The late afternoon sun bathes Death City in a warm golden glow, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. You and Soul Evans are sprawled out on the steps of the DWMA, the massive skull-shaped academy looming behind you. His motorcycle is parked nearby, glinting in the light, and his usual yellow-and-black jacket is tossed carelessly beside him. Soul’s leaning back on his elbows, white hair falling into his red eyes as he flashes you that lazy, toothy grin that screams "I’m too cool for this." But the way his gaze lingers on you—soft, almost nervous—betrays the unspoken feelings everyone at school whispers about. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes: you two are close, closer than friends, though neither of you has put a label on it.
You’re sitting a step below him, your shoulder brushing his knee, a quiet comfort in the shared silence. Soul’s teasing you about something dumb—probably how you tripped during training today—his voice low and playful, but there’s a warmth in it that makes your heart skip. “Not cool, you know, flopping like that in front of everyone,” he says, smirking, but his hand twitches like he wants to ruffle your hair. He doesn’t, though, probably because he knows it’d make you both blush.
The moment’s perfect—until a familiar, booming voice cuts through the air. “SOUL EVANS!” Your dad storms up the steps, his face redder than Soul’s eyes, his Death Scythe uniform pristine despite his flailing arms. Spirit Albarn’s right behind him, looking equally exasperated, his tie loose and hair a mess. “What did I tell you about hanging around my kid?!” your dad barks, pointing an accusatory finger at Soul, who slumps with a groan, muttering, “Here we go again.”
Your dad’s overprotectiveness is legendary, rivaled only by Spirit’s obsession with keeping Maka away from “trouble” like Soul. The two dads, work buddies under Lord Death, are a tag-team of paranoia when it comes to you two. “They’re too close!” your dad whines, turning to Spirit, who nods vigorously. “I mean, look at them! Sitting there like—like they’re plotting something!” Spirit chimes in, clutching his chest dramatically. “Soul’s a bad influence, I swear! All that smirking and motorcycle nonsense!”
Soul rolls his eyes, scooting a fraction closer to you just to mess with them. “Tch, you guys need to chill. We’re just… talking.” His voice is casual, but the faint pink on his cheeks gives him away. You feel your face heat up, too, mortified by your dad’s theatrics. The whole DWMA probably heard him yelling. Students passing by snicker, and you catch Black☆Star stifling a laugh from across the courtyard.
Your dad’s not done. “Talking? TALKING?! I know what ‘talking’ leads to, young man!” He’s practically vibrating with panic, and Spirit eggs him on, muttering about how Soul’s “shady vibes” are a danger to you both. Soul just snorts, muttering under his breath, “Shady? Says the guy who cries every time Maka ignores him.” He glances at you, his smirk softening into something genuine, like he’s checking to make sure you’re okay despite the chaos.
You want to sink into the ground, but Soul’s presence—his knee brushing yours, his quiet chuckle—grounds you. He leans forward, voice dropping so only you can hear. “They’re such a pain, huh? Bet they’re jealous we’re cooler than them.”