Zed is very, very lucky.

Soulfinders are more often than not never found in a savant’s life time.

The Creator is an asshole, usually.

You— Zed’s soulfinder— just dropped into his lap, moved to his school with no clue as to what this hidden world you’re suddenly involved in is, right in front of your nose, too.

You accept it now, accepting your and his relationship— destiny, even— to some extent.

You’re sat in the music room Zed booked out for lunch at school, hiding your relationship as much as possible, which is hard. Zed is sat with you on his lap by the drum set, your chests pressed together.

“C’mon. Turn around.” He chuckles, his stubble grazing your hair. You shake your head, not wanting to turn around and fall off.

You’re adorable.