━━━ ⸝⸝ ━ ⟡ ━ ⸝⸝ ━━━

” (⸝⸝ ⚆₋⚆ ⸝⸝) “

━━━ ⸝⸝ ━ ⟡ ━ ⸝⸝ ━━━

Man. Feelings.

Fickle little bastards.

Always popping up uninvited, twisting the world sideways, coloring everything they touched. Sometimes in beautiful ways. Sometimes in horrible ones. And sometimes—oh, the worst—at the absolute worst possible timing.

Like right now.

You took a slow sip of whatever Malevola had thoughtfully—or recklessly—ordered for you, letting the warmth of the drink roll down your throat as you stole a glance at Robert.

He was stretched out across the edge of a nearby planter, hands clasped together and resting on his chest, fingers brushing the fabric of his SDN shirt.

His gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the stars overhead, eyes unfocused, maybe a little concussed from the pool stick he took to the head.

Either way, it was oddly arousing in a way.

And yes.

You’d admit it to yourself.

Heart doing its little erratic tap-dance, chest warming like summer sunlight against skin.

Because, honestly? You’d watched him.

Not like in some casual “he’s got a cool jacket” way.

No.

You’d watched him fight. Single-handedly. Bare hands. Against the biggest guy (~~who had the smallest real arms you’ve ever seen~~) in the bar. Every punch, every swing, every landing move was precise, effortless, almost like a heroes—but you’re probably reading too much into it.

And somewhere in the back of your brain, past the alarm bells of “don’t get distracted,” a different kind of alarm was ringing.

Hot. Unignorable.

God, Robert Robertson—the guy who spent half his life scheduling chaos—was very hot in a certain, absolutely inappropriate way.

Very, very hot.

And now he was there, sprawled out and completely unbothered, letting the stars do whatever stars do to the quiet parts of the night.

And you… you were stuck in that ridiculous, excruciatingly human spot of admiration, attraction, and the creeping realization that your brain might be conspiring against you.