhere heavy and easily frustrated. You're looking at him too, expression welcoming and kind and--"I love you."

You blink. Did you hear him...correctly? There's no way you did, because Billy's not the kind of person to say things like that and especially not so suddenly. It'd make a lot more sense for you to have just misheard him...but Billy's being quiet, and he's going out of his way to avoid meeting your gaze. There's a tension in the way he's sitting now that doesn't fit him.

"You..." Heat is rising to your face and you're not sure how you're supposed to get any response out. "You love me?"

His eyes focus on something just past your shoulder, "Good or bad, guess it's up to you."

Your eyes go round, the wave of emotion hitting you with no warning, "How could it be bad?" Warmth settles in Billy's chest. Your voice is so genuine. You sit up a little straighter, grinning, "You love me."

He tilts his head down, fighting an eye roll. "I can take it back."

"No you can't," you shake your head, smile growing, "Because you love me." It's a joke, you're trying to tease him, but it's true. He's given you a way to tear him apart from the inside out. Once it's out, it's out, a large open spot of vulnerability he's trusting you not to use against him. "Don't worry, I can't be too mean about it." He doesn't know where you're going with this, "I love you, too, so..."

Billy takes a deep breath. Your words take their time washing over him. Relief loosens the knot in his stomach enough to let him think through your admission. It helps, but he's not sure if he believes it fully.

He leans towards you, so close your foreheads are almost touching. "You love me?"

"Yeah," you admit, voice low and a little shyer, "Kinda a lot."

He can feel the admiration in your expression, the honesty. Heat crawls up his neck. "Kind of?" You back up slightly, eyebrows pulling together in a sarcastic expression. Before you can respond with some kind of joke telling him to watch his ego, Billy closes the distance between the two of you.

would it be weird if i posted pics of my dorm set up on here?? i'm still waiting on some stuff and haven't set up everything bc classes haven't started yet but i'm super excited for the final product

i dont think ppl really post that kind of stuff on here and this is mainly a fic blog but i think it'd be fun to share :)

reblogging this bc i accidentally posted it instead of saving to drafts so then i went back and put it on private for a few days as i worked on it bow that it’s public it’s showing up lower on my page and i think that’s affecting it??

idk i feel like it wasn’t showing up

If we're in an ethan mood 👀

Could you write something like little snippets of ethan developing a crush on mc and then the moment he's like "oh wait a minute... i LIKE her"

Only if you're comfortable doing so of course!

a/n he'd be such a cutie during his pining era pls and in total denial about it

----

"Sam's gonna kill us."

Tara's eyes briefly flicker towards your reflection in the mirror. You give yourself a second to feel how quickly time can change things. If you had accidentally said something like that as recently as a month ago, Tara would have torn into you. Ranting and asking you if you really thought that was funny. But now, the hyperbole barely warrants a glance in your direction.

"She's not our mom," Tara scoffs, attention shifting back to her eyeliner immediately.

And while that's true...you're not sure you want to seem like you're taking a specific side in one of their weird, sisterly power stand offs. Despite being one of their roommate's, you've managed to expertly avoid getting caught in the middle most of the time.

Even though you're the one trying to be the voice of reason, your attention turns back to the blush you were blending into your cheek. "Yeah, true..." You rub your beauty blender against the apple of your cheek. "But still, I don't want it to like...be a thing."

"It won't be," Tara counters quickly, "We might be home before her." Yeah, heavy on the might. Tara already made it clear that she wasn't in the mood to take tonight lightly. "And if we're not, who cares?" Tara straightens before setting down her eyeliner. "She'll be angsty about it and then move on. I didn't ask her to come to school with me."

That's something you for sure won't be commenting on. "Whatever." You reach for a tube of lipgloss. "Let the record reflect I tried."

"Yeah, you tried really hard."

You let out a breath that's almost a laugh, "Shut u--"

The last part of your sentence is cut off by the sound of knocking. It feels faint, but you know it has to be loud if it's being heard over Tara's pre-night out playlist.

"Oh," you mumble, setting down your still closed tube of lipgloss, "It's the guys."

Tara's expression morphs into a knowing smile. "Excited?"

You know exactly what she's getting. "Shut up." You turn towards the bathroom door before pausing and cringing at your mistake, "And I don't know what you're talking about."

"Which one of us invited Ethan to what was supposed to be a girl's night out?"

You roll your eyes, "And Chad."

She gives you a look that says she sees right through you. "Think it'd be better if you liked Chad." Now it's your turn to give her a 'I know about what you're pretending isn't a crush' stare. "Not like--I mean--at least we know he's safe."

This again. The continuous slight distrust of Ethan. You can't blame her or any of the other four people you've come unbelievably close with in a few months time for being so untrusting. You kind of knew about what happened to them before meeting them, some guy in the lecture you had with Tara tapped you on the shoulder. That's the serial killer sister girl.

That piece of gossip led to you doing something not great, but fair--a google deep dive that almost made you flinch when Tara then got paired with you for an ice breaker, syllabus week activity. After your friendship formed, many nights spent walking around the city and late night calls about the nightmare roommate you were randomly paired to dorm with eventually led to you moving in after the summer session ended.

By then you were friendly with what Chad likes to call the core four and they opened up slowly about their trauma slowly. You get it. You try to get it, but every time they flash their inherent distrust they remind you of how easy it would be for them to close ranks, cut you off and leave you for the wolves. It's not a fair insecurity, which is why you've decided to keep it to yourself.

"Tara we've been over this," you scratch the back of your wrist, suddenly feeling small, "I'm just as much a rando to you as Ethan."

Tara shakes her head once, eyes softening a little, "Yeah, but you're a rando that's like my best friend." Her eyes leave yours briefly and you're hit with the impression that this is hard for her. Tara's never given you the impression of being particularly touchy-feely, and you know what happened with one of her last close friendships. "So..."

You try not to beam, not wanting her to regret saying something like that so openly. "So..." You repeat, kind of teasing. "I should go get the door." As if on cue, another round of sharp knocking cuts through the base of the music.

You turn away before you can overthink and approach the front door. "Hey, guys," you grin as you pull the door open.

Chad and Ethan are waiting in the apartment's hall. "Y/n," Chad greets warmly, one hand moving to squeeze your shoulder as he steps into the apartment's entryway.

Even though Tara might be a tiny bit right about why you invited Chad and Ethan, you definitely don't mind that Chad's your easiest way to get Ethan to hang out with you guys without having to worry about seeming weird. Chad's a good guy beneath the stereotypical former high school jock thing. He's fun and nice and you have a feeling he really cares about Tara.

"Tara's still in the bathroom fixing her eyeliner." You keep your voice breezy, casual even though you know exactly why you're telling him.

For a second, you think he might call you out on your not-so-subtle pushing, but he just smiles casually. It must be so easy to think like a guy. "I'm gonna say hi."

He walks around you, offering your shoulder one last friendly squeeze as he passes. Ethan steps further into the living room, lingering like he's unsure on whether or not he's supposed to be following Chad.

"Hey," you greet, "Guess what?"

Ethan blinks. He's gotten used to your typically friendly demeanor, but sometimes when it's directed at him he isn't sure how to take it. You're pretty and warm and caring about your existence is not part of the plan. If anything, it's the opposite. He knows how close you are to Tara, how much Sam's opinion matters to you.

"What?"

"Your econ notes totally saved my life." There's genuine relief in your voice, and Ethan is glad that he's a part of that. "Just saw my quiz grade and I got a 97 on it."

Ethan lets himself smile, "That's great."

"A lot better than my last one." You hate that you don't know where to go with this. "You're in intro to comp this semester, right?"

He nods, "Yeah." Ethan straightens his posture, angling his body more towards you. "...I have Charleston."

You immediately cringe, exhaling a low wince. "Ouch. I had him for summer term, he's crazy harsh."

"Yeah," Ethan agrees, "Learned that after my first essay."

Your eyebrows pull together. "He' snot all bad once you get him figured out."

Ethan fights down a smile, "Of course you'd say that." It had been a bit of a running joke between the friend group that you never seemed to have issues with any professor or TA. That you always found one way or another to connect to or figure them out.

You groan, "Shut up." Ethan suppresses a laugh. "I was going to offer you my notes and feedback I got from my summer class, but now I don't know."

"No..." Ethan doubts that you'd ever be vindictive enough to keep your notes from anyone. Even if that was a concern, he still wouldn't be too worried. His grades are fine and his priorities are a little different these days. But still, he likes the thought of getting access to something like one of your essays. A chance for more insight into you. "C'mon, please."

You tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing in mock debate. "Okay." With no warning, you turn towards the direction of your room. Ethan follows you.

Ethan lingers in the doorway as you approach the desk tucked into the corner of your room. "You can come in," you mumble, a little confused about his hesitance.

He steps in, letting himself take in your bedroom. Ethan's been here before for brief periods of time. He's gotten glimpses while the group waited for you to grab something you forgot before going out or while you searched through your school supplies before an econ study session. But he still hasn't gotten tired at look at it, at noting the posters on your wall and the collage of you and your friends that you're always adding to.

His eyes linger on that, the photos taped up on your wall. There are a few new ones, one of you and Tara and Sam at a coffee shop. There's even a mirror picture of you and Quinn at some store...something he'd definitely have to ask his sister about. A new photo of you and Chad that makes his chest feel tight. It's a quick snapshot, you a few steps ahead of Chad who looks like he didn't realize you were taking a photo until the flash started going off. You're both holding cones of ice cream and Mindy's arm is in the corner.

He looks down, eyes focusing on another photo. You're grinning, arm extended upwards to take a picture of you and the person across from you. Him.

"New pictures?"

You turn in your desk chair. "Yeah, I printed some more out last week."

Ethan points at the picture that's just the two of you, "I like this one."

You look up from the bottom desk drawer you were rifling through, "That one's one of my favorites."

Ethan feels the offhanded comment in his chest. Heat tries to crawl its way up his neck. "You--you look nice in it."

"You look cute," you mumble, "I like your hair like that."

He's glad for the low lighting and the excuse to keep his back to you. If it wasn't for that, you'd definitely be able to say the blood rushing to his face. He looks back at the picture, noting the slightly tousled look of his hair. You turn your attention back to your desk and Ethan lightly brushes his hair with his fingers.

"Okay..." You pull out a folder and a notebook. "All of it's here--you can grab it when we get back or whenever." You sit up, relaxing against your seat. "I just needed to find it now because drunk me wouldn't be able to and hung over definitely won't remember."

The potential excuse to come back here at the end of night feels like a sort of promise. The trust that the comment is displaying isn't lost him either. You're planning on drinking and probably coming home extremely out of it and you don't have any issue with him being around for that.

Ethan knows you're probably not thinking that far ahead, but you must, at least, feel that way subconsciously. He knows you're the kind to be aware of that kind of thing, has heard snippets of your conversation with the other girls about staying vigilant every night out.

"Yeah, I'll grab it tonight. We've got an essay due on Friday that I haven't even started."

You scrunch up your face for a second in pained empathy. "If you need any help with it, just let me know." You tap your nails against the side of your knee. "...When I'm sober again."

"Yeah," Ethan nods, "For sure."

----

"Y'know approximately 42% of cabs are in New York."

The number feels generous--and random--but you always seem to know things.

"Actually?"

You giggle, the sound full. "No." The admission is soft as you turn away from the window, still laughing. "I don't--I don't know." You tilt your head curiously, and for a second, Ethan thinks the movement might indicate the return of your earlier dizziness. He straightens like he might need to stabilize you again. It's then that he realizes how close you are. "I made it up."

Even though that was obvious to the only person in the room that didn't set a new personal best in number of shots taken in an hour, you're smilingly so kindly he doesn't have the heart to point that out. "You made it up?"

You nod slowly, like one too sharp motion is all it'd take to topple you over. "And you believed me."

Ethan angles his chin downwards. "Not sure I did."

"You bought it for like a second though, right?"

You're watching him carefully, desperate to find any kind of crack in his expression that might prove you right. A part of him wants to push. The rest of him is too placated by your slight smile and steady gaze. "...Maybe for a second."

A beat passes. The two of you continue to openly watch each other. You snap out of it by bending your fingers into a fist. You gently bump your knuckles against his arm. "Knew it."

Your fist briefly lingers, brushing down his arm as you take your hand back rather than just pulling it away. Ethan doesn't get the warmth that crawls up his face.

With no warning, you pull away entirely. You walk past Ethan and slowly make your way to the bed. As soon as it's within reach, you lose all sense of care and flop onto the mattress like you're exhausted.

You go from sitting to flat on your back so quickly Ethan briefly wonders if you've fallen asleep. "Y/n?"

"Hm?" You turn your head sharply from one side to another. Still conscious. "Tired."

There's something soft about the way you say it, half mumbled and drowsy. "I know, but you--you can't--" He's not sure how to express what he's thinking without sounding like he's trying to cross a line. You're still in going out clothes, nothing extreme but the mainly form fitting outfit can't be comfortable enough to sleep with. And he knows you have a thing against sleeping without taking your makeup first. "Can't sleep like that."

You lift an arm in the air just to drop it across your chest. There's a flurry of words that follows the motion, but they're all mushed together and too quiet for Ethan to make out. "At least tell me where your pajamas are."

Another mesh of words. Somewhere in the collage of sentences you manage to get out, "Top-second-second-to-top drawer."

Ethan approaches your dresser, picking out a T-shirt and some pajama shorts he's seen you wear to movie nights before. He sets them down next to you. "You've gotta..."

You stretch an arm upwards, waving once in a way that feels dismissive. Your hand then drops down with no warning, wiping at your eyes before you slowly sit up, one hand reaching for the hem of your top.

Ethan's eyes widen. After a second of mental buffering, the sense to turn around. He forces his attention to remain on your walls. "Y/n." It's meant to sound partially stern, maybe even a little scolding, but his voice's pitch comes out a little too breathy near the end of your name. He'd probably be embarrassed by the sudden shift if you were more sober. You might not even remember Ethan being here tomorrow morning outside of a vague awareness.

Still, knowing that you're changing out of that tiny skirt and low cut top less than three full feet away from him...

Ugh. He tells himself that it's because you're nice to him and you're an objectively pretty girl. And all that planning stuff with his dad and his sister makes it hard to even think about girls. He's living a half life, letting himself enjoy the sense of friendship his false life is giving him from time to time while still staying focused. Anything romantic would be too complicated.

But still, he's a young guy and you always smell nice and you're pretty and you always go out of your way to include him things and--it's all biology. Attraction's understandable, it's not like he has a crush on you or anything.

"Okay." The reminder of his current makes his face feel warm. "You're safe. Y'can turn around."

Your words come out slurred enough that Ethan wonders if he should give you an extra second or two just to make sure. He turns around slowly, ready to snap his head back around if necessary.

True to your word, you're dressed, shorts barely peaking out from under your oversized tee. He should feel less now that you're more dressed and look a lot more casual. "G-good." He swallows in an attempt to make his throat feel less dry.

You sit down at the edge of your bed, "Mhm."

"You think you can wash your makeup off?" The question feels awkward. Ethan watches as you cross your legs beneath you. "You just--you never like when you wake up with makeup still on."

Your head tilts a little too sharply to one side, a lazy smile on your face. "That's nice, but 'm okay." Ethan considers protesting, but as if to make your point you wipe at your eyes. "Are you--going back?"

The question takes a second to click. Ethan had come over to the apartment you share with the Carpenters and his sister with Chad, like usual. Chad had completely crashed on the living room couch almost immediately after walking back from the party. It isn't the first time he's slept something off here, and Ethan definitely didn't mind the alone time. "Uh--yeah."

"It's kinda late," you mumble, "You can--you can stay here if you want." It's said so innocently Ethan almost thinks he might of misheard you.

"Here?"

"Mhm." You move up your bed, pushing back your sheets and semi-awkwardly crawling beneath them. "Sleepover."

Ethan's face has to be red. If you notice, you don't give any indication of even understanding why this might feel a little odd. He should let you down gently with some kind of excuse about having so much homework that he has to start first thing in the morning. "You sure?"

Your head is already on your pillow, "Yeah." It's more of a hum than an actual response. You're already half asleep. "We're friends."

It's not a big deal. Objectively, Ethan knows that that's true. Quinn can have whole relationships and flings and whatever else she does to make the time pass. Ethan can handle sharing a bed with you to keep things seeming normal and avoid a later walk than he wanted.

"Okay," his voice feels strained, tight, "Yeah if--if you're okay with it."

"Mhm." You push yourself to one side of your bed lazily. "We can--we can go to that brunch place tomorrow, if you're--" You trail off, voice growing lighter like you're falling asleep.

Ethan approaches your bed slowly even though he doubts he'd be able to wake you on purpose, let alone intentionally. You don't stir as he gets into bed, not even reacting as his fingertips brush against your arm.

He lets himself relax, eyes shutting. After a second, he feels the bed shift. A weight finds itself onto his shoulder. Ethan squints his eyes open, blood rushing to his face at the realization that your temple's now resting against his arm.

----

"Ugh," you sigh, glaring at your phone.

Ethan looks up from his coffee cup. "What?"

You shake your head. "It's nothing." You set down your phone and pick up your own drink. "Just that this girl that got put in my group with in Lucille's class has been ghosting our project group chat but she keeps posting herself hanging out with her friends on Instagram." You take a quick sip of your beverage. "She won't do her part, but she can take time out of her beach day to comment that my powerpoint slides are busy."

He frowns, "Your slides aren't busy."

"I know," you agree, "They totally kick ass."

You're mainly kidding, but there's still a hint of genuine defensiveness in your tone. The fact that you're taking this as a personal insult is more endearing than it should be. "They do."

You nod your head firmly, happy to be validated. "Thank you." You take another sip of your drink. "I love that you let me say crazy things like this and pretend that they are that deep." You tap your nails against the wood of the cafe table. "This is why we're friends."

Ethan crosses his arms on the table, hoping that the shift doesn't come off as transparent. He's still getting used to that, at how open you are, how genuine. You're always finding a way to affirm the friendship through either words or subtle actions.

"That's the only reason?"

You press your lips together, pretending to think about it. "Uh...you also buy me coffee and are the only reason I'm not failing econ, so..." The two of you laugh a little more than the joke warrants.

"I feel appreciated."

You roll your eyes at his joking tone. Ethan knows that you appreciate him. Because of how suspicious most of your friend group is, a lot of their mistrust has found its way to Ethan. It's easier to trust someone you live with, so you and Quinn aren't the first to be targeted. And Anika and Mindy are dating, that comes with additional trust. So Ethan's the most effected by their understandable PTSD. Except for Chad, who dorms with him.

It's not like he's fully excluded by everyone else, but every once in awhile the fact that they're ready to be the most wary of him at a moment's notice becomes overly obvious.

You lift an arm, nudging his arm with your fist, "Come on." You sit up a little straighter, "You know I love ya."

Ethan can feel the blood rushing to is face. He stares at the table, unsure if he'll be able to handle looking you in the eye right now. You just have to be so nice and pretty. Maybe if you were more one than the other he'd be able to handle it. He wouldn't have to constantly be trying to convince himself that he's neutral about you...that he'd actually be able to hurt you or let you get hurt like the others.

"An 'I love you' over an iced coffee?" Ethan tries to keep his voice steady, light.

You roll your eyes again, "Don't make me sound easy, it wasn't a love confession." You pick up your cup again, "And I got an extra pump of syrup and cold foam, so it wouldn't have even been unwarranted."

That alone makes Ethan want to get you your iced coffee every day. With any and all the additives you want. "Good to know."

It's your turn to stare at your hands. "Smooth." You fidget, twisting your fingers before forcing them to lay flat on the surface beneath them. "Don't you have to go to someone's office hours before 11:00?"

The honest answer is no, but that's not what Ethan told you. Office hours, extra classes, group projects, and study group meetings. School related excuses are the easiest ways to get to covertly meet with his family. Quinn's in a position to get to use guys as excuses, but Ethan isn't as...outgoing. And made up friends or jobs leave more room for questions.

And Ethan doesn't want to give you the impression that he's unavailable.

Ugh. He keeps telling himself that he can't factor you in. He shouldn't even want to. Anything he does to go out of his way for you will only draw more attention to you in the end. If he begins to slip because of you his dad will find a way to connect it back to you.

Ethan glances at his phone, noting the time. 10:43. If he leaves now, he'll still be a few minutes late. Nothing noticeable, nothing he can't blame on the city's foot traffic. "Uh..." he turns off his phone screen, "He cancelled them."

"Yeah?"

He blinks, trying to figure out how to spin this. He wonders if Richie ever struggled with the lying to everyone all the time or if that came as naturally to him as everything else. "Yeah...he sent an email about his kids having colds."

"Oh," you hum casually, "Feels like everyone gets sick after school starts. A girl in my lit class was sniffling so bad last class and Tara's throat's been sore lately." You believed him so easily, Ethan feels a pinprick of guilt about it. "Does that mean you have time to hangout?"

That eases any discomfort immediately. "...Aren't we hanging out right now?"

You give him a pointed look. "You know what I mean." You prop your head up on your elbow. "Do you have time to do something else?"

It'll be fine. He'll text his dad that he couldn't get away and that Chad was getting suspicious so he had to cancel his plans. Quinn would see right that, but he could get her to cover for him. He's covered for her enough times when she wanted a break from the vengeance thing to hook up with some guy or just be distracted. And this isn't different than that. Quinn blows off steam with guys and he blows it off with you. It's just a way to have something positive in his life.

It doesn't matter, but he can't seem too invested. "Do what?"

"Okay, you can say no, but I passed the cutest store on this street the other day..." You trail off softly, optimistic. "And I was going to go with Tara, but she's been super busy lately."

"Shopping trip?"

You sigh, the sound defeated, "I know. You don't have to--"

"No," Ethan breathes, "It sounds fun."

Your eyebrows draw together, "Fun?"

You sound so skeptical, but Ethan doesn't even have to think twice about it. It does sound fun. Anything that involves you sounds fun.

It hits him then that that's more than fondness or even friendship. That's really caring about someone...that's liking them. Like really liking them.

That alone should be reason enough for him to stop all of it. Bail and make some kind of excuse and stop hanging out with you so much. He tries to make himself, tries to imagine the way your expression would shift from an easy smile to a frown, "Do you want me to go or not?"

You beam. "You're right." Still smiling, you pull your bag off the side of your chair and pick up your coffee. "You ready?"

Warmth crawls up his neck and settles against his cheeks. "Yeah."

If we're in an ethan mood 👀

Could you write something like little snippets of ethan developing a crush on mc and then the moment he's like "oh wait a minute... i LIKE her"

Only if you're comfortable doing so of course!

a/n he'd be such a cutie during his pining era pls and in total denial about it

----

"Sam's gonna kill us."

Tara's eyes briefly flicker towards your reflection in the mirror. You give yourself a second to feel how quickly time can change things. If you had accidentally said something like that as recently as a month ago, Tara would have torn into you. Ranting and asking you if you really thought that was funny. But now, the hyperbole barely warrants a glance in your direction.

"She's not our mom," Tara scoffs, attention shifting back to her eyeliner immediately.

And while that's true...you're not sure you want to seem like you're taking a specific side in one of their weird, sisterly power stand offs. Despite being one of their roommate's, you've managed to expertly avoid getting caught in the middle most of the time.

Even though you're the one trying to be the voice of reason, your attention turns back to the blush you were blending into your cheek. "Yeah, true..." You rub your beauty blender against the apple of your cheek. "But still, I don't want it to like...be a thing."

"It won't be," Tara counters quickly, "We might be home before her." Yeah, heavy on the might. Tara already made it clear that she wasn't in the mood to take tonight lightly. "And if we're not, who cares?" Tara straightens before setting down her eyeliner. "She'll be angsty about it and then move on. I didn't ask her to come to school with me."

That's something you for sure won't be commenting on. "Whatever." You reach for a tube of lipgloss. "Let the record reflect I tried."

"Yeah, you tried really hard."

You let out a breath that's almost a laugh, "Shut u--"

The last part of your sentence is cut off by the sound of knocking. It feels faint, but you know it has to be loud if it's being heard over Tara's pre-night out playlist.

"Oh," you mumble, setting down your still closed tube of lipgloss, "It's the guys."

Tara's expression morphs into a knowing smile. "Excited?"

You know exactly what she's getting. "Shut up." You turn towards the bathroom door before pausing and cringing at your mistake, "And I don't know what you're talking about."

"Which one of us invited Ethan to what was supposed to be a girl's night out?"

You roll your eyes, "And Chad."

She gives you a look that says she sees right through you. "Think it'd be better if you liked Chad." Now it's your turn to give her a 'I know about what you're pretending isn't a crush' stare. "Not like--I mean--at least we know he's safe."

This again. The continuous slight distrust of Ethan. You can't blame her or any of the other four people you've come unbelievably close with in a few months time for being so untrusting. You kind of knew about what happened to them before meeting them, some guy in the lecture you had with Tara tapped you on the shoulder. That's the serial killer sister girl.

That piece of gossip led to you doing something not great, but fair--a google deep dive that almost made you flinch when Tara then got paired with you for an ice breaker, syllabus week activity. After your friendship formed, many nights spent walking around the city and late night calls about the nightmare roommate you were randomly paired to dorm with eventually led to you moving in after the summer session ended.

By then you were friendly with what Chad likes to call the core four and they opened up slowly about their trauma slowly. You get it. You try to get it, but every time they flash their inherent distrust they remind you of how easy it would be for them to close ranks, cut you off and leave you for the wolves. It's not a fair insecurity, which is why you've decided to keep it to yourself.

"Tara we've been over this," you scratch the back of your wrist, suddenly feeling small, "I'm just as much a rando to you as Ethan."

Tara shakes her head once, eyes softening a little, "Yeah, but you're a rando that's like my best friend." Her eyes leave yours briefly and you're hit with the impression that this is hard for her. Tara's never given you the impression of being particularly touchy-feely, and you know what happened with one of her last close friendships. "So..."

You try not to beam, not wanting her to regret saying something like that so openly. "So..." You repeat, kind of teasing. "I should go get the door." As if on cue, another round of sharp knocking cuts through the base of the music.

You turn away before you can overthink and approach the front door. "Hey, guys," you grin as you pull the door open.

Chad and Ethan are waiting in the apartment's hall. "Y/n," Chad greets warmly, one hand moving to squeeze your shoulder as he steps into the apartment's entryway.

Even though Tara might be a tiny bit right about why you invited Chad and Ethan, you definitely don't mind that Chad's your easiest way to get Ethan to hang out with you guys without having to worry about seeming weird. Chad's a good guy beneath the stereotypical former high school jock thing. He's fun and nice and you have a feeling he really cares about Tara.

"Tara's still in the bathroom fixing her eyeliner." You keep your voice breezy, casual even though you know exactly why you're telling him.

For a second, you think he might call you out on your not-so-subtle pushing, but he just smiles casually. It must be so easy to think like a guy. "I'm gonna say hi."

He walks around you, offering your shoulder one last friendly squeeze as he passes. Ethan steps further into the living room, lingering like he's unsure on whether or not he's supposed to be following Chad.

"Hey," you greet, "Guess what?"

Ethan blinks. He's gotten used to your typically friendly demeanor, but sometimes when it's directed at him he isn't sure how to take it. You're pretty and warm and caring about your existence is not part of the plan. If anything, it's the opposite. He knows how close you are to Tara, how much Sam's opinion matters to you.

"What?"

"Your econ notes totally saved my life." There's genuine relief in your voice, and Ethan is glad that he's a part of that. "Just saw my quiz grade and I got a 97 on it."

Ethan lets himself smile, "That's great."

"A lot better than my last one." You hate that you don't know where to go with this. "You're in intro to comp this semester, right?"

He nods, "Yeah." Ethan straightens his posture, angling his body more towards you. "...I have Charleston."

You immediately cringe, exhaling a low wince. "Ouch. I had him for summer term, he's crazy harsh."

"Yeah," Ethan agrees, "Learned that after my first essay."

Your eyebrows pull together. "He' snot all bad once you get him figured out."

Ethan fights down a smile, "Of course you'd say that." It had been a bit of a running joke between the friend group that you never seemed to have issues with any professor or TA. That you always found one way or another to connect to or figure them out.

You groan, "Shut up." Ethan suppresses a laugh. "I was going to offer you my notes and feedback I got from my summer class, but now I don't know."

"No..." Ethan doubts that you'd ever be vindictive enough to keep your notes from anyone. Even if that was a concern, he still wouldn't be too worried. His grades are fine and his priorities are a little different these days. But still, he likes the thought of getting access to something like one of your essays. A chance for more insight into you. "C'mon, please."

You tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing in mock debate. "Okay." With no warning, you turn towards the direction of your room. Ethan follows you.

Ethan lingers in the doorway as you approach the desk tucked into the corner of your room. "You can come in," you mumble, a little confused about his hesitance.

He steps in, letting himself take in your bedroom. Ethan's been here before for brief periods of time. He's gotten glimpses while the group waited for you to grab something you forgot before going out or while you searched through your school supplies before an econ study session. But he still hasn't gotten tired at look at it, at noting the posters on your wall and the collage of you and your friends that you're always adding to.

His eyes linger on that, the photos taped up on your wall. There are a few new ones, one of you and Tara and Sam at a coffee shop. There's even a mirror picture of you and Quinn at some store...something he'd definitely have to ask his sister about. A new photo of you and Chad that makes his chest feel tight. It's a quick snapshot, you a few steps ahead of Chad who looks like he didn't realize you were taking a photo until the flash started going off. You're both holding cones of ice cream and Mindy's arm is in the corner.

He looks down, eyes focusing on another photo. You're grinning, arm extended upwards to take a picture of you and the person across from you. Him.

"New pictures?"

You turn in your desk chair. "Yeah, I printed some more out last week."

Ethan points at the picture that's just the two of you, "I like this one."

You look up from the bottom desk drawer you were rifling through, "That one's one of my favorites."

Ethan feels the offhanded comment in his chest. Heat tries to crawl its way up his neck. "You--you look nice in it."

"You look cute," you mumble, "I like your hair like that."

He's glad for the low lighting and the excuse to keep his back to you. If it wasn't for that, you'd definitely be able to say the blood rushing to his face. He looks back at the picture, noting the slightly tousled look of his hair. You turn your attention back to your desk and Ethan lightly brushes his hair with his fingers.

"Okay..." You pull out a folder and a notebook. "All of it's here--you can grab it when we get back or whenever." You sit up, relaxing against your seat. "I just needed to find it now because drunk me wouldn't be able to and hung over definitely won't remember."

The potential excuse to come back here at the end of night feels like a sort of promise. The trust that the comment is displaying isn't lost him either. You're planning on drinking and probably coming home extremely out of it and you don't have any issue with him being around for that.

Ethan knows you're probably not thinking that far ahead, but you must, at least, feel that way subconsciously. He knows you're the kind to be aware of that kind of thing, has heard snippets of your conversation with the other girls about staying vigilant every night out.

"Yeah, I'll grab it tonight. We've got an essay due on Friday that I haven't even started."

You scrunch up your face for a second in pained empathy. "If you need any help with it, just let me know." You tap your nails against the side of your knee. "...When I'm sober again."

"Yeah," Ethan nods, "For sure."

----

"Y'know approximately 42% of cabs are in New York."

The number feels generous--and random--but you always seem to know things.

"Actually?"

You giggle, the sound full. "No." The admission is soft as you turn away from the window, still laughing. "I don't--I don't know." You tilt your head curiously, and for a second, Ethan thinks the movement might indicate the return of your earlier dizziness. He straightens like he might need to stabilize you again. It's then that he realizes how close you are. "I made it up."

Even though that was obvious to the only person in the room that didn't set a new personal best in number of shots taken in an hour, you're smilingly so kindly he doesn't have the heart to point that out. "You made it up?"

You nod slowly, like one too sharp motion is all it'd take to topple you over. "And you believed me."

Ethan angles his chin downwards. "Not sure I did."

"You bought it for like a second though, right?"

You're watching him carefully, desperate to find any kind of crack in his expression that might prove you right. A part of him wants to push. The rest of him is too placated by your slight smile and steady gaze. "...Maybe for a second."

A beat passes. The two of you continue to openly watch each other. You snap out of it by bending your fingers into a fist. You gently bump your knuckles against his arm. "Knew it."

Your fist briefly lingers, brushing down his arm as you take your hand back rather than just pulling it away. Ethan doesn't get the warmth that crawls up his face.

With no warning, you pull away entirely. You walk past Ethan and slowly make your way to the bed. As soon as it's within reach, you lose all sense of care and flop onto the mattress like you're exhausted.

You go from sitting to flat on your back so quickly Ethan briefly wonders if you've fallen asleep. "Y/n?"

"Hm?" You turn your head sharply from one side to another. Still conscious. "Tired."

There's something soft about the way you say it, half mumbled and drowsy. "I know, but you--you can't--" He's not sure how to express what he's thinking without sounding like he's trying to cross a line. You're still in going out clothes, nothing extreme but the mainly form fitting outfit can't be comfortable enough to sleep with. And he knows you have a thing against sleeping without taking your makeup first. "Can't sleep like that."

You lift an arm in the air just to drop it across your chest. There's a flurry of words that follows the motion, but they're all mushed together and too quiet for Ethan to make out. "At least tell me where your pajamas are."

Another mesh of words. Somewhere in the collage of sentences you manage to get out, "Top-second-second-to-top drawer."

Ethan approaches your dresser, picking out a T-shirt and some pajama shorts he's seen you wear to movie nights before. He sets them down next to you. "You've gotta..."

You stretch an arm upwards, waving once in a way that feels dismissive. Your hand then drops down with no warning, wiping at your eyes before you slowly sit up, one hand reaching for the hem of your top.

Ethan's eyes widen. After a second of mental buffering, the sense to turn around. He forces his attention to remain on your walls. "Y/n." It's meant to sound partially stern, maybe even a little scolding, but his voice's pitch comes out a little too breathy near the end of your name. He'd probably be embarrassed by the sudden shift if you were more sober. You might not even remember Ethan being here tomorrow morning outside of a vague awareness.

Still, knowing that you're changing out of that tiny skirt and low cut top less than three full feet away from him...

Ugh. He tells himself that it's because you're nice to him and you're an objectively pretty girl. And all that planning stuff with his dad and his sister makes it hard to even think about girls. He's living a half life, letting himself enjoy the sense of friendship his false life is giving him from time to time while still staying focused. Anything romantic would be too complicated.

But still, he's a young guy and you always smell nice and you're pretty and you always go out of your way to include him things and--it's all biology. Attraction's understandable, it's not like he has a crush on you or anything.

"Okay." The reminder of his current makes his face feel warm. "You're safe. Y'can turn around."

Your words come out slurred enough that Ethan wonders if he should give you an extra second or two just to make sure. He turns around slowly, ready to snap his head back around if necessary.

True to your word, you're dressed, shorts barely peaking out from under your oversized tee. He should feel less now that you're more dressed and look a lot more casual. "G-good." He swallows in an attempt to make his throat feel less dry.

You sit down at the edge of your bed, "Mhm."

"You think you can wash your makeup off?" The question feels awkward. Ethan watches as you cross your legs beneath you. "You just--you never like when you wake up with makeup still on."

Your head tilts a little too sharply to one side, a lazy smile on your face. "That's nice, but 'm okay." Ethan considers protesting, but as if to make your point you wipe at your eyes. "Are you--going back?"

The question takes a second to click. Ethan had come over to the apartment you share with the Carpenters and his sister with Chad, like usual. Chad had completely crashed on the living room couch almost immediately after walking back from the party. It isn't the first time he's slept something off here, and Ethan definitely didn't mind the alone time. "Uh--yeah."

"It's kinda late," you mumble, "You can--you can stay here if you want." It's said so innocently Ethan almost thinks he might of misheard you.

"Here?"

"Mhm." You move up your bed, pushing back your sheets and semi-awkwardly crawling beneath them. "Sleepover."

Ethan's face has to be red. If you notice, you don't give any indication of even understanding why this might feel a little odd. He should let you down gently with some kind of excuse about having so much homework that he has to start first thing in the morning. "You sure?"

Your head is already on your pillow, "Yeah." It's more of a hum than an actual response. You're already half asleep. "We're friends."

It's not a big deal. Objectively, Ethan knows that that's true. Quinn can have whole relationships and flings and whatever else she does to make the time pass. Ethan can handle sharing a bed with you to keep things seeming normal and avoid a later walk than he wanted.

"Okay," his voice feels strained, tight, "Yeah if--if you're okay with it."

"Mhm." You push yourself to one side of your bed lazily. "We can--we can go to that brunch place tomorrow, if you're--" You trail off, voice growing lighter like you're falling asleep.

Ethan approaches your bed slowly even though he doubts he'd be able to wake you on purpose, let alone intentionally. You don't stir as he gets into bed, not even reacting as his fingertips brush against your arm.

He lets himself relax, eyes shutting. After a second, he feels the bed shift. A weight finds itself onto his shoulder. Ethan squints his eyes open, blood rushing to his face at the realization that your temple's now resting against his arm.

----

"Ugh," you sigh, glaring at your phone.

Ethan looks up from his coffee cup. "What?"

You shake your head. "It's nothing." You set down your phone and pick up your own drink. "Just that this girl that got put in my group with in Lucille's class has been ghosting our project group chat but she keeps posting herself hanging out with her friends on Instagram." You take a quick sip of your beverage. "She won't do her part, but she can take time out of her beach day to comment that my powerpoint slides are busy."

He frowns, "Your slides aren't busy."

"I know," you agree, "They totally kick ass."

You're mainly kidding, but there's still a hint of genuine defensiveness in your tone. The fact that you're taking this as a personal insult is more endearing than it should be. "They do."

You nod your head firmly, happy to be validated. "Thank you." You take another sip of your drink. "I love that you let me say crazy things like this and pretend that they are that deep." You tap your nails against the wood of the cafe table. "This is why we're friends."

Ethan crosses his arms on the table, hoping that the shift doesn't come off as transparent. He's still getting used to that, at how open you are, how genuine. You're always finding a way to affirm the friendship through either words or subtle actions.

"That's the only reason?"

You press your lips together, pretending to think about it. "Uh...you also buy me coffee and are the only reason I'm not failing econ, so..." The two of you laugh a little more than the joke warrants.

"I feel appreciated."

You roll your eyes at his joking tone. Ethan knows that you appreciate him. Because of how suspicious most of your friend group is, a lot of their mistrust has found its way to Ethan. It's easier to trust someone you live with, so you and Quinn aren't the first to be targeted. And Anika and Mindy are dating, that comes with additional trust. So Ethan's the most effected by their understandable PTSD. Except for Chad, who dorms with him.

It's not like he's fully excluded by everyone else, but every once in awhile the fact that they're ready to be the most wary of him at a moment's notice becomes overly obvious.

You lift an arm, nudging his arm with your fist, "Come on." You sit up a little straighter, "You know I love ya."

Ethan can feel the blood rushing to is face. He stares at the table, unsure if he'll be able to handle looking you in the eye right now. You just have to be so nice and pretty. Maybe if you were more one than the other he'd be able to handle it. He wouldn't have to constantly be trying to convince himself that he's neutral about you...that he'd actually be able to hurt you or let you get hurt like the others.

"An 'I love you' over an iced coffee?" Ethan tries to keep his voice steady, light.

You roll your eyes again, "Don't make me sound easy, it wasn't a love confession." You pick up your cup again, "And I got an extra pump of syrup and cold foam, so it wouldn't have even been unwarranted."

That alone makes Ethan want to get you your iced coffee every day. With any and all the additives you want. "Good to know."

It's your turn to stare at your hands. "Smooth." You fidget, twisting your fingers before forcing them to lay flat on the surface beneath them. "Don't you have to go to someone's office hours before 11:00?"

The honest answer is no, but that's not what Ethan told you. Office hours, extra classes, group projects, and study group meetings. School related excuses are the easiest ways to get to covertly meet with his family. Quinn's in a position to get to use guys as excuses, but Ethan isn't as...outgoing. And made up friends or jobs leave more room for questions.

And Ethan doesn't want to give you the impression that he's unavailable.

Ugh. He keeps telling himself that he can't factor you in. He shouldn't even want to. Anything he does to go out of his way for you will only draw more attention to you in the end. If he begins to slip because of you his dad will find a way to connect it back to you.

Ethan glances at his phone, noting the time. 10:43. If he leaves now, he'll still be a few minutes late. Nothing noticeable, nothing he can't blame on the city's foot traffic. "Uh..." he turns off his phone screen, "He cancelled them."

"Yeah?"

He blinks, trying to figure out how to spin this. He wonders if Richie ever struggled with the lying to everyone all the time or if that came as naturally to him as everything else. "Yeah...he sent an email about his kids having colds."

"Oh," you hum casually, "Feels like everyone gets sick after school starts. A girl in my lit class was sniffling so bad last class and Tara's throat's been sore lately." You believed him so easily, Ethan feels a pinprick of guilt about it. "Does that mean you have time to hangout?"

That eases any discomfort immediately. "...Aren't we hanging out right now?"

You give him a pointed look. "You know what I mean." You prop your head up on your elbow. "Do you have time to do something else?"

It'll be fine. He'll text his dad that he couldn't get away and that Chad was getting suspicious so he had to cancel his plans. Quinn would see right that, but he could get her to cover for him. He's covered for her enough times when she wanted a break from the vengeance thing to hook up with some guy or just be distracted. And this isn't different than that. Quinn blows off steam with guys and he blows it off with you. It's just a way to have something positive in his life.

It doesn't matter, but he can't seem too invested. "Do what?"

"Okay, you can say no, but I passed the cutest store on this street the other day..." You trail off softly, optimistic. "And I was going to go with Tara, but she's been super busy lately."

"Shopping trip?"

You sigh, the sound defeated, "I know. You don't have to--"

"No," Ethan breathes, "It sounds fun."

Your eyebrows draw together, "Fun?"

You sound so skeptical, but Ethan doesn't even have to think twice about it. It does sound fun. Anything that involves you sounds fun.

It hits him then that that's more than fondness or even friendship. That's really caring about someone...that's liking them. Like really liking them.

That alone should be reason enough for him to stop all of it. Bail and make some kind of excuse and stop hanging out with you so much. He tries to make himself, tries to imagine the way your expression would shift from an easy smile to a frown, "Do you want me to go or not?"

You beam. "You're right." Still smiling, you pull your bag off the side of your chair and pick up your coffee. "You ready?"

Warmth crawls up his neck and settles against his cheeks. "Yeah."

yall i’m so embarrassed i was out with my friends having a good time and then a man raised his voice at me and i immediately started crying and went home LMAO

I support you in the tate interest bc I'm right there with you

Has he done crimes? Ya sure but look at him he's cute!

And I'm intrigued with your modern day fic idea if you wanna share 👀

a/n i love you for indulging me <3

also i will be the first to admit that i don't think i ever fully got what AHS apocolypse did to murder house?? like the time travel and new timeline? ig there's no more murder house??

idk i didn't love it so i'm leaving it out partially out of preference and partially out of being a little confused lol,, and i honestly don't want to get into all of that!!

and there's time in between the end of AHS murder house and AHS apocalypse so you can also imagine this is somewhere in there, where season 1 trauma is less fresh to all the characters but not season 8...if that makes sense??

anyways this made me so excited i decided to use this as my homework study break instead of the fic i was working on earlier

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"And maggots crawl up their nose and eat their brains."

And just like that, I no longer have the luxury of letting whatever Kayla's into these days be just background noise. "Wait a minute..." She looks up from the large book laying in front of her, raising an eyebrow like she had been talking about something any seven-year-old girl could be into. Like brain eating maggots are no different than Barbies or baby dolls. "Maggots?"

"Mhm," she nods, sitting up a little straighter, "It's in my new book, I checked it out at the library."

Kayla lifts one end, giving me a way to check out the cover. 500 Weird Ways to Go. Ugh. Can't blame her, I blame the person raising her. I look away from the dining room table and glare at my mom who's searching through the boxes that have lived on the kitchen counter since we first walked in about a week ago.

"What?" My mom doesn't even have to look up to sense my disappointment. "It's educational, and you were into some weird stuff, too when you were seven." She pushes aside the box she's looking through in favor of the one next to it. "...Used to tell me how much bacteria a single roach could carry."

I set down my pencil. "Doesn't matter--Kayla's been having nightmares." The trig homework was frustrating before and I can't tell if this is worse. "It's not appropriate." She walks away from the boxes, giving me a chance to see the low cut, silky tank she's wearing. "And neither is that top if that's what you're wearing for the PTA meeting."

"Lighten up, sweetheart." I don't. She sighs, nails tapping against the counter. "Y'know you used to be fun."

"Yeah, well," I stand, picking up my school supplies, awkwardly forcing them all into my arms, "That was before some crazy lady forced me to move halfway across the country to live in some house that we shouldn't even be able to afford."

Her glossy lips fall apart in mock surprise, "I'm not crazy." She shakes her head once, "And I've told you...the financial stuff just worked, okay...so just relax and be a kid for once. Worry about decorating your room, or-or making friends, or throwing a rager and making me hate you."

I am so not in the mood for the you worry too much speech. "Lot of ways for me to make you hate me." Before she can respond, I reach over and steal the mug of coffee she had been drinking from. "Just saying."

I walk out of the kitchen, mug and school supplies all awkwardly balancing in my arms until I'm in what's supposed to be my room.

There's nothing wrong with the space. Actually, in another situation, I'm sure I could have really loved this space. The room has dark blue walls and wood arches that make it feel unique. It also came pre-furnished and everything feels like it fits. But none of it feels mine.

Maybe it's just the lack of unpacking...the boxes of posters and personal items pouring over the dresser and onto the floor...the suit case I'm still living out of. Or maybe the good qualities of the room are the issue. It's put together so perfectly I feel like I'm what's wrong with it. Like I'm intruding--a guest in someone else's room...someone else's house...someone else's life.

Sometimes when I can't sleep I imagine what it might've been. Some nights it even slips into my dreams. The story rarely stays the same...sometimes it's a teenage girl who wanted to be here even less than I do...other times I picture a little kid who grew up here...and sometimes I even think of this as some boy's room that relies on rock music and doesn't get along with his mom.

None of that matters, I guess. It's my room, obviously, and imagining who might have lived here before won't help me with my homework. I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my temple before turning my attention back to the real villain. Trigonometry.

I breeze through most of the questions as much as anyone can breeze through trigo until I'm on the last one. I'm stuck. I work on it again and again and it keeps being wrong.

I sigh, grabbing a pillow and using it to muffle my groan of frustration. How many times can I do what I'm supposed to do and still get it wrong? I pick up my eraser, knowing what I should do. I should just start over. Instead of dragging it across the page I throw it across the room.

Instead of smacking into the door and falling to the ground, the door pushes back. I sit up quicker than I thought possible.

"Warm welcome." The sarcasm comes from the stranger lingering way too comfortably in my doorway. His dark eyes scan the room before landing on me. He takes in my appearance openly, which I'm not used to, so I instinctually do the same. He seems like he's average height with blonde hair that's long enough to shag slightly and he's wearing an oversized sweater. "Cool room, by the way."

"Uh..." He's definitely lying, because all I've fully unpacked are a couple of books, a few pictures, my record player, and a single movie poster. "Thanks."

I'm not stupid. I know home intruders can be anyone, even cute boys that look like they're around your age and act casual enough to gaslight you into feeling like you're the weird one for not inviting them in. But if that's the goal, he's really good at it. I feel awkward and like I should be doing something to compensate.

"Sorry about the eraser." The words feel flat, almost shy. "That wasn't--wasn't about you--" Like I wouldn't have been well within my rights to throw something at someone who may or may not be breaking into my house. "That was...trig."

He nods once and I can't tell if it feels indifferent. I'm not sure why it matters. The stranger steps further into my room, his attention briefly focusing on the framed photo of a younger me and one of my best friends from back home. He's closer than a stranger should be now, close enough to lean over and look at my homework, which he does.

"Uh..." I sit up even straighter, a part of me wanting to grab my notebook and shield it even though that's irrational. There isn't anything he can get from it. "Who are you?"

The stranger holds my stare for a beat before answering, "I'm Tate." I nod, even though that does nothing for me. "I live around here."

Okay--that makes a lot of sense. I wouldn't be surprised if my mom ran into him on her way out and waved him down and told him to just let himself in and find her oldest daughter. Maybe this is an ambush attempt at getting me to make friends.

"Oh," I mumble like that explains everything, "Did my mom stop you?" The assumption feels like it could make me seem weird. I don't know why I feel like I'm the one that needs to come off as casual when he's the one that has less of a right to be here. "She invites people in sometimes, especially when she's new to a place." I scratch my knee to have something to physically do. "She never thinks anyone could be a murderer."

Oh my god?! Did I just accuse the only attractive guy I've met here of being a murderer? "Not that I think you're a murderer." I fight the urge to physically cringe. "--I um--I've been doing math for way longer than physically tolerable so my head's kinda mush right now."

"Explains why you divided wrong." Before I can ask what he's talking about, Tate places his finger against the bottom of the page. I look at what he's pointing at, some throwaway basic math...that I messed up. That's why it wasn't working.

"Oh?" I pick up my pencil and cross out my mistake so that I remember where to start over. "You totally saved my life." I rewrite the numbers so that I can actually solve the problem. "I'm Y/n, by the way."

Only halfway done with my math problem, I look up. He didn't ask for my name, which doesn't matter. Maybe he feels less comfortable in a stranger's room than he seems or maybe I've weirded him out and he has no intentions of speaking to me again. Not knowing is making my skin feel like it's crawling. It doesn't make sense for me to care.

I want him to like me. The realization burrows itself deep into my chest. It's an uncomfortable feeling, making it hard to just sit there and stare.

I've never considered myself someone that needs validation from guys, but this doesn't feel quite like that. School hasn't seemed too promising and every day I talk to my friends from home or I see their posts online and realize that they still have everything I did. I'm not mad about it or surprised--the world doesn't and shouldn't stop and start with me--but it hurts to suddenly have no one. And even though I know nothing about him, Tate's the first remotely cool seeming person I've met.

He waits a beat, eyes focused on a point that feels just past my head. I don't know why, but something about the silence feels pivotal. Tate then dips his chin downwards, a nod of acknowledgement. "Cool."

Tate takes a partial step forward, body angling itself towards the nightstand that I've been using for my record player. "This work?"

"Yeah," I turn myself so that I can watch him, "I know everything's online, but I like having physical copies." My nails press into my knee.

Tate reaches forward to mess with the volume dial. "What kind of music do you have?"

"A little of everything," I force my hand to relax, "But most of my vinyls are still being shipped."

His eyes briefly flit in my direction, "Got anything worth listening to?"

"Uh..." Is he implying that he's staying? Do I want him to? I'm lonely and kind of desperate for friends, but I should probably at least try to be a little suspicious. "We can listen to whatever you want on my..." I move a pillow and straighten my comforter in search of my, "Phone."

After a second of searching, I find it under my textbook.

"Anything?"

I unlock my phone, "Yeah, your pick, I owe you for the math thing."

Tate shrugs, "I just wanted to make sure you'd stop at the eraser, y'know, as a friend."

He gestures towards the door in a way that almost feels teasing. I can barely register the fact that he's kind of making fun of me because my mind's stuck on the last word. "We're friends?"

"You wanna be?"

The bluntness of the question surprises me more than it should. He's yet to feel particularly invested in social norms. "...Yeah." I scratch at the back of my wrist awkwardly. "That'd--that'd be cool."

Tate's head turns his head away for a second. He takes a step forward before sitting at the edge of my bed. The proximity nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I redirect my nervous energy into grabbing my homework and moving it to the other side of the bed. "You got any Kurt Cobain on there?"

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a/n i accidentally developed the background way too much for something idek if i'm going to touch on again but i spent all day doing hw and deserved to give into a harmless impulse

might have to make a part 2/mini series bc what did i do all that for 😭 i lowkey wanted to add violet and reader friendship to add some angst so maybe that? idk