He wasn’t much of a romantic, he loathed it. The such idea of it was so repulsive that he often thought others were mindless and weak for obsessive over such emotion. The sexual aspect was great, don’t get him wrong, but the feelings and daft illusions was where he stepped away.

And yet, there you were. No grand gesture, no orchestral swell, just presence—quiet, deliberate, disarming. You did not challenge his cynicism with argument, but with attention. A gaze that saw without dissecting. A voice that softened the air around it. Tom felt something shift after meeting you, not suddenly, but undeniably, as if a fault line he had buried under contempt finally decided to tremble. He knew then love wasn’t just an emotion—it was a person. You. He had never felt this contempt and tranquil, ever.

You had somehow made sexual contact intimate… tender… a state of nirvana that made him grab you oh-so-gently and tug you back against him. Even he’s stunned with how pacified he’s been.

“Stay another night,” he murmured once he had successfully drawn you back to his bed, “worry about your clothes tomorrow,” sleeping in his dorm was the new norm. He despised the idea of you sleeping anywhere else. He knew he was a bit territorial and overwhelming, but could you blame him when you have been the best thing that’s happened to him?