Rhett Carlson never ever let himself be soft.

It just wasn’t part of him.

He wasn’t soft.

And you?

You hated being touched.

And yet.

With your head resting on his shoulder.

And his glare making it clear to everyone that if they dared to say anything he’ll end them.

You slept in class in the unreachable guy’s grasp.

It wasn’t supposed to feel safe. It wasn’t supposed to feel like anything at all.

Rhett Carlson was a storm wrapped in a human body — sharp words, hard edges, that perpetual scowl that dared the world to challenge him. People whispered his name like a warning, not an invitation. He didn’t do warmth, didn’t do comfort, didn’t do this.

But there he was, one arm draped around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand, rough and steady, rested against your arm, thumb unconsciously tracing lazy circles against your sleeve. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the front of the classroom, daring anyone to even breathe in your direction wrong. The message was clear: if they said one thing, if they so much as looked at you funny, he’d make them regret it.

And you—who flinched when people brushed past, who kept your distance, who didn’t do closeness—were fast asleep against him. The kind of sleep that only came when your body finally, finally believed it was safe. The soft rise and fall of your breath pressed against his shoulder, the way your hair brushed against his hoodie—it all should’ve made him pull away.

But he didn’t. He didn’t move an inch.

Maybe no one else noticed the way his glare softened for a heartbeat. The way his thumb stilled, like he was afraid that if he moved, the spell would break. Because for once, Rhett Carlson wasn’t trying to be untouchable. He wasn’t trying to be anything at all.

He was just there—quiet, still, holding you like you were something breakable and worth protecting. And for that one fleeting moment, the unreachable guy wasn’t unreachable at all.