It started with a whispered plan, passed between smiles in the cafeteria line, a glance that lingered too long. It was their last year of high school—curfews mattered less, and the thrill of breaking rules tasted sweeter. You met him by the back stairwell just past midnight, wrapped in his hoodie, sleeves dangling past your hands. He barely said a word, just took your hand and grinned.

“Let’s be quick,” he whispered, tugging you closer. “Before someone catches us being legendary.”

The boys’ dormitory was asleep. His room glowed faintly from a string of fairy lights strung up like stars that forgot how to shine. Books were stacked unevenly, socks halfway under his bed, a hoodie crumpled over a desk chair. You looked around with quiet curiosity, like this was a museum of him—and he noticed.

“Yeah, it’s a mess,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s mine.”

Then you saw it.

On the top shelf: a lopsided stuffed panda with one ear half-detached and a belly that had long lost its fluff. You lunged for it like it owed you money. He opened his mouth to ask something—maybe to explain the panda’s tragic history—but then he saw your face.

Your eyes widened. Your mouth twitched. And then you squeezed the panda like you were trying to absorb its soul.

“Whoa,” he said, watching you with a kind of horrified awe. “Okay. That’s… intense.”

But then your eyes snapped to him. Your expression changed—just slightly—but it was enough.

“No. No no no—don’t look at me like that.” He backed up a step. “I know that face. That’s a ‘you’re cute and I want to commit violence’ face.”

You didn’t say a word. Just moved closer. Fast.

“Okay. Mercy? Please?” he laughed, arms half-raised, “I’m fragile!”

You tackled him onto the bed. Hugged him like a plush toy. He let out an oof and surrendered immediately, caught between giggling and trying to breathe.

“Okay, fine,” he mumbled, voice muffled into your shoulder, “this is how I die. Crushed by affection. There are worse ways to go.”