Archive of Our Own ^beta

You hated lab days.

Well...maybe hate was a strong word. It’s not like you loathed them, exactly. But you definitely didn’t like them. There were too many steps. Too much math. Too much standing around pretending you understood what stoichiometry was while silently wishing the Bunsen burner would swallow you whole.

So when your professor’s Sunday night email popped up: “Reminder: Chemistry Lab Tomorrow. Come prepared.” Y ou nearly dropped out of college on the spot.

And then, as if the universe hadn’t already declared war on you, you walked into the lab Monday morning and saw it.

The dreaded phrase, written in dry-erase marker across the board like a death sentence:
Lab Partners Today

Could your day get any worse?

Yes. Yes, it could. Because you were paired with him.

Claggor.

As in, that Claggor. Starting tight end, team golden boy, and all-around pain in your ass. The same guy who flirted with you freshman year at a party you barely remember, the same guy who spent every lecture scrolling on his phone and somehow always managed to look surprised when he asked you for the notes you knew damn well, he didn’t deserve.

Perfect.

You dropped your bag to the floor with a heavy thud and collapsed onto the painfully uncomfortable lab stool beside him.

“I hope you’re actually going to put effort in today,” you said flatly, not even bothering to look at him.

He didn’t answer at first. Just leaned against the lab bench like it was a locker room wall, phone still in hand. When he finally glanced up, that familiar smirk was already forming.

“Depends,” he said lazily. “You gonna do all the work for me?”

That stupid jock tone of his made you clench your jaw.

God, he was insufferable.

And worse? He knew it.

You ignored his smirk and pulled the lab manual toward you, flipping to the experiment of the day. Titration. Great. Acid, base, and a whole lot of numbers you didn’t want to deal with on a Monday morning.

You started reading the procedure, squinting at the tiny text. “We’re supposed to calculate the molarity based on how much base is needed to neutralize the acid. So we need the volume used—”

Claggor leaned in, way too close, pointing at a random paragraph with the tip of his pen. “Wait, wait. Is this the part where the chemicals explode if we mess up? Or is that just in the movies?”

You gave him a withering look. “This isn’t Fight Club , Claggor. It’s Chem 102.”

He grinned. “You say that like you’re not lowkey hoping for a little explosion. Spice things up.”

You turned back to the manual. “The only explosion that’s about to happen is my brain trying to remember how to do these calculations.”

“Aw,” he said, fake pouting. “Need help with the big bad numbers?”

“I need you to not talk for five minutes.”

He let out a low whistle. “Feisty. I like that.”

You didn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, you started writing down the formula for molarity: M = mol / L . Simple enough. In theory.

Claggor tapped his pen against the table. “So... what’s a mole again? Like, the animal? Or...?”

You stopped mid-equation and stared at him.

He stared back.

“I’m joking. Kind of.”

You ran a hand down your face. “Why are you even in this class?”

He leaned in again, smile slow and smug. “Why do you think? Gotta stay eligible for the team. And maybe I wanted to see you again. You know, relive that magical freshman moment.”

You blinked. “The one where you spilled beer on me and asked if I ‘felt a connection’?”

“That’s the one,” he said proudly.

You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your ancestors. “Focus. We need to find the number of moles of the base, and for that we need the molarity of the acid, and the volume added—”

But Claggor wasn’t listening. He was still watching you; head tilted like you were a puzzle he was just starting to enjoy solving.

“You get real intense when you’re concentrating,” he said, grinning. “It’s kinda cute.”

You slammed your pen down. “Do you want to pass this lab or not?”

He leaned back, hands up like you’d just pulled a weapon. “Hey, I’m helping! I’m the moral support. The vibes.”

“Your vibes are actively lowering my IQ.”

He chuckled, actually chuckled, like this was all some big joke to him. Which, to be fair, it probably was.

“Tell you what,” he said. “You teach me this math stuff, and I’ll buy you coffee after. Or dinner. Your pick.”

You stared at him. “That’s not how lab partnerships work.”

“It could be.”

You gritted your teeth and shoved the notebook toward him. “Start by writing down the volume we used. Accurately. If you round wrong, I swear to God—”

He took the pen with a wink, like you’d just agreed to marry him. “You got it, partner .”

You were waiting for him to mess it up.

Really, you were ready for it. You had already rehearsed your eye roll, prepared a snarky comeback, even opened your calculator so you could redo everything yourself.

But then Claggor… actually picked up the pen.

And didn’t look confused.

“Huh,” he said, tapping his finger against the page. “So if the volume of the base we used was 0.025 liters, and the molarity of the acid is 0.1 M, then we can just plug that into the neutralization formula, right?”

You blinked. “Uh… yeah.”

He jotted something down, quick and neat, and your eyes widened. His handwriting was surprisingly legible. Neat, even. A little angled, like he was trying not to make it too obvious he cared.

“So,” he said, “if the balanced equation has a 1:1 ratio, then moles of acid equal moles of base. Multiply molarity by volume, that gives us... 2.5 millimoles.”

You stared at the notebook.

Then at him.

Then at the notebook again.

“…Did you just do that in your head?”

Claggor looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah? I mean, it’s not that hard.”

You frowned. “But you said— You act like you don’t even know what a mole is.”

He grinned. “Yeah, because it’s funny watching you get all worked up.”

You gaped at him, full-on speechless. “You’ve been pretending to be bad at this?”

He shrugged, like it was no big deal. “Not pretending. Just… choosing not to try. There’s a difference.”

You leaned back in your stool, trying to process what the hell just happened. Claggor. Claggor. The guy who once asked if the syllabus was “just a suggestion,” had just casually solved the hardest part of the lab without breaking a sweat.

“What are you even doing in football?” you muttered.

He shot you a lopsided grin. “What, you don’t think athletes can do math?”

“I think you were trying really hard to convince me you couldn’t.”

He looked down, a little more sheepish this time. “Yeah, well… people don’t usually expect me to be good at this stuff. It’s easier to just play the dumb jock card.”

You studied him, genuinely seeing him for the first time, actually seeing him. And yeah, he was still smug and obnoxious and had no business being that attractive, but there was something else under all that bravado. Something… sharp.

Smart.

You sat up straighter and crossed your arms. “Okay then, genius. Finish the calculations. I want a break.”

He gave you a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then, without hesitation, he got to work. Unit conversions, sig figs, the whole thing.

You didn’t know what was more alarming: that Claggor was solving stoichiometry like it was Sudoku… or that watching him do it was, somehow, infuriatingly hot.

You weren’t sure what kind of rom-com hell you’d just stumbled into, but one thing was painfully clear.

You were so screwed.

—-

You were halfway through shoving your chemistry textbook into your bag, fingers already cramping from the three pages of rushed notes you’d scribbled, when your professor’s voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Oh! Almost forgot,” he said like he was announcing a pizza party and not a scheduling nightmare. “The partner you worked with today will also be your study partner for the midterm. You’ll need to meet at least twice a week. It’s part of your final grade.”

The room groaned in unison. A few people cursed under their breath. One girl outright muttered “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You didn’t move at first. Didn’t even look up. Because you knew.

You knew.

And yet, morbid curiosity got the better of you. You turned your head toward the door, and of course, there he was, Claggor. Leaning casually against the frame, backpack slung over one shoulder, smirk glued to his face like it was tattooed there. That same smug, shit-eating grin he always wore when he was winning.

He caught your eye and gave you a little wave. A wave.

You opened your mouth, ready to launch a full-blown rant about how this was academic sabotage, but he just pushed the door open and strutted out, all confident swagger and zero shame.

You stood there for another few seconds, debating whether you could drop the class without tanking your GPA. Probably not.

With a loud sigh, you grabbed your stuff and followed him out.

You were halfway back to your dorm, earbuds in but not playing anything, when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled it out without thinking, expecting a text from your roommate, maybe a class group chat about the ridiculous partner assignment.

Instead:

Unknown Number: guess we’re study buddies now ;)
Unknown Number: u free tmrw?

You stopped walking and just stared at the screen for a second.

Of course it was him.

You: how did you get my number?

The reply came almost instantly, which, annoyingly, made your stomach flip a little.

Unknown Number: asked the TA
Unknown Number: said it was for “collaboration purposes”
Unknown Number: but u didn’t answer my question

You actually scoffed out loud, earning a weird look from a passing sophomore on a scooter.

You typed back, rolling your eyes hard enough to give yourself a headache.

You: yes i’m free tomorrow. meet me at the library at 2.
You: don’t be late.

You shoved your phone into your hoodie pocket and picked up the pace, practically storming your way back to the dorms.

When you slammed the door open, your roommate didn’t even flinch.

“Chemistry was that bad?” she said, not looking up from her desk where she was half-highlighted into another nervous breakdown.

You groaned dramatically and faceplanted into your bed. “Worse. Catastrophic. Biblical levels of bad.”

She spun around slowly in her chair, pen still in hand. “Talk to me.”

You rolled over and stared at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you. “I have to be study partners with Claggor.”

That made her blink. “Wait, Claggor ? Like… Claggor Claggor? Football guy? Guy who always looks like he just walked off a Nike ad and doesn’t own a pencil?”

You groaned again, louder this time. “Yes! That Claggor! It’s like our professor knows how much I loathe him. I swear it’s a conspiracy.”

Your roommate leaned back in her chair, clearly entertained. “Oh my god. You’re gonna combust. I mean, wasn’t he the one who asked you for your orgo notes every week last semester and didn’t even spell your name right?”

You sat up. “Yes. Exactly. He texted me like ten minutes ago from an unknown number, which, by the way, he got by asking our TA and using the excuse of ‘collaboration purposes.’”

She gasped like she was watching a reality show. “That’s actually kind of unhinged. I respect it.”

“You would. ”

“What did he say?”

You threw your phone at her (gently) and watched her read the texts. She snorted.

“He used a winky face. Bold.”

You buried your face in your pillow again. “Kill me.”

“You’re definitely texting him back though.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at her. “I am texting him back so I can manage him. Not because I like him. Or his dumb face. Or his stupid jokes.”

“Sure. Management,” she said, tossing your phone back at you. “Just try not to fall in love with him or whatever.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

—

You weren’t even mad that he was one minute late. Not really.

You were mad that you cared enough to check the time twice.

You’d claimed a quiet corner table near the back wall, surrounded by old math textbooks and students who looked equally miserable to be alive. Your laptop was open, highlighters spread like weapons across the table, and your lab worksheet was already haunting your every waking thought.

You heard him before you saw him, sneakers squeaking slightly on the linoleum, the soft zip of a backpack, and then—

“Don’t look so happy to see me.”

You looked up to glare at him. “I’m not.”

Claggor grinned like you’d just complimented him. He dropped into the seat across from you and slid his backpack off his shoulder in one lazy motion.

And then, like it was nothing, he pulled out a bag of your absolute favorite study snack, the brand, the flavor, he even know that you liked that candy sour, and set it on the table between you two.

You blinked. “What the hell is that?”

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, still smirking. “A peace offering.”

“No. How do you even know I like these?”

He shrugged, obnoxiously casual. “You had one in your hand before our last test. You were stress-eating it like it was a lifeline.”

You stared at the bag, then at him. “That was, like, two months ago.”

“I have a good memory,” he said, then added with a smirk, “for things that matter.”

You muttered something under your breath and picked up the snack anyway, half-convinced it was cursed. He didn’t say anything, but you saw the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes when you opened it.

“Alright,” you sighed, pulling the worksheet toward you. “We’re here to study. Not to test how annoying you can be in a confined space.”

“Multitasking,” he said. “I can do both.”

You gave him a long, unamused look.

He reached into his bag again and pulled out his notes. Actual notes. Neat-ish handwriting, underlines, marginal doodles, but… real.

You blinked. “Wait. You take notes ?”

Claggor raised an eyebrow. “What, you think I just roll up to class and vibe?”

“Yes!” you snapped. “That’s literally what you do! You’re always on your phone or asking for mine!”

He grinned. “Yeah, but I always get what I need before exams.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So you’ve been playing dumb this whole time?”

He shrugged. “I’m not playing. I’m just... selective about my energy.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

He ignored that and leaned over the table. “Let me see the worksheet.”

You slid it over reluctantly. “I already tried problem two, but the stoichiometry doesn’t make any sense to me.”

Claggor took a quick glance, then pulled out a mechanical pencil from his hoodie pocket like he was born to be annoying and prepared. He started writing casually, explaining under his breath.

“Okay, so this part’s where most people mess up. You’re using the wrong molar ratio. You gotta look at the coefficients in the balanced equation, not just the masses. See?” He circled the relevant numbers, then flipped the page and started writing out the dimensional analysis.

You stared. You gawked.

“…You’re good at this,” you said, like you were accusing him of something.

He looked up, smug. “Yeah. Shocking, right?”

“No, like. Weirdly good. Like, TA-level good.”

He shrugged again, but there was a tiny blush rising at the tips of his ears. “I used to tutor people in high school. Did math competitions. But, you know, not exactly cool to talk about when you’re trying to be QB1.”

You stared at him. “You do math competitions but spend half of chem lab making paper footballs with your periodic table?”

“It’s called balance,” he said, deadpan.

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. “You are so frustratingly confusing.”

He looked at you, this time not smirking. Just smiling. “You’re not what I expected either.”

You rolled your eyes but felt your ears warm. “Yeah, well, I’m not trying to impress anyone.”

“Sure,” he said easily, “but you still do.”

You looked down at the worksheet quickly. “Okay. Focus. Midterm, remember?”

He grinned but didn’t push it. “Fine. Try number four. I won’t help until you show me what you got.”

“God, you’re so cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrected. “But yeah, sure.”

You got through the next few questions together, and for once, studying didn’t feel like a slow death. Every time you stumbled, he’d guide you instead of taking over. When you caught something he missed, he actually listened. No sarcasm. No mocking. Just quiet nods and that focused, furrowed brow look you’d never seen on him before.

Two hours passed before you realized it, and you sat back, stretching your arms overhead.

Claggor yawned and pushed his notes aside. “Not bad, partner.”

You snorted. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, partner ?” he repeated, voice obnoxiously sweet.

You glared at him. “You’re lucky you brought snacks.”

“Was hoping that would buy me at least one smile,” he said, standing and slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Mission accomplished.”

You didn’t say anything. Not out loud, at least. But you did smile, just a little when he turned away and couldn’t see it.

—

The next week you were already settled in when you heard the door swing open behind you, the familiar heavy creak that signaled the start of another session of Claggor somehow being both a menace and helpful.

“Hey—” you started, not looking up yet, “you’re late.”

“Three minutes. Chill.”

You glanced up and immediately regretted it.

He was still in his practice gear, grey compression shirt damp with sweat, athletic shorts, hair a mess, and that post-practice glow that should have been illegal on campus. A towel hung loosely around his neck like he’d run straight here from the field.

You blinked once. Then twice.

“...You’re sweaty.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah. Football practice. Kind of comes with the territory.”

You wrinkled your nose. “You couldn’t shower first?”

Claggor tossed his backpack onto the table and grinned. “Aww, you don’t like me like this?”

“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “I don’t like you at all. Especially not when you smell like... effort and Gatorade.”

He laughed, actually laughed , and started digging through his bag.

“Seriously,” you added, fighting to keep your eyes on your notes and not on the way the fabric of his shirt clung to his chest. “There’s a gym five minutes from here. You could’ve rinsed off. Or at least Febreezed yourself.”

Claggor looked up, one corner of his mouth twitching. “That sounds like a lot of effort for someone who, quote, ‘doesn’t like me at all.’”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m trying to protect my air quality.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, chin in his hand, eyes crinkled with amusement. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You so are.”

You shoved a pencil at him. “Focus. Worksheet.”

He took the pencil with that same maddening grin and pulled the sheet toward him.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “But if I drop dead of dehydration halfway through question five, it’s on you.”

“Noted,” you said dryly. “I’ll tell your coach you died being dramatic.”

He chuckled and actually got to work, his expression shifting from playful to focused in seconds. And, as always, you had to remind yourself that this was the same guy who spent an entire semester pretending to be a walking cliché.

He pointed to a diagram. “This part’s wrong. You forgot to convert to moles before multiplying the concentration.”

You stared at it. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yep,” he said, scribbling out a correction with the pencil you’d tossed at him. “It’s easy to miss. Wanna try the next one together?”

You nodded, mostly to distract yourself from the very obvious, very not your problem fact that his forearms were stupidly attractive when he was writing.

Half an hour passed in steady problem-solving silence, interrupted only by sarcastic commentary and occasional snack breaks, yes, he brought your favorite snack again, and no, you didn’t ask how he remembered.

Eventually, after successfully cracking the hardest question on the sheet, you leaned back in your chair with a satisfied sigh.

“Okay,” you said, “I’ll admit it. You’re not entirely useless.”

Claggor gave you a mock-offended look. “Wow. That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m growing as a person.”

He grinned, that boyish, too-charming grin. “You know, you could just admit you’re starting to like me.”

You raised a brow. “I said you weren’t entirely useless. Don’t twist my words.”

He leaned back, arms behind his head like he had all the time in the world. “I’ll take what I can get.”

You rolled your eyes, but something in your chest fluttered, annoying and persistent. You reached for your notes again just to have something to look at that wasn’t him .

“Seriously though,” you said, quieter this time, “you ever think about not pretending to be some dumb jock all the time? You’re... like, actually smart.”

He looked at you, really looked at you. “Yeah. But people expect me to be the football guy. It's easier to play along than explain why I like partial differentials more than parties.”

You blinked. “You like partial differentials?”

He smirked. “I’m full of surprises.”

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

Instead, you shoved another problem set toward him and said, “Next question, math boy.”

He leaned in, pencil in hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to not hate this whole study partner thing.

—-

This was the last one. The final study session before the midterm, the last time you’d be stuck at a table with Claggor, trying to pretend you didn’t enjoy this a little more than you were willing to admit.

He was already there when you walked in, shocker, leaning back in the chair he always claimed, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a highlighter cap between his teeth. The sight was alarmingly normal now.

“You’re late,” he said around the cap, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“It’s five minutes,” you said, dropping your bag and sitting across from him. “And I brought you a muffin, so maybe don’t sass me.”

He immediately perked up. “For me? You do love me.”

“Not even a little,” you muttered, sliding it across the table.

“You remembered the banana nut kind,” he said quietly, eyes softening just a little.

You looked away. “You said it was your favorite.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just opened the muffin and took a bite, chewing like he had something on the tip of his tongue but wasn’t ready to say it.

You didn’t press.

The table between you and Claggor was covered in notes, pens, highlighters, a half-eaten muffin, and a tension that hadn’t been there last time. You’d gone through two practice exams already, and your brain felt like mashed potatoes.

He was focused today. Less annoying than usual. Still a little cocky, sure, but quieter somehow.

You tapped your pen against the margin of the problem set, squinting at a molarity conversion that might as well have been in Klingon. “Okay, wait, so… you’d multiply this by the volume, right?”

Claggor leaned over, scanning your notes. “No, you’re dividing here. You already have the moles; you need the concentration.”

You frowned. “That doesn’t make sense—wait… oh. Shit. You’re right.”

He gave you a smug look but didn’t say anything. Just reached across and lightly circled the right part with your highlighter. You weren’t going to lie, the fact that he was so casual about being this good at chem still threw you.

“Okay,” you muttered, glancing down at your phone. “If I bomb this midterm, I’m blaming stoichiometry and the guy who invented lab goggles.”

Claggor snorted. “I think the goggles are the least of your problems.”

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, coach.”

A beat passed. You closed your notebook with a sigh and stretched your arms over your head.

“Anyway,” you said, “I’m heading home after the midterm. My mom’s already texting me about cinnamon rolls and asking if I need laundry done, which—obviously, yes.”

Claggor gave a small smile but didn’t respond.

You didn’t notice it right away, too busy scrolling through your messages.

“But I’m excited,” you went on. “Haven’t been back in, like, a month. Gonna sleep in for at least fourteen hours. Maybe go walk my dog if he doesn’t forget I exist.”

When you looked up, Claggor was staring down at his notebook, not writing anything.

You tilted your head. “You going home too?”

He paused, fingers tightening around his pen for a second too long.

Then, casually, almost offhand: “Nah. I’m staying here.”

You waited, but he didn’t offer anything else.

“…Why?”

Claggor didn’t look at you. He just kept flipping his pencil between his fingers like it was the most interesting thing in the room.

“Just… no reason to go back.”

You blinked, eyebrows knitting. “What does that mean?”

He exhaled through his nose. You could see the shift happen, the way his shoulders tensed slightly, how his jaw set like he was bracing for something.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said. “I just… don’t really have a reason to go back, you know?.”

The words were simple. Said like they’d been rehearsed.

Still, they hit harder than you expected.

“Oh,” you said softly. You weren’t sure what else to say.

He looked up, his expression unreadable. “It’s fine. Seriously. Not, like, a sob story or anything. Tried to go back freshman year, they turned my room into storage space." 

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t want to say the wrong thing.

“I usually just stay here,” he added. “Catch up on work. Sleep. It’s quiet. Tried to go back freshman year, they turned my room into storage space”

You watched him for a second. There was something about the way he said it, like he’d told this story before, but never to someone who mattered. Or maybe never to someone who might actually care .

You leaned forward a little. “Claggor…”

He gave you a tight smile, and this time, you could see the effort behind it. “Hey. It’s cool. Don’t go soft on me now.”

You tried to smile back, but your chest ached a little.

“It’s just…” he trailed off, gaze dropping to his hands. “People don’t really want the sad parts of my life. They want the football guy. The one who’s loud and funny and only cares about gym and girls and protein powder.”

You blinked. “But that’s not even you.”

He laughed, but it didn’t have any humor in it. “Doesn’t stop it from working.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So instead, you quietly pushed the second muffin from your bag toward him.

He blinked down at it.

“You brought me two muffins?”

“Brought one for myself,” you said. “But you look like you could use some sugar.”

He stared at it for a moment like he didn’t know what to do with kindness that came without a punchline.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he said finally, voice lower than before.

“You are soft,” you said, grinning. “You’re just wrapped in a layer of football-boy nonsense.”

He laughed then, and it felt like something cracked open between you, something that had been trying to breathe for weeks.

“Thanks,” he said, not looking at you when he said it. “For not making it weird.”

You leaned your chin on your hand, watching him bite into the muffin.

“Anytime,” you said. “Besides, you still have to help me survive the midterm before I let you go full brooding loner.”

He smiled around a mouthful of muffin. “I’d never leave you hanging.”

And maybe he meant it more than you realized.

—

You tossed your backpack in the back seat and slammed the car door harder than necessary. The campus lot was half-empty, most people were still in their exams, or already on the road out. You had your keys in the ignition and your GPS pulling up before the building even faded in your rearview.

You hadn’t even waited to find out how Claggor did on the test. Not because you didn’t care, clearly, you did, but because you’d felt too many emotions at once, and sitting still wasn’t one of your strengths.

It wasn’t until you were parked in the driveway of your family home, your favorite playlist still buzzing through the speakers, that you realized you wanted to text him.

And that was… new.

You: made it home in one piece
You: assuming you didn’t flunk?

He replied four minutes later. Not instantly, like usual, like he had maybe stared at the message too.

Claggor: passed
Claggor: probs not as fast as u
Claggor: u turned in ur exam like it was timed by a bomb lol

You: it felt like it was

Claggor: did u teleport out of the room??
Claggor: looked up and ur chair was empty like a magic trick

You smiled. Like an idiot. In your mom’s driveway. With the engine still running.

You: needed to get home
You: my mom had pasta waiting
You: and a guilt trip lined up if i didn’t show by 4

Claggor: damn
Claggor: tell her i said hi

You: ????

Claggor: what
Claggors: manners

You: you don’t know her??

Claggor: just figured she’s cool
Claggor: she raised u

You didn’t have a good response for that, so you shut off the engine, grabbed your bag, and headed inside.

You were two bites into your mom’s pasta, still wearing your hoodie and the stress of your midterm, when she caught you smirking at your phone again.

“Okay,” she said, setting her fork down. “Who’s the boy?”

“What?” you asked, already defensive.

“I haven’t seen you look at a screen like that since that art major who ghosted you sophomore year.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“And true.”

You sighed, poked at a meatball. “He’s just someone from my chem class.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow. “And you’re texting him while eating my pasta?”

“He’s… my study partner,” you muttered.

Your mom’s expression didn’t change. But you knew her. You knew that face.

“Oh my God,” you groaned.

She just smiled. “Is he cute?”

You buried your face in your hands.

—

The sun had already dipped low by the time you pulled into the student lot. The streetlights were flickering on, casting an orange glow across the pavement. You were tired,  bone-deep tired, but something about being back made your pulse tick up.

You hauled your bag over your shoulder, slamming your car door shut with your hip. You hadn’t even made it halfway to your dorm when you saw him.

Claggor.

Leaning against the bench just outside your building. Hoodie pulled over his head. Textbook open on his lap, probably pretending to read it. When he looked up and saw you, he stood a little straighter, shoving the book into his backpack in one casual motion.

You almost kept walking. Almost. But your legs moved before your brain did, like they’d made the decision for you.

He smiled when you reached him, a little crooked, a little tired. Like maybe he hadn’t slept much either.

And before you could second-guess it, before you could remind yourself that this was Claggor, you dropped your bag at your feet and wrapped your arms around him.

You felt him hesitate, just for a second. Then his arms circled you, warm and steady and stupidly solid. He held you like you were something he didn’t know he’d missed until he had you back.

You hated how that made you feel.

His chin brushed the side of your head. His hoodie smelled like detergent and that faint trace of pine from his body wash. You were suddenly aware of just how close you were, his hands resting between your shoulder blades, the low rise and fall of his chest, the way your shirt sleeve was dampening just a little where it met his neck.

Had he…?

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His eyes flicked away, like he was trying not to let anything show. But you saw it.

The relief. The faint shine in his eyes. The fact that maybe, just maybe, he’d missed you more than he meant to.

“You okay?” you asked, your voice quieter than you expected.

He nodded once, then cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just... long weekend.”

You didn’t push. You didn’t need to. He’d open up when he was ready, and maybe not even all at once.

But he hadn’t let go of your hand.

You stared down at where his fingers brushed yours, then back up at him. He must’ve realized it at the same time you did, because he let go fast, rubbing the back of his neck like he could scrub the softness off his own skin.

“I, uh… I grabbed snacks. For later. If you wanna study.”

You blinked. “Didn’t we just take the midterm?”

“Yeah, but finals are coming. Thought we could… get ahead?”

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to punch him. You wanted to ask why he was always doing this, being soft, being real, breaking through the dumb-jock illusion one quiet moment at a time.

Instead, you picked up your bag and tried not to let your voice shake. “Sure. We can study.”

And as you walked into the dorm, shoulder brushing his, you told yourself that the flutter in your chest was just from being tired.

Not from the way his fingers had lingered just a second too long.

Not from the way you already couldn’t wait for more.

—

You weren’t studying.

That had been the original plan, it always was. But somehow, you’d ended up on the floor of Claggor’s dorm room, your back against his bed, a half-eaten bag of chips between you and a rerun of Jeopardy! playing low on his TV.

His room was surprisingly clean. Lived-in, sure. A few shirts draped over the back of a chair, a football helmet sitting lopsided on his desk, a post-it stuck to his mirror with the words “Don’t forget your helmet, idiot” in someone’s handwriting that definitely wasn’t his. But clean.

You glanced over at him, where he was sprawled out on the bed, one arm tucked behind his head and his eyes half-lidded with that tired-but-listening look he always got when he was pretending not to pay attention.

“Okay,” you said, tossing a chip in your mouth. “Explain to me how you knew that was the Daily Double. You felt it coming. That’s terrifying.”

Claggor cracked a grin. “Gut instinct.”

“Gut instinct,” you repeated, deadpan.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugged, “I watch it a lot.”

You paused. “You watch Jeopardy! ? Like… often?”

He shrugged again. “Helps me fall asleep. And I dunno… it’s kind of nice. The routine. Background noise. That old guy with the tie and the confidence issues—”

“Alex Trebek did not have confidence issues.”

“You’re right, he didn’t. But I do, and I think that’s why we clicked.”

You laughed, full and unguarded, and Claggor’s smile tugged a little wider. The space between you wasn’t big, barely the length of your legs stretched out on the floor, but it felt suddenly smaller, the way rooms do when silence hits just right.

He sat up then, elbows on his knees, looking at you. Really looking at you.

And you weren’t sure why your breath caught in your throat.

“What?” you asked, suddenly very aware of how warm his room was. Or maybe it was just him.

He shook his head a little, but didn’t look away. “Nothing. You just… You’re kind of hard to figure out sometimes.”

“Me?” You tried to scoff but it came out weaker than you meant. “You’re the one who pretends to be dumb in class and then solves integrals in his head like it’s Sudoku.”

“Yeah, but I’m easy to read. You’re not.”

You looked away, down at your hands. The silence stretched. You could feel his gaze still on you, and maybe it was the low buzz of the TV or the fact that you weren’t in a library with fluorescent lighting and passive-aggressive quiet signs. Maybe it was just that the world had stopped spinning quite so fast, and the two of you were finally caught in the still.

Then you looked up.

And he leaned in.

Not fast, not like the movies. Slow, hesitant. Like he was giving you time to back away. Like he wasn’t even sure he wanted to do it but also couldn’t not try.

You didn’t move.

He was close enough that you could see the freckle under his eye, the faint scar at the edge of his hairline. His breath smelled faintly like cinnamon gum, and you wondered, absurdly, if he’d chewed it on purpose.

Your heart hammered.

And then, he pulled back.

Just a fraction. Just enough.

He cleared his throat and flopped backward onto the bed, breaking the tension with a laugh that was too loud, too forced. “Okay, yeah. I’m gonna pretend I didn’t almost embarrass myself just now.”

You stared at the ceiling. “Claggor…”

“I know,” he said quickly, eyes on the ceiling too. “It’s cool. You don’t have to say anything. We’re good.”

The TV kept playing.

Neither of you said another word for the next three minutes.

You both sat in that silence too long.

Three minutes, maybe four, measured only by the hum of Jeopardy! and the sound of your own heartbeat somewhere in your ears. The leftover chips in the bag were going stale. The air felt too still, like it was waiting for one of you to breathe differently, move wrong, say too much.

Claggor finally sat up again, fast.

Too fast.

“Okay. Wait. I just—I need to clarify that wasn’t me trying to be weird, or make it weird, or like, trap you in a weird moment where I almost kissed you and then got offended when it didn’t happen because that is not who I am, I swear—”

You blinked. “Claggor—”

“No, just—let me finish—because I’ve been overthinking that moment for the past three minutes and I’ve convinced myself I’ve blown up literally everything. And maybe you were into it? Maybe not? But either way, I pulled back because I panicked, not because I didn’t want to, because I did —I really did—”

You stared at him and stood, sitting on the bed next to him. “Claggor.”

“—and then I thought about how we’re kind of friends now, like, actual friends, and maybe you just like hanging out and I read too much into things and maybe you didn’t even want me to—"

“Claggor—”

“—but if I made you uncomfortable, like at all , I need you to tell me, okay? Because I will back off. I will bury the feelings; I will retreat to the nearest locker room and drown in protein shakes and regret—”

You reached out and grabbed his face.

His whole body froze.

One hand on each cheek, you leaned forward and kissed him.

Not tentative this time. Not hesitant. Not something half-formed that could be passed off as a mistake. You kissed him with the intention he’d clearly been too nervous to carry out himself, and that intention hit him like a truck.

He made a soft, stunned sound into your mouth before his hands rose, fumbling for a second before settling on your waist. You could feel his fingers twitching, unsure of how close he was allowed to pull you. He wasn’t cocky now, or smooth, or suave. He was just Claggor. Kinda sweaty-palmed, mildly panicked Claggor.

And when you finally pulled away, breathless and red-faced, his mouth opened but no words came out.

You laughed softly. “Do you ever stop talking?”

He stared at you, dazed. “You kissed me.”

“Yeah,” you said, voice still breathy. “Because you were spiraling and it was the only way to get you to shut up.”

He blinked once. Twice. “Okay, yeah, fair.”

The TV was still on. You weren’t watching.

“But just so we’re clear,” you added, your voice quieter now, “I did want to, by the way. Just… panicked, too. I’m not used to this stuff, Claggor. The real part. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

His hands squeezed at your waist, steady but gentle. “There’s no other shoe. Just us. Probably tripping over each other but still us.”

You let out a breath, resting your forehead against his.

For once, he didn’t have something witty to say.

For once, he didn’t need to.

And in the quiet, you both just… existed. Close, comfortable, and terrified together.

—

You weren’t dating.

Not officially. Not technically.

There had been a kiss. Okay, two. Maybe three. And there had been a very serious, very mutual unspoken agreement that what happened in Claggor’s dorm room would stay in Claggor’s dorm room, at least for now.

Which sounded easier in theory than it actually was. Because Claggor… well, Claggor wasn’t exactly easy to hide. Six-foot-something of too-much-jock energy, bad jokes, easy smiles, and the world’s most distracting cinnamon gum addiction.

You didn’t even like cinnamon gum. Not until he kept chewing it every time he got near you, probably on purpose, and now, like Pavlov’s dog, your brain short-circuited at the faintest whiff of it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he said one afternoon, voice low but teasing, as you passed each other in the quad.

“Like what?” you asked, ignoring the heat crawling up your neck.

“Like you wanna kiss me in broad daylight with God and the squirrels watching.”

You elbowed him, but you were smiling. “Your ego is unbelievable.”

He grinned. “You say that, but you didn’t deny it.”

You didn’t. Because yeah. You did want to kiss him in broad daylight. And hold his hand walking across campus. And tug him close by the strings of his hoodie and not have to check over your shoulder to make sure none of your classmates were around.

It was stupid, the way your fingers itched for his. Every time he reached over to borrow your pen in study group. Every time he brushed past you in the hall, that faint smell of gum and something warmer, like laundry detergent and a little sweat, sticking in your nose long after he left.

“You’re not subtle, by the way,” your roommate said one night, not even looking up from her laptop. “You get this weird, dazed look when you talk about chemistry now. No one’s that excited about stoichiometry.”

You groaned, flopping face-down on your bed. “We’re not even dating.”

“Mhm.” Click-click went her keyboard. “But you are kissing. And sneaking around. And blushing every time he texts you. Which, I’m pretty sure, by the way, he’s doing right now.”

Your phone buzzed.

claggor <3: roommate still got that murder stare or can I come up? brought you the good gum.

You rolled over, heart doing that thing it always did when his name lit up your screen.

you: give me 5. she’s on some “do not disturb” productivity mode again. you’ll die if you knock rn.

A beat passed.

claggor <3: worth it.

You grinned and tucked your phone under your pillow, stomach twisting in that way that made you feel seventeen again, like maybe there were butterflies living in there after all.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could keep this quiet. Not when he kept looking at you like that, like you were some answer he’d been searching for way before Jeopardy!.

Not when your hands kept trying to find his under tables and blankets and lab counters.

Not when your heart was already halfway across the finish line, and you hadn’t even told him how far it’d run.

—

You didn’t set out to hook up with Claggor in an empty classroom.

It was supposed to be just a quick stop, a “five minutes alone” detour before you both headed back to your respective dorms. The hallway was quiet, the building nearly empty. It was late enough for the floor to be dead but not so late you’d feel weird being there.

Claggor had pulled you into the room like he’d done it before. Like he knew the timing, the angles, the silence that wrapped around you both like a dare. You barely had time to laugh before his mouth was on yours, fast, familiar, confident, and suddenly you were up against the wall, his hands on your hips, his body flush against yours.

“You’ve been driving me insane,” he muttered against your neck, and it sent a jolt right down your spine.

“Me?” you whispered, breathless. “You’re the one who keeps chewing that stupid gum.”

“What can I say,” he murmured, kissing just beneath your jaw, “I like being consistent.”

You didn’t mean to let your hands slide up the back of his shirt. Didn’t mean to tug him closer, to kiss him like your brain had finally caught up to what your body wanted.

But once it started, you weren’t stopping.

The desks scraped under your thighs as he lifted you up onto one, pushing between your legs like he’d been dreaming about this just as much as you had. You gasped into his mouth when his fingers found the hem of your shirt, slipped under it, skimmed the bare skin of your back. His hand curled behind your neck, pulling you closer, like he couldn’t get enough.

And then, you reached for the button on his jeans.

Just the sound of it, that soft pop, made the air shift. His breathing was heavier, hands firmer on your thighs.

“Wait—” he said, breath ragged. “Are you sure?”

You looked up at him, heart hammering. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I mean—yeah, I want this.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was memorizing your mouth. His fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt, eyes flicking to yours like he was asking one more silent question. You nodded, barely, and he slipped it off.

You were in your bra, his shirt half-untucked, and you thought, this is it. You thought maybe your first time with Claggor was going to be here, messy and reckless and desperate, in a room where the air still smelled faintly like dry-erase markers and old test papers.

And then—

“OH GOD, JESUS—SORRY!”

The door flew open. You both flinched.

You scrambled for your shirt like it had personally betrayed you. Claggor spun around, knocking over a chair as he reached for the edge of the desk like he could shield you.

Standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, red-faced, was your lab TA. Of course.

They immediately slapped a hand over their eyes. “IN A CLASSROOM?”

You wanted to disappear into the linoleum. “We thought it was empty!”

“IT WASN’T!” the TA shouted, already backing out of the room. “And for god’s sake, this is a classroom! It’s not that kind of chemistry!”

Claggor winced. “That’s on me. That pun’s on me.”

The door slammed behind them.

Silence.

The only sound was your uneven breathing and Claggor muttering, “So... that’s definitely getting around campus by tomorrow.”

You pulled your shirt over your head, face burning. “I was about to—”

“I know,” he said, voice soft, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or apologize. “Me too.”

You looked at him, hair a mess, pants unbuttoned, cheeks flushed, and for a second you thought about how close it had been. How real it was becoming. How badly you wanted him, and how much more terrifying it was to realize it wasn’t just physical.

He reached out, brushing your arm lightly. “We okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

But it wasn’t casual anymore.

Whatever it was between you two, it was real. Even if the universe had a sick sense of humor about it.

“Let’s go back to your dorm,” you said, tugging gently on his arm, your voice low and just a little breathless. You caught the way his eyes flicked downward, how his pupils dilated just slightly, and that was all the confirmation you needed. The ache between your legs pulsed with growing insistence, impossible to ignore now.

“Yeah,” Claggor replied, voice rough around the edges. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You walked through the halls hand in hand, half-laughing, half-dizzy with want. The hallway lights felt too bright, the air charged with something electric between you. A few people stared, some even whispered, clearly aware of your earlier tryst in the chem classroom, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the warmth of his hand around yours and the way your body was already buzzing from the anticipation of what was coming next.

By the time you reached his dorm, you were practically vibrating. Claggor fumbled with his keys, his hands were shaking just slightly, and as soon as the door clicked shut behind you, the tension snapped.

He didn’t waste a second.

His hands found your face first, cradling it as he leaned in and kissed you like he’d been holding back all day. It started slow, soft, but quickly deepened. His mouth pressed harder, more urgently, until you felt the moan rising in your chest. You let it out against his lips as he walked you backwards toward the door, pressing you gently against it.

When his hands dropped to your waist, sliding up beneath your shirt, you gasped at the feel of his fingers against your skin, cool, calloused, reverent. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull your shirt over your head, tossing it aside before reaching behind you and unclasping your bra in one practiced motion.

He stepped back, just enough to look at you. His eyes roamed slowly, admiring, devouring.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, almost to himself, voice low and raw.

You bit your lip and tugged his shirt up and over his head in response, exposing the lean muscles beneath. His skin was warm under your touch, and you traced your fingers down his chest slowly, watching his breath hitch when you dragged your nails lightly across his stomach.

He leaned in again, his mouth now at your neck, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone. You tilted your head back, lips parting as you sighed at the sensation of his tongue grazing your skin. He took his time, sucking gently at the sensitive spot just beneath your ear before moving lower, his hands sliding to your back to hold you firmly against him.

When he finally dropped to his knees, it sent a shiver down your spine.

He looked up at you, hands on your hips, and slowly began unbuttoning your jeans, never once breaking eye contact. The moment was thick with heat and anticipation. He pulled the denim down, inch by inch, letting his knuckles drag along your thighs as he did.

When your underwear came off next, he took a moment, just a breath, to look at you again. You felt completely bare under his gaze, but it didn’t make you shy. It made you burn.

“You’re already soaked,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing your inner thighs. “Is this all for me?”

You whimpered, fingers threading into his hair. “Yes.”

That was all it took.

He leaned in, pressing his mouth to you with slow, deliberate pressure. His tongue found your clit and circled it gently, teasing, tasting, coaxing. You gasped, one hand bracing against the door behind you while the other tightened in his hair.

Claggor took his time, worshiping you. His tongue moved in slow, lazy patterns, pausing only to suck gently or flatten against you before switching back to light flicks that made your legs tremble.

“F-Fuck,” you breathed, hips bucking forward slightly.

He only moaned into you, gripping your thighs tighter as he picked up the pace. It was maddening, the way he worked you open so slowly, so skillfully, like he wanted you to unravel one thread at a time.

When you finally came, it was overwhelming, your body locking up, your breath catching in your throat as waves of pleasure rolled through you. He kept going, softening the rhythm only once you’d ridden it all the way through.

Claggor stood then, his mouth slick with you, and kissed you deeply. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it only made you need him more.

“Bed,” you whispered against his mouth.

He didn’t answer, just lifted you easily, carrying you the few steps to the mattress. He laid you down like you were something sacred, and when he shed the last of his clothes and pressed his body to yours, skin to skin, you couldn’t help the shiver that ran through you.

He settled between your legs slowly, grinding his hips against you just enough to make you gasp.

“Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice tight with restraint.

“I do,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I want all of it. I want you.”

He slid into you slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the entire time. The stretch was perfect, the pace maddeningly slow. You both moaned in sync, clinging to each other as he bottomed out.

For a moment, you just stayed like that. Joined, breath mingling, eyes locked.

Then he began to move.

Each thrust was deliberate, dragging along every nerve inside you, his pelvis grinding against your clit with each roll of his hips. You held him close, nails biting into his back, and he murmured sweet, filthy things in your ear, how good you felt, how tight, how much he’d wanted this. How much he wanted you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t rough.

It was slow, deep, and unbearably intense, like he was trying to memorize every moan, every flutter of your muscles, every heartbeat.

And when your second orgasm took you, it wasn’t like the first. It was deeper. Stronger. It stole your breath and left you trembling beneath him.

Claggor chased his own release only after you came, his thrusts turning a little more urgent, a little rougher. He buried his face in your neck, groaning your name as he came inside you, holding you close like he never wanted to let go.

You stayed like that, tangled in each other, your skin sticky and warm, your breaths slowly syncing.

And then, finally, he kissed you again, soft this time, reverent.

“Stay the night,” he whispered.

You smiled sleepily. “Try and make me leave.”

—-

You checked your phone again as you waited outside the stadium. Practice had ended ten minutes ago, and you’d already spotted a few stragglers limping or laughing their way toward the locker rooms, cleats slung over their shoulders. You hugged your jacket tighter against the breeze and leaned back on the bench just outside the gate, scrolling aimlessly until you heard—

“Baby!”

You looked up, just in time to see Claggor jogging toward you, helmet in hand, sweaty curls sticking to his forehead. He was flushed and grinning, that easy, boyish smile that made your knees a little unreliable.

You barely had time to react before he closed the distance, dropped his helmet to the ground, and pulled you into him.

“Missed you,” he said, breathless.

Then he kissed you.

Right there. Right in front of the open gate. Full-on, warm-palmed-on-your-waist, grinning-into-it kiss.

You kissed him back without hesitation, but the second you pulled apart, you heard it, multiple gasps, catcalls, and a dramatic groan of someone saying, “Dude, really?! ”

Claggor blinked, turning just in time to see the rest of the team approaching in a loose pack. Jayce was at the front, Ekko beside him, Mylo a few steps behind and pointing dramatically, and Vi, arms crossed, lip ring catching the light, staring with both eyebrows raised like she’d just walked in on a scandal.

“Uh,” Claggor said.

“Oh my God,” Jayce said, grinning like a shark. “You weren’t joking.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Claggor threw his hands up. “I intentionally didn’t say anything!”

“Yeah, but you’ve been humming love songs in the shower for, like, a week,” Ekko said, shouldering his gym bag. “We figured it was either a new relationship or a mental breakdown.”

Vi tilted her head. “Honestly, could’ve been both.”

Mylo slapped Claggor’s back hard enough to make him stumble. “Bro! You pulled her ? With that sad little stash of cinnamon gum and, like, four facial expressions?”

Claggor was red now, genuinely red. “Shut up, Mylo.”

You laughed, covering your mouth, because the way Claggor was sinking into his own hoodie like a turtle was hilarious .

“Okay, okay,” Jayce said, waving his hands like he was calming a crowd. “We need to have a team meeting. Emergency session. Where’s the party? Who’s grilling? Are they exclusive? Is she joining pregame rituals?”

“Jesus Christ,” Claggor muttered.

Vi looked you up and down, then grinned. “You got good taste, finally. I approve.”

“You approve?” Claggor echoed.

She shrugged. “Don’t get soft on the field, lover boy. But yeah. She’s cool.”

“Thank you, Vi,” you said, mock-formal.

Jayce, meanwhile, was losing it. “Wait, wait—was this happening during practice weeks? Like, were you skipping lifts to make out in academic buildings?”

Ekko smirked. “Don’t answer that. Actually—do answer that.”

You leaned into Claggor’s side, smiling innocently. “Only once. In the chem classroom.”

Mylo doubled over. “ No way! Claggor, you absolute legend. ”

Claggor groaned into his hands.

The team kept moving, slowly herding Claggor toward the locker room with no signs of letting up. You started to back away to give him space, but he caught your hand before you could step off the sidewalk.

“Hey.” His voice was soft now, cutting through the noise. “I’ll call you after dinner?”

“Yeah,” you said, squeezing his fingers. “I’ll be around.”

He looked at you for one more beat, eyes warm behind his fogged-up glasses, and then leaned in again, one more kiss, soft and quick, right in front of everyone.

This time, the whooping started again.

“God,” he muttered. “What have I done?”

“Let the wolves out,” you teased.

As Claggor jogged back toward his team, the others started circling him like sharks, mock interrogating, some of them clapping him on the back, others ruffling his hair. Jayce shouted something about “meet-the-girlfriend brunch,” and Vi promised to “quiz you on Star Wars trivia to make sure you’re not a fake nerd.”

You just stood there for a second, watching the chaos. Watching Claggor, red-eared and laughing in the middle of it all.

And your heart just squeezed.

Because it was out now. You weren’t hiding. You weren’t sneaking into chem labs or pretending not to grin like an idiot when you saw him.

And it felt really, really good.

—

It happened a week before winter break.

You were both lying on your back in his dorm room, shoulder to shoulder on his tiny twin mattress, half-watching a movie neither of you had paid much attention to. The screen glowed soft and blue in the dim room, casting faint shadows over his face. His arm was tucked beneath your neck, your head resting against his chest, and his fingers idly drew shapes against your hip beneath the blanket.

You were dozing off when he said it.

“Hey,” Claggor murmured, voice quieter than usual.

“Mm?”

He hesitated. “Are you going home for break?”

You blinked a few times, sitting up just enough to look at him. “Yeah. My mom’s already texting me every day with grocery lists and asking if I still eat avocados. Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the ceiling, and something about the way he was lying still now, no more tracing shapes, no more lazy breathing, made you shift your weight so you could see him better.

“Claggor?” you asked softly. “What’s up?”

He ran a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly. “I just… I’m not going back. I don’t really… go back. Home, I mean.”

You sat up a little straighter. “What do you mean?”

He exhaled, long and quiet. “It’s not like I’m estranged, or anything. It’s just complicated. My mom moved in with her boyfriend like, a year ago. He’s… not great. Doesn’t hit her or anything,” he added quickly, seeing your face, “but he’s loud. Says stuff. Makes digs. Doesn’t like me. And it’s this tiny apartment now—no room for me anyway. My room’s like… storage now.”

You didn’t say anything. You just slid your hand into his and let him keep talking.

He cleared his throat. “Last year I stayed with Mylo for the holidays. It was fine, his folks are nice, but I didn’t really fit. It’s like I was just borrowing time there. Like I didn’t belong to the chaos.”

You rubbed your thumb over the back of his hand. “That sounds lonely.”

He gave you a crooked smile. “It’s not the worst. I try to stay busy. Find a reason to stick around campus. Coach usually lets me crash a week or two in the athletic housing before the janitors get pissy.”

You shook your head, heart aching a little. “Claggor…”

“I don’t want pity,” he said quickly.

“It’s not pity,” you said. “It’s caring.”

He looked at you then, quiet and blinking like he wasn’t sure what to say.

So you said it for him.

“Come with me. Home, I mean. For break.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. My mom already asked if I had a ‘winter boyfriend’ she needed to start shopping for. You’d be doing me a favor, honestly.”

He snorted, but his face was still full of quiet disbelief. “You sure?”

“I’m not inviting you because I feel bad. I’m inviting you because I want you there.”

He looked at you for a long moment, like he was searching for the catch. Then, finally—“Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

The drive to your house was long, but Claggor didn’t complain once. He sat beside you in the passenger seat with his knees crammed awkwardly against the glove compartment and his beanie pulled low over his ears. He made you stop for gas station hot chocolate halfway through, then shared it with you while you argued over holiday music.

By the time you pulled into your driveway, he was nervous again. You could see it in the way he adjusted his sleeves and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror.

“You look fine,” you murmured.

“I smell like road trip.”

“So does everyone. That’s part of the charm.”

He followed you up the front steps, backpack slung over one shoulder, and barely had time to knock before the door opened and your mom pulled you into a hug.

“You’re home,” she beamed. Then she spotted Claggor behind you. “And you must be the boyfriend.”

Claggor froze for a millisecond, just enough for her to clock it, then smiled politely. “Uh. Yeah. Hi. I’m Claggor.”

She gave him a once-over, then grinned like she’d already decided he was staying forever. “Well, get in here, Claggor. I made enough food to feed a hockey team. You like sweet potatoes?”

“I—uh, yeah. I love sweet potatoes.”

You took his hand, laced your fingers with his, and gave it a quick squeeze as you walked into the warm kitchen. He squeezed back, a little tighter.

Later that night, after dinner and an impromptu holiday movie marathon in the living room, Claggor fell asleep on the couch, your head in his lap. Your mom was in the kitchen doing dishes, and you just lay there for a minute, listening to him breathe, watching the way the firelight flickered across his face.

—

The days passed in a blur of snowflakes, leftovers, and stolen kisses in the hallway. Claggor took to your mom’s house like he’d always been there helping with dishes after dinner without being asked, talking to your dog like she was a person, and winning over your mom so completely that you once caught the two of them whispering in the kitchen and immediately got suspicious.

He fit into your world so naturally that it didn’t even surprise you anymore when your childhood friends dropped by and liked him instantly. He’d charm them without even trying, offering them cider, making jokes about your taste in holiday pajamas, and casually draping an arm over your shoulder like he’d done it his whole life.

But it was Christmas morning that you’d remember forever.

The sun was just barely up, turning the snow outside a soft gold. You and Claggor were still in pajamas, him in some reindeer-print pants your mom had bought as a joke, and you in one of his oversized sweatshirts, when you sat cross-legged on the living room floor, the twinkle lights on the tree casting a warm glow.

Your mom had gone out to shovel the front walk and insisted you two take your time opening presents, which you suspected was just an excuse to give you space. You appreciated it.

“I, uh… I got you something,” Claggor said, rubbing the back of his neck as he pulled a small, wrapped box from behind the couch. “It’s kinda cheesy. But I saw it and thought of you.”

You took it carefully, smiling. “If it’s a necklace with your name on it, I’m marrying you on the spot.”

He laughed. “God, no. I'm not that corny. Okay—maybe a little.”

You peeled back the paper and lifted the lid to find a delicate gold locket nestled in dark velvet. It was old-fashioned and elegant, with a small opal set in the center like a soft winter moon. Inside, tucked behind the tiny glass window, was a tiny candid photo—you laughing, eyes crinkled, clearly unaware you were being photographed. Him next to you, his arm around you, looking at you like you had just hung the moon. 

Your heart clenched.

“Oh, Claggor…”

He shifted, suddenly sheepish. “I just… I like having you close. So I thought maybe you’d want the same. When we’re not together. Or if you’re stressed. Or missing home.”

“I’m always gonna want you close,” you whispered, fingertips brushing over the locket. “It’s perfect.”

You leaned forward to kiss him, slow and deep, your hand curling behind his neck. When you pulled back, he was looking at you like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“Okay,” you said, trying to swallow around the lump in your throat. “Your turn.”

You handed him a soft, awkwardly wrapped bundle, which he opened carefully. He blinked down at the contents: a hoodie, simple and gray, with a stitched patch on the inside hem that read: You’re always safe here.

He looked up. You smiled, nervous suddenly.

“I know it’s not flashy or anything,” you said. “But I wanted you to have something that reminded you you’ve got a place to belong. Even when you feel like you don’t.”

He stared at it for a long moment, then pulled it over his head without a word. When it was on, he sat back on his heels, looking down at it like it was armor, or a promise.

“I love it,” he said, voice a little rough. “Thank you.”

Then he looked at you, really looked, and reached for your hand.

“I’ve never had a Christmas like this,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I ever would.”

You squeezed his fingers, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. “Well… get used to it.”

He tilted his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You let out a small laugh, a little breathless. “Because I want a lot more Christmases with you.”

He pulled you in slowly, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “Then you’ve got ‘em. All of ‘em.”

And that was it. No big declarations. No fireworks.

Just a quiet morning, snow outside, warmth between you, and the soft, sure feeling in your chest that this, this boy, this room, this life, was where you were always meant to be.

You curled up together on the couch after that, your locket warm against your skin, his hoodie smelling like cinnamon and pine. He dozed off with his arm around your waist, breath evening out.

And as you watched the snow drift lazily outside the window, you knew.

You’d spend the rest of your life loving him.