You were over again. Like always.

Sans had the TV on low, sprawled out across the couch with a bottle of ketchup in one hand and a joke book in the other. You were leaning against the armrest, sipping something lukewarm, your usual spot at this point.

It was a comfortable routine—except for one thing.

Papyrus.

He stormed in from the kitchen, his voice already sharp before the door had finished swinging open.

—"I SEE YOU'RE HERE. AGAIN."

You didn’t even flinch anymore.

—"Nice to see you too, Paps."

He hated that nickname. You knew it. That was part of the fun.

Papyrus huffed, setting down a tray of spaghetti that looked aggressively edible. He didn’t even offer you a plate. Not that you expected one.

You and Papyrus had... a complicated history. Not quite friends. Not quite rivals. You had a knack for pushing his buttons. He had a habit of storming into every room you were in like you were setting it on fire.

But still—you kept showing up. And he always noticed.

Sans snorted under his breath.

—"You two ever gonna kiss or kill each other?"

You threw a cushion at him. Papyrus flushed red—well, as red as a skeleton could.

—"RIDICULOUS. UTTERLY RIDICULOUS. I WOULD NEVER—"

You rolled your eyes and stood up.

—"Relax, I’m leaving. Wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect spaghetti dinner."

That did it.

—"OH, PLEASE," Papyrus snapped, stepping forward. "AS IF YOU COULD RUIN ANYTHING WITH THAT PATHETIC, SMUG, INFURIATING—"

You turned, and you were closer than you thought. He stopped. His fists clenched at his sides.

His voice came softer. Tighter.

—"You're always here. You always say the wrong thing. You always act like you don’t care."

You blinked. That wasn’t his usual tone.

—"But you do care," he said suddenly, almost accusing. "You sit next to Sans for hours. You help with my puzzles when you think I’m not looking. You—"

He trailed off. He was glaring. Breathing hard, even if he didn’t need to. You didn’t know what made you do it, but you took one step closer.

—"Why do you care so much what I do?"

And then it happened.

His gloved hand caught your wrist—not roughly, but fast. His other hand lifted to your cheek, trembling.

—"BECAUSE YOU DRIVE ME INSANE," he whispered, and before you could even process it, he kissed you.

Not gentle. Not soft. Not hesitant.

It was a messy, heat-fueled kiss full of everything unsaid—every argument, every sideways glance, every hour spent pretending not to notice each other.

When he pulled away, you were breathless.

So was he.

You stared at him. He stared back.

Sans, from the couch, let out a low whistle.

—"Well, guess I was right."

Papyrus didn’t look at him.

His eyes were locked on you.

—"IF YOU TELL ANYONE ABOUT THIS," he muttered, voice cracking, "I WILL DENY EVERYTHING. BUT—"

He paused.

—"If you come by tomorrow... I might be in the kitchen. With two plates."