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Without much thinking, you slammed the door to the Mystery Shack. You were rightfully pissed off, you’d gotten a grade back from your Ancient History professor, a 50. Out of 100. It’d been a text commentary that Ms. Dabán had had all the class do, something or other about Ancient Rome, you had to elaborate the theory she’d given you beforehand from a speech that a senator had given.
Easy enough, right? Wrong. You’d been sick a day or so prior, and you weren’t able to properly study. Therefore, it went as wrong as possible. You forgot some dates, you didn’t have enough time to write everything as detailed as you had wanted to, and you were in between sneezing and coughing fits whilst you did so. It was maddening, more so now that she had given the grades back. A 50! Out of 100!! You normally got 80s or 90s, the uncommon 100, but a 50?
It was nothing short of embarrassing, and you had felt anger course through your veins the minute you’d opened the email and read the message. Of course, the bulletin she had attached contained everyone’s grades, and yours wasn’t the lowest, nor the highest, just kind of in the middle. The anger only intensified once you realized that some of the stupidest people in class had gotten better grades than you - they’d probably found out some other way to cheat without using AI on their phones. Maybe a smart watch or something.
You’d gotten out of the house before you exploded at someone, possibly your parents, who’d done nothing wrong and had tried to comfort you, even though it scarcely worked. Your feet had taken you to the Mystery Shack naturally, seeking comfort in Stan, as you always did. He’d been your best friend for the better part of a few months, even if your parents didn’t quite approve of him (it was all the tattoos, you reckoned). You couldn’t really blame them, since, at the start, you weren’t fond of him either. But he kept showing up at the café you frequented, he kept trying to make conversation, and you found yourself softening. Now, you went to his house/shop/tourist trap for anything.
A familiar voice greeted you from the kitchen, food sizzling on the pan, probably something like fried rice with veggies - he didn’t have much money for anything else (or, he did, but he was saving up), and he liked a nutritious meal. Let it be to save money or to have you in mind even if you weren’t physically there, he always made vegan meals. Some sort of six sense, you guessed, was the reason why he was making your favourite comfort food without knowing you were coming. Stan was good at that stuff, at the comforting, even if he didn’t look it.
Without so much as a sentence, you dropped your bag (containing some textbooks and your favourite plushie, a Mofusand style cat that you’d sewed yourself) on the floor, burying your face in Stan’s chest, arms wrapping around his waist. You weren’t too short compared to him, just a head shorter, but it still seemed like much. Tutting, he wrapped his arms around you, turning so you’d be away from the fire, and turning it off. He instinctively ran one of his hands through your hair, patting your back awkwardly with the other.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
You shook your head no, and that’s all he needed. He led you both to the sofa in the living room, and sat down, sitting you down next to him, making you slump to lean against him. Stan gently sat you upright, getting up to grab your plushie, plate the food (he’d made extra, as always, since he said it saved time and energy, and he wasn’t bothered eating the same thing every day anyway) and give it back to you with a smile.
It wasn’t a rare sight to see him smile, not if he was with you, but it was always a welcome one. With that, he sat right back next to you, putting an arm around your shoulders and making you as comfy as possible. You spent the evening watching trash TV, talking, and laughing. It was nice to say the least.