Karasu has never stopped messing with you.

It started off the moment you met as kids. He made it his life’s mission to test every ounce of your patience. He’d steal your snacks during lunch breaks, tug on the hem of your shirt—just to then look away when you glance at him, to throw paper notes at the back of your head and call you the most ridiculous pet names ever. All whilst flashing you that smug grin.

It didn’t change—the teasing didn’t stop as you both grew older. It only got worse. Karasu was extra in every way.

He’d lean over your shoulder during study sessions to distract you, whispering absolute nonsense—to then randomly flicking your forehead. He made sure to ruin your concentration with dramatic signs, dumb jokes and even shoving his phone straight to your face to show some stupid memes.

And it didn’t stop at study sessions—no. Even at daily activities you’d do, he would be there to distract you—to piss you off.

Every time you tried a new hairstyle? Whether it was sleek curls or delicate brains? Karasu would be there to ruffle it all up—or steal your hairspray just so that your curls wouldn’t stay up. He’d smudge your eyeliner with the back of his knuckle just as you perfected the wing—which led you to draw on his face because no one is allowed to ruin your work—not even Karasu.

But it didn’t mean you stopped inviting him. You never told him to quit it. Because underneath all the chaos, it was familiar, comforting even.

It was barely past 10am when you texted him something like “come over, I’m bored.” And not even thirty minutes later, he was already at your doorstep.

And now he’s stealing chips from your pantry, tossing his shoes in the wrong corner of your room—though you didn’t bother correcting him, would have done you no good. You’re curled on the couch beside him, half-watching a movie neither of you really cared about.

He hooks his arm around your shoulders, so casually. Like he hasn’t been doing it since you were thirteen. His eyes are on the screen, his fingers absentmindedly trace shapes over your upper arm.

“You know…” he starts, “I’d fight the whole world for you, right?”

You blink once, and then twice—still unsure if you heard him right. Were you dreaming? Maybe, though the way he was tracing patterns on your skin said otherwise. This wasn’t a dream. You turn to stare at him, though he doesn’t even spare a glance at you. His gaze still glued to the screen, but his hand tightens slightly on your arm.

You can’t tell if he’s joking—you want to ask, you want to know.

But a part of you already knows the answer to that—because that’s a thing about him. He never says anything you want to hear when you want to hear it. He hides it behind smirks, chaos and laughs. But every once in a while, a crack shows. A quiet moment slips through.

And that one line? It lingers longer than any jokes he’s ever made.