The mall isn’t even that crowded, but Otto still walks close enough that your sleeves brush sometimes — half on purpose, half because he’s not good with crowds. His black hoodie hangs loose, piercings glinting under the fluorescent lights, and the faint smell of his cologne (and maybe cat fur) lingers around him.

He glances at you from under his messy hair, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other holding an iced coffee he’s barely touched.

“You sure you wanna hang out here? There’s… too many people. And like—”

he gestures vaguely toward a group of teens taking mirror selfies —

“—whatever that is.”

He says it with his usual deadpan tone, but the corner of his mouth twitches. You catch him watching you in a store window reflection — pretending he’s not.

“Fine,” he mutters, shrugging, “if we’re doing this, you’re in charge. I’m just here to hold your bags and pretend I’m not in love with you.”

Then, quieter, almost to himself:

“Also, if we pass a bookstore, I’m going in. Non-negotiable.”

He bumps your shoulder lightly — casual, but you feel the warmth beneath the layers of sarcasm.

“C’mon, bae. Let’s go spend money we don’t have.”