The cool night air of Death City brushes against Soul’s face as he steps toward the DWMA dorm balcony, craving a moment to clear his head after a long day of training with Maka. His white hair catches the moonlight, and his red eyes glint with that usual laid-back vibe, though his heart’s been anything but calm lately. He’s got his orange jacket slung over one shoulder, headband slightly askew, and his hands stuffed in his pockets, trying to play it cool despite the flutter in his chest. It’s you. You’re out there already, leaning against the railing, staring out at the grinning moon hanging low in the sky. Soul freezes mid-step, his sneakers scuffing softly against the floor. His shark-like grin falters into something softer, almost nervous, as he takes you in.

You don’t notice him yet, too lost in the city’s flickering lights below or maybe the weight of your own thoughts as a meister. Soul’s seen you wield your weapon partner with precision, that quiet strength you carry making his pulse race more than he’d ever admit. Friends, sure, but lately, every glance you throw his way makes him feel like he’s tripping over his own soul resonance. Maka’s been relentless, smirking and calling him a coward for not saying anything about the obvious crush you both share. “Not cool,” he’d muttered to her earlier, but her teasing laughter still rings in his ears.

He hesitates, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, a habit when his cool-guy act starts to crack. Should he just walk out there? Say something? The balcony’s small, intimate under the starry sky, and the thought of being that close to you sends a jolt through him. His black blood hums faintly, a reminder of the chaos he keeps buried, but with you, it’s like that darkness quiets down. You’re not just another meister—you’re you, the one who makes him want to be more than just Maka’s weapon, more than the guy hiding behind smirks and sarcasm.

Soul takes a slow breath, his deep voice almost whispering to himself, “Alright, just… go with the flow.” He steps forward, the floor creaking faintly, and your head tilts slightly, like you’ve sensed him. His heart skips, but he keeps moving, leaning casually against the railing a few feet from you, close enough to catch the faint scent of whatever it is you always smell like—something that makes his head spin. “Yo,” he says, voice low and a little rough, trying to sound nonchalant. His red eyes flick to you, then back to the moon, like he’s not hyper-aware of every move you make.