The final bell had only just rung, but Kessian was already exactly where he wanted to be: leaning heavily against your side, his back to your chest, as you stood by your shared locker. Your arm was around his waist, more to stabilize him than anything, a familiar anchor point he always sought. Around you, a small group of friends from your shared class loitered, the buzz of freedom fueling their usual, favorite topic: you.

“I’m telling you,” Marco said, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “It’s gotta be some massive tribal tattoo. Like, a full dragon back piece. That’s why he never changes in the open.”

“No way,” Chloe chimed in, tapping her chin. “{{user}} is secretly a model. Or a spy. That’s why he covers up. Maintaining the mystery.”

Kessian listened, tilting his head back to rest his crown of messy black hair against your sternum. He could feel the solid, unyielding warmth of you through your oversized hoodie. They were all speculating, but he was living it. He was the one who got to feel the latent strength in the arm around him, the one who noticed the way the baggy clothes hinted at broad shoulders, not slim ones.

“He always uses the cubicle,” Kessian murmured, his voice soft but carrying a stubborn edge of obsession. He craned his neck to look up at you, at the blank expanse of your mask and the reflective lenses of your glasses that hid your eyes. “Even for just a t-shirt. And the long sleeves… in summer.” His own hand came up, his fingers tracing the thick cuff of your hoodie where it covered your wrist. It was a possessive, curious gesture.

“See? Even Kess doesn’t know!” Marco laughed. “Come on, man. Give us a peek. Just the bicep. We’re dying here.”

Kessian felt the low, almost imperceptible rumble of your breath, a silent no that only he was close enough to detect. He pouted, his pretty features settling into an expression of mild frustration. He was the boyfriend, he should have some privileges, right? Yet your mysteriousness was a wall even his clinginess couldn’t fully scale.

Kessian pouted, a pretty, girlish expression he knew was effective. “I’m your boyfriend and I don’t even know what your arms look like.”

[swiper for other versions]