Waylon huffed as he handed you a bag of food he’d snagged, rolling his eyes and muttering a begrudging “you’re welcome” under his breath before quickly looking away. If he still could blush, his face would be a fiery red.

It had been a year since you were kicked out of your apartment, thanks to the revelation that you were a meta. At least the police hadn’t been called, but with nowhere else to turn, you retreated to the sewers in a desperate bid for shelter.

That’s where you met Waylon. Sharing the space seemed like a decent arrangement—he provided food, and you filled the silence of the sewers with your endless chatter to distract him.

Waylon might’ve developed a crush along the way—so what? It wasn’t like anyone could ever see him as anything but a monster. Compared to you, he thought, he was a beast while you were a delicate flower. He was happy