༝ play the part ( hange z. )
⤷ content : nerd!hange x fem!reader, college au, fake dating, fluff
⤷ word count : 6.2k words
⤷ notes : wanted to write a fluff fic and tried writing oneshots here on tumblr for the first time. needed some awkward nerd hange to boost my serotonin 🙏
The library sits in a hush so thick it feels like pressure in your ears. It’s not silence, exactly, but the sound of pages turning, pens scratching, someone shifting in their seat like a slow creak of floorboards.
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting long, sterile beams that catch in the fine dust drifting through the air. Two aisles down, someone muffles a cough into their sleeve as the old radiator ticks in the corner.
You sit across from Hange Zoë — checkered flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows, notebook open like a crime scene. They share a morning class with you in an elective. However, you have never talked to them one on one until this very moment. You glance down and catch a glimpse of their handwriting: messy, slanted sideways, like it’s trying to outrun their thoughts.
“I’ve been thinking about our arrangement,” you murmur, glancing around the quiet library. “We need details if we’re going to be convincing.”
Hange props their chin in their hand, eyes already gleaming like this is a social experiment. “Already started making notes. We should start coordinating our stories before the party this weekend. People might ask questions.”
They look at you like they’re already analyzing your microexpressions.
“We need a meet-cute,” they add, casually chewing the end of their pen.
“We’re not writing a romcom.”
“A romcom would be easier. Less chance of being exposed and publicly humiliated.”
“Charming.” You raise an eyebrow. “Did you write that down, too?”
“No,” they say, like it’s obvious. “That’s just how I talk.”
You watch them for a beat, pen ink on their thumb, sleeves pushed up to their elbows, one sock slightly mismatched with the other. Always vaguely rumpled, like they got dressed in a tornado and didn’t care as long as their brain was working.
Their hair’s shoulder-length and unruly, dark brown with waves that curl awkwardly at the ends like they’ve been sleeping wrong on it for weeks. They wear their glasses low on their nose, lenses a little fingerprint-smudged, frames sliding every time they look down to scribble. And they smell like something lived-in; old books and laundry that’s just barely dried.
You used to think Hange was strange.
It’s the kind of strange that doesn’t flinch when silence stretches, or when someone says something dark and expects you to look away. The kind of strange that lives comfortably at the edge of the room, taking notes on everyone else.
They cycle through the same three flannels like it’s a controlled experiment. They carry a neuroanatomy textbook around like a security blanket, even when there’s no class for it that day. And once, when a professor made an offhand joke about historical psychiatry, Hange spent more than five minutes delivering a quiet, unflinching monologue about the evolution of the lobotomy.
Everyone stared at the floor when they were done. You stared at them the entire time.
You weren’t supposed to talk to them—let alone conspire with them, but here you are.
Because your ex doesn’t understand what silence means — or boundaries. Or blocked accounts. They’ll be at the party and so will you. And Hange? Hange is close to you in a way and is invisible enough to be useful. They’re off-radar, which is safe.
“Okay,” you say, leaning in. “We met during a group project.”
“Cliché,” Hange replies, tapping their pen against their notebook. “I like it.”
“We were friends first. Then something just… clicked.”
You pause. They’re looking at you like they’re trying to see the timeline. Like they want to believe it too, even if it’s fake. You weren’t expecting them to care about the details. Most people wouldn’t.
“Last month,” you say. “During midterms. I lent you a pen.”
Hange hums, thoughtfully. “The one with the chewed-up cap that died halfway through the essay question?”
“I was impressed by your confidence.”
You snort. “You would be.”
They write as they talk. Bullet points, evenly spaced, crisp lettering that gets messier the more excited they get.
→ Started talking more over coffee.
“Not the good café,” you say. “The one with the haunted vending machine and chairs that squeak if you breathe wrong.”
Hange grins. “The one where they forgot my name and called me Hammy for three weeks?”
“Romantic,” you deadpan. “We fell in love instantly.”
They underline the coffee bullet twice.
They pause, pen hovering.
“Should we pick one now, or improvise?”
“Improvise,” you say. “More realistic. High-risk.”
“Bold,” they say. “I like that in a fake partner.”
Hange pauses, chewing the end of their pen again. Then, their face lights up as a thought occurred to them.
“Honestly, this works out for me too.”
“My friends won’t stop setting me up with people. I’ve had three blind dates this month. One of them brought a résumé.”
“I think it was supposed to be funny,” Hange says flatly. “A bit too much on my part.”
You snort. “So this is your excuse to opt out of the dating pool?”
“This is me buying myself plausible deniability and two weeks of peace,” they say, tapping their pen. “Mutually beneficial deception. My favorite kind.”
They glance up at you, already smiling. You don’t let them get the words out.
“No pet names,” you say, flatly. “Not even ironically.”
Hange makes a scandalized sound. “Not even... dumpling?”
“That’s not a pet name. That’s a cry for help.”
They groan and drag a thick line through the bullet, muttering “coward” like it’s the worst insult they can think of.
Their smile stays, soft and crooked, even as they pretend to pout. They’re half-folded over their notes now with their hair slipping out of its tie, glasses askew. Their knee’s started to bounce again under the table. There’s ink on their thumb and sleeve, and the overhead light turns the strands of their hair a deep, burnt amber.
You shouldn’t be staring.
“Photos,” you say, clearing your throat. “We should have something saved on each other’s phones. Something blurry and kind of awful.”
They reach across the table and tap your phone screen like they’re summoning a spell.
“Unlock it. Give me two minutes and your front-facing camera.”
You laugh — really laugh, enough that the girl at the next table sighs and pointedly types harder.
“No peace in academia,” Hange mutters.
They’re already writing again.
→ Blurry photo (Possibly incriminating)
You watch them for a moment — ink on their hand, hair slipping out of its loose tie, glasses reflecting the yellow cast of overhead light. They look too alive for this room.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you say.
Hange hums like it’s a compliment. Low and pleased, like they’re already sketching your dynamic in their head.
“I do my best work when the stakes are emotionally devastating.”
You exhale through your nose, watching the way their pen twitches near the margin, like their thoughts are still racing ahead of the conversation.
“Okay. Rules,” they say, straightening their spine and spinning the pen once between their fingers. “We need some.”
“No kissing unless absolutely necessary,” you say, calmly. “And only if you’re not weird about it after.”
They freeze. Their fingers go still, pen suspended mid-spin. You can hear the air shift around the table — the soft hiss of a page being turned in the next aisle, someone’s shoe scuffing the tile.
“I’m not gonna be weird,” they say too fast. Their voice goes up, then cracks a little at the edge.
“I’m normal,” they add, insistently, like you’re the one who needs convincing.
You glance down at their notebook.
“You just wrote ‘blurry photo (possibly incriminating)’ inside a heart.”
“It’s how I take notes,” they mutter.
You lean forward, resting your elbow on the table, letting your finger tap the edge of the page. “Physical touch is fine,” you say. “Hand-holding. Arm around my shoulders. Or waist, if the situation calls for it.”
They blink. “The... waist?”
You don’t miss the way they shift in their seat. The scrape of denim against vinyl, the soft click of their glasses slipping lower down the bridge of their nose. Don’t miss the pink rising in their ears. You push on anyway.
“My ex usually hangs around the quad between 3 and 4. And Studio Hall on Thursdays. We should be seen. Deliberately. Arm around me, casual but obvious. Nothing too dramatic.”
“Oh,” you add, leaning back in your chair, “and the terms of this fake relationship require you to shower every day. Sorry. Non-negotiable.”
Their mouth parts in mock offense. “I do shower every day.”
You hum, unconvinced. “Prove it.”
You lean in, exaggerated, sniff the air, then wrinkle your nose.
“You smell like printer ink and library dust.”
“That’s just college!” they hiss, throwing up their hands, but their voice cracks again on college and now you’re laughing.
You grin, sharp and lazy. The kind that makes people wonder what you’re planning.
“I like tulips,” you say suddenly.
Hange blinks. “That’s... noted?”
“I want them when you pick me up Saturday.”
Their expression flickers — something between dread and fascination. Like they just realized they signed up for a group project with no rubric and high emotional stakes.
They blink again—flustered, now. Visibly buffering.
You enjoy it far too much.
“And wear something nice,” you add, standing slowly, sliding your notebook into your bag. “By nice, I mean something that makes people stop and stare.”
They track your movements. Their hands are still. Their leg’s bouncing again.
“That navy button-up you wore at midterms? That. And do something with your hair. Use the cologne that smells decent. Not too much, just enough that people notice. And, no ink stains.”
You glance back at them over your shoulder.
“You’re playing the part of someone desirable,” you say. “Commit to the role.”
Hange stares like you’ve just handed them an exam with questions in a language they don’t speak.
“Okay,” they say, eventually.
“Good,” you murmur. “Then it’s settled.”
For the rest of the week, Hange walks you to class twice — entirely unprompted.
They claim it's coincidental. That, of course, they just happened to be heading in the same direction, carrying two coffees and wearing that same navy button-up, sleeves rolled up like a uniform. But they hesitate a little longer each time they say goodbye, with eyes lingering, foot tapping like there's something else they were supposed to say but forgot how to.
During your (fake) study dates, you catch them doodling in the margin of their notes. A stick figure with wild hair and glasses, holding hands with another stick figure that’s supposed to resemble you. You pretend not to notice, but your smile gives you away. Hange pretends not to be mortified that you noticed. And definitely pretends not to die a little inside when you giggle.
When Friday comes, you’re both crammed at the same table in the library again, sharing a playlist you both curated and a power outlet, pretending the silence between you is academic.
Someone from your block passes by, then slows. “Hey,” they ask, casual but curious, “are you and Hange… a thing now?”
Your fingers freeze on your laptop keys. You don’t look up. You wait.
“Yeah,” they say smoothly, tucking a pencil behind their ear like it’s muscle memory. “The midterms got us delusional.”
The words are effortless—almost too effortless. Their tone is light, teasing, the kind of thing you could laugh off. But they don’t look at the person who asked. They’re looking at you.
Eyes steady. Lips quirked into something small and knowing.
Like they’re daring you to deny it. Like they’re trying to figure out if you want to.
Something hooks low in your stomach. Your mouth goes dry. You hate how warm your face feels.
You huff a laugh, try to brush it off. “Speak for yourself. I was always delusional.”
They grin — wide, bright, too pleased — but then something flickers. Their gaze dips from your eyes to your mouth, then away, too fast. Like they surprised themselves. They fidget with the pencil again, suddenly more focused on aligning it perfectly with their notebook.
You go back to your laptop screen, but your heart’s not in it anymore. Your fingers hover above the keys, unmoving.
Maybe it’s the way the sun filters through the grimy library windows and catches in their hair, turning it warm and gold at the edges. Or maybe it’s how they’ve started wearing ironed clothes still rumpled by the time they reach you, but less like chaos and more like care.
Maybe it’s the way they smell — clean and warm and just a little like cedar, like they actually remembered the cologne you mentioned. Or maybe it’s the mnemonics they come up with for their organic chemistry class, stupid and clever at once, whispered under their breath like secrets meant only for you.
Maybe it’s the doodles in their margins. The ones they try to hide. The ones that try to look like you.
You shouldn’t be watching the way their lips move when they mouth formulas to themselves, or the way they blink slowly when they’re tired, like the world softens for them for just a second.
And you’re starting to think — Hange’s kind of cute. Painfully, stupidly cute. In a way that makes your chest ache a little.
You open the door to find Hange standing on your porch with a lopsided smile and a bouquet of pink tulips. They're wearing the black button-up with the first button loose. Their hair is half-tamed, and they’ve combed it back, a few strands still rebelliously curling near their ears.
“You’re… wow,” they say before you can even tease them.
The words tumble out too fast, like they’d meant to say something cooler, but their brain short-circuited somewhere around your collarbone.
You’re wearing something just this side of effortless: an oversized cream cardigan slipping off one shoulder, a ribbed black tank top tucked into high-waisted dark jeans, boots scuffed at the toes like you’ve lived a life in them. The cardigan matches the softness of the tulips, and the black tank matches their shirt.
You take the tulips slowly, eyebrows raised. “These better be the best ones out there.”
“They were overpriced and awkwardly wrapped,” Hange replies, visibly sweating. “I panicked.”
You step aside and let them in. They hover in the hallway like they’re afraid to touch anything, hands shoved into their pockets, gaze darting to every framed photo on the wall like they’re collecting intel.
You grab a dusty glass vase from under the sink, fill it halfway with water, and set the tulips in with care. They look too bright for your kitchen, like they belong in some alternate life where this is a real date and you’re not both pretending it doesn’t feel weirdly important.
Footsteps echo from the stairs.
“Who’s this?” your mom asks, peeking in with raised eyebrows and the tone that means you better introduce them before I start assuming things. She’s wearing black reading glasses pushed halfway down her nose and a dark olive green robe.
Hange freezes like a raccoon caught in a porch light.
You clear your throat. “This is Hange. My—study partner.”
Hange lifts a hand in a stiff little wave. “Hi, ma’am.”
Your mom eyes the flowers. “That’s sweet, didn’t know study partners gave flowers now. Your ex never did.”
You nearly choke. Hange, to their credit, just nods solemnly.
“I’m setting the bar,” they say. “Low enough to be charming, high enough to be remembered.”
Your mom snorts, clearly amused. “You staying for dinner?”
“No ma’am, we’re headed to a party.”
“Oh. Well, if anyone throws up on your shoes, tell this young lady here to text me and I’ll pretend to be your emergency.”
“Noted,” Hange says. “I’ll rate the trauma on a scale from one to deeply scarring.”
“Good kid,” your mom replies, and disappears upstairs again.
You and Hange stand in silence for a moment.
“...I like her,” they whisper, almost reverently. Like your mom was some uncrackable code they’d finally deciphered.
You snort. “You called her ma’am. What are you, a first-class soldier reporting for duty?”
They gasp, clutching their chest like you’ve shot them. “It’s called respect. Bet your ex never had that one either!”
They’re still grinning when you grab your keys and open the door. The night air hits your skin like a soft shock — cool, a little damp, buzzing faintly with distant music from a few blocks away.
Hange follows you out, tulip petals and kitchen light left behind. They fall into step beside you, a little too close, hands stuffed in the pockets of their slacks like they’re trying not to touch you on purpose.
By the time you reach the car, they’re humming under their breath. You don’t ask the song. You don't want to know how many parts of tonight already feel real as the radio crackles to life.
“Regrets collect like old friends…”
Shake It Out by Florence + The Machine starts playing through the speakers. Hange doesn’t skip it. They tap the wheel in rhythm, eyes on the road, but smile crooked at the corners.
At the party, the house is big and too warm and too loud, with music thudding through the floorboards. The air is thick with perfume, spilt beer, and something faintly like burnt sugar.
When you head inside, people call out your name. Someone offers you a drink. Hange stays close, shoulder brushing yours like they’re afraid you’ll disappear if they lose contact. You pretend not to notice. Their hand finds your wrist when a group brushes too close. You let it stay.
They trail behind you through the crowd, half-curious, half-overstimulated, and reconsidering all their life choices. Their glasses slide down their nose, and they push them up again without looking.
“Why are there lights in the bathtub?” they ask, peering into the bathroom as you pass.
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
They nod solemnly. “Wise.”
You guide them to the kitchen, press a red plastic cup into their hand. “Drink. Mingle. Pretend to have fun.”
“I’ve watched Superbad to train for this,” they mutter, holding the cup like it’s cursed. “I think I’m ready.”
You lean against the counter and watch them sniff it suspiciously with their eyes narrowed like they expect it to lurch upright and bite them. The kitchen lights flicker faintly against the half-empty bottles on the counter, and someone laughs too loudly in the next room, sharp and echoing.
“What is this?” Hange asks, brow furrowed.
“Probably tequila,” you say. “Or something pretending to be tequila. Or battery acid.”
They take a sip, cautiously. “Tastes like—” they pause, grimacing, “like someone tried to make lemonade using nail polish remover and melted gummy bears.”
You clink your cup against theirs. “Welcome to college. Even if it’s our sophomore year.”
People swirl around the kitchen as someone dances with a bag of chips, another attempting to open a bottle with their teeth. The room pulses with music, but for a brief second, the space between you and Hange feels quieter. Like a bubble.
Then Levi appears, expression flat and entirely unimpressed by the chaos.
“Four-eyes,” he says flatly. “You’re upright. Shocking.”
“Levi,” Hange replies, grinning like they’ve been caught red-handed. “Didn’t think I’d see you out in the wild.”
He eyes them with the same disdain someone might reserve for a sentient stain. “You have glitter in your hair.”
“Intentional,” Hange says a little too fast, brushing a sparkly strand behind their ear.
Levi’s gaze slides to you. “You’re responsible for this one?”
You smile sweetly, holding up your own drink like it’s evidence. “Temporarily.”
He grunts. “God help you.” Then he turns and walks off with a red cup in hand and the posture of a man who came here only to refill his existential dread. You’re still laughing when Hange tugs at your sleeve and nods toward the living room.
“Come on. I heard there’s a cat upstairs.”
“A cat? In a college party?”
“I might be wrong,” they say. “But, don’t you want to find out?”
You let them pull you out of the kitchen and into the maze of rooms beyond with glowing string lights, smoke machines, and bodies dancing like outlines in a dream.
Someone calls your name again. It’s Porco, crouched mid-battle in a game of giant Jenga like he’s defusing a bomb. His cheeks are flushed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, jaw set with the kind of intensity usually reserved for the finals or group projects worth half the grade.
“You made it!” he hollers over the music. “Didn’t think I’d see you out in the wild. Especially after calling it quits with—”
“I’m trying new things,” you say, cutting him off before the name can land. Hange, just behind you, grins and waves with both hands.
Porco raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking between the two of you. “New things?” he echoes. “Like… experimenting?”
His tone is sharp-edged with curiosity, but not cruel. It’s Porco being his usual, incapable of minding his business.
You tilt your head, deadpan. “Studying chemistry. In a controlled environment.”
And then his tower crashes with a loud, brittle clatter of wood and ego. He groans like he’s been shot and collapses into the carpet, face-first, limbs spread like he’s surrendered to the universe.
Hange snorts, grabbing your wrist. "Let's go before he goes to ask more questions."
You let yourself be pulled forward, weaving through the house. The music thickens in the air with some pulsing remix vibrating through the floorboards, lights strobing gently across walls littered with half-finished drinks and scribbled flyers for old shows. Laughter drifts from the living room. Someone spills something and curses. The scent of something burnt lingers faintly near the hallway smelling like a mix of incense or fruit punch.
You turn a corner and slow down.
Someone’s turned the narrow hallway into a makeshift photo booth. Twinkling fairy lights are taped haphazardly to the wall, curling like vines around thumbtacks and leftover party tape. A Polaroid camera dangles from a string, spinning lazily from the ceiling fan breeze.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That we should sabotage every other fake couple here by being hotter?” they ask, voice low.
“I was going to say take a terrible photo for our evidence folder, but sure. Let’s be insufferable.”
The two of you step into the glowing frame of light. You can hear the camera click as it swings gently between you. Hange picks up a ridiculous prop — a plastic sword — and presses it dramatically to their chest like they’re about to declare their love or perish of stage fright. You find yourself laughing before the photo even snaps.
“Here,” they say, reaching up. “Tilt your chin a little. There. Perfect.”
They’re closer than you expected. The camera flashes. The photo develops slowly, like a secret.
Hange pins it to the wall with a magnet shaped like a frog. “Mutual blackmail,” they whisper. “Now immortalized.”
You both end up on the back patio next, sipping mystery punch and watching people play beer pong like it’s a high-stakes sport. Hange stands beside you, arm brushing yours every few seconds like they can’t help it anymore. They’re warmer now. The air’s cooled, and the night has softened everything.
“You having fun?” you ask, keeping your voice light.
They glance at you, almost shyly. “With you? Yeah.”
You pause. That shouldn’t hit the way it does. It shouldn’t curl something behind your ribs.
Inside, someone changes the music. The bass picks up, and a cheer rises from the living room. You feel it before you see it — Hange’s fingers brushing yours. Then, slowly, their pinky hooks around yours. Not a full hand-hold. Not quite, but it’s enough.
You glance down at your linked fingers. Then up at them. Their smile are faint, eyes bright.
You open your mouth to say something — anything — but then the crowd shifts inside, and a familiar voice cuts through the hum of the party. And just like that, the warmth flickers.
Your ex is here. And he’s looking right at you.
Leaning against the far wall like they own the place. Familiar smirk with the same entitled posture. They’re already watching you.
You grip your cup tighter. The alcohol burns on the way down. Not enough to numb anything — just enough to blur the edges.
You look at Hange. “Kiss me.”
They freeze, wide-eyed. You don’t wait.
You move in before they can second-guess it — hand at their collar, mouth against theirs. It's warm, awkward, a little too fast, a little too much teeth. Their hand goes to your waist like it surprises them, fingers tightening reflexively.
They smell like clean laundry and nerves. Their breath catches when you pull back. Their lips are parted, eyes a little too wide.
Your ex’s gaze flicked away already by now. You don’t care.
You don’t remember making the decision — just the sudden tightness of your grip, the way your fingers laced through theirs without asking. You pull them through the tangle of bodies, dodging laughter, neon lights, the pulse of bass thudding against the floor like a second heartbeat.
Hange follows without question, their hand twisting into yours like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged.
Your feet hit the stairs two at a time. Breath ragged. Pulse louder than the music.
At the top, you find the first door that’ll shut out the world, and you step inside. You lock it behind you with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.
The room is dim and quiet, untouched by the party’s chaos. It smells faintly of old laundry detergent and perfume. Hange leans against the edge of the desk like their legs have forgotten how to hold them. Their breath comes quick, uneven.
You stand there for a second, blinking.
You let out a laugh — sudden, dry, shaken loose from your ribs. Not at them. You’re laughing at everything — the absurdity of it all. The fake relationship. The flowers. The kiss that didn’t feel fake at all.
“Sorry,” you murmur, voice catching. “I panicked.”
Hange shakes their head, dazed, like they’re still blinking through the aftershock. “No, I—It was fine. I mean. It was good. I mean—”
You sit down on the edge of the bed like your bones gave out. Elbows on your knees. Fingers knotted. You try to keep your breathing steady, try not to let your heart punch through your ribs.
“I just didn’t want them to see me flinch,” you say. “That’s all.”
Hange’s expression softens. They step forward, careful like the floor might crack beneath them. The air shifts with them. They sit beside you — not quite touching — shoulders rounded, fidgeting with the hem of their sleeve like they need to do something with their hands before they say what they’re about to say.
“I’ve never done that before,” they say.
“Kissed someone,” they add. “Not like that. Not with people watching. Not when it—” Their voice trips. They bite it off. “Never mind.”
You watch the way their eyes stay fixed on their lap. Watch how their knuckles pale around their sleeve.
Then, quieter: “Did I… kiss okay?”
The air thickens. Your throat goes dry again. Your heart squeezes something tender.
You don’t say anything at first. Just study them — the slope of their nose, the mess of curls fraying loose again, the warmth radiating off their shoulder.
You let the silence hold your answer, then say softly, “Yeah. It was… I mean, it was you.”
Their head jerks up. There's something in their eyes; a fragile, burning kind of hope, like they don’t dare breathe too loudly in case it shatters.
You clear your throat. “You’re a good kisser. A good fake kisser. Not that I’m saying it was—well, maybe it wasn’t completely fake, but—”
Your words crumble, feet shuffling against the floor. The tension crackles between you like static. It’s not awkward anymore. It’s electric. Barely containable.
“You’re warm,” Hange says, voice barely audible. Like a thought slipping through their lips.
You smile. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”
They don’t answer. But they lean in — just enough for the air between you to narrow.
“Do you feel like an idiot right now?” you ask.
Hange huffs a laugh, low and real. “Terrible one. But, yeah. An idiot.”
You grin. “Great. We’re idiots together.”
Their body turns toward yours, angled and open, knees brushing. You’re still on the edge of the bed, shoulder to shoulder now, the heat of them sinking into your skin.
You glance at the old analog clock glowing dimly across the room: 11:47 PM.
Hange shifts again, weight settling beside you as they prop one arm behind them on the mattress, close enough to feel their breath ghost across your collarbone.
“So,” they murmur. “We still keep up the act? Even if your ex won’t bother you anymore after that?”
You stare up at the ceiling, fingers playing with a loose thread on your sleeve. “Yeah,” you say. “We keep it up a little longer.”
Hange nods slowly, eyes fixed on the wall. “And then what?”
“Then we fake break up. Quietly.”
You glance at them. Their face is unreadable. Guarded. But their fingers twitch where they rest between you, like they’re waiting for a different answer.
“We… pretend we never talked. Like normal strangers.”
You try to make it sound like a joke, but it falls flat. Hange lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been stuck in their chest for weeks.
You nudge their knee with yours, trying to shake the heaviness off. “I said pretend, didn’t I?”
“Right.” Their voice barely rises above a whisper. “Pretending.”
But the word sounds wrong on their tongue now. They’re still looking at you like they’re not pretending anything at all.
“Cool. Great. Love a clean emotional exit strategy,” they mutter, dragging a hand through their hair. It falls messily over their forehead again.
You don’t respond. Not out loud. You’re too caught up in the way their voice cracked around the exit. You notice the way the clock ticks softly.
They shift beside you, legs brushing again — and this time neither of you pulls away.
“I don’t want to go downstairs yet,” they say eventually. “I know we’re not hiding, but…”
“Me neither,” you whisper.
The quiet after feels softer now. Not empty. Just full of things unspoken. You glance down at their hand, close, barely an inch from yours.
Your pinky brushes theirs. Then hooks. A small gesture barely there. Not a claim, not a confession of any sort, there lies only contact.
Instead, after a moment, their thumb moves. Gently. It traces the back of your hand. Once, then twice. You look at them, and this time, they’re already watching you. Eyes wide open. No teasing. No inside jokes. Just something raw and vulnerable, sitting heavy in the air between you.
“I was scared shitless when you kissed me,” they admit.
You laugh, startled — a small, breathy sound that escapes before you can help it. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Your knees are still touching. You haven’t moved since your fingers found theirs again, and neither have they. The air in the room feels like it’s holding something in.
They smile faintly, then duck their head. “You always looked like you belonged to the part of campus with clean skylights and perfect notes and people who never lost their student IDs.”
“I mean—freshman year,” Hange says, voice hushed, like the walls might overhear. “I noticed you the first week. You sat in the third row of bio. Took notes with that pen that had a pompom on top. You kept correcting the professor under your breath.”
You gape. “I thought no one heard that.”
“Oh, I did,” they say. “It was borderline terrifying—in a cute way. If that made sense.”
Your brain short-circuits on the word cute. You stare at them, lips parted, but no sound comes out. They rub the back of their neck, suddenly sheepish.
“But, like. You were always surrounded by people. I wore the same hoodie three days in a row and kept chewing on my pencil caps like a gremlin.”
You choke out a laugh, a little too high-pitched.
“I mean, I didn’t think I had a shot,” they continue, quietly. “So I just…kind of admired you from the corner like a creep. Got over it now, though. I think.”
You’re staring now. Openly.
Because all this time, you thought you were the one falling a little too fast. You didn’t know Hange had already fallen—just that it never landed.
“You liked me,” you say, stupidly.
“I think,” they reply. Then they wince. “Sorry. That wasn’t—shit, that wasn’t part of the script.”
But you don’t laugh it off. You don’t tease. You just look at them. Study the slope of their nose, the way their hair’s gone wild from running their hands through it. The shape of them, slouched and uncertain and breathtakingly sincere.
“You’re cute,” you say softly.
Hange goes still. Their eyes snap up to meet yours, stunned. “I am?”
“I found you stupidly cute when you handed me a rubber frog and said, ‘This is my son. His name is Bean.’ ”
“Oh my god,” they groan, dropping their face into their hands.
“I was trying to impress you!”
“You could say it worked,” you laugh. “It really did.”
The room is warm, the bed creaking under your combined weight. Outside, the bass of the party has faded to a distant heartbeat. But in here, everything feels loud with the rush of your pulse, the air between your knees, and the silence that isn't empty at all.
“There’s no use faking this anymore,” you say. The words fall out like you’ve been holding them behind your teeth for weeks.
Hange’s hands drop from their face. They’re blinking at you, like they’re trying to make sure they didn’t imagine that.
“I mean—if you want. We don’t have to rush or anything,” you add, suddenly nervous. “We can take it slow. We can start over, even. Real meet-cute this time.”
Hange exhales, long and shaky. “No more pretending?”
They reach for your hand again. This time, fully. Fingers interlacing with yours like it’s instinct.
Hange lets out a breathless laugh. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Same,” you say. “But you smell nice. That’s a start.”
They grin. “Cologne. The one you said was decent.”
“I ironed it,” they say solemnly. “With a straightener.”
You lose it as you collapse into their shoulder, laughing so hard your eyes sting. Hange leans into you, laughing too, and their arms wrap around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You both slip out the front door like fugitives, muffling your laughter behind sleeves, half-drunk on nerves and off-brand soda. The night air is cooler now, crisp against your cheeks, the party’s thudding bass fading behind you like a memory being exhaled.
Hange walks you home with your hands swung lazily between you, back and forth — like this is something you’ve always done. Like your hands were always meant to find each other in the dark.
The world feels quieter here. Streetlamps cast golden pools across the pavement, and the sky above is smeared with stars. You reach your porch. The familiar creak of the step beneath your feet. The chipped paint on the railing you keep meaning to fix.
Hange stops just short of your front door, your fingers still gently twined.
They hesitate. Then, in a voice low and careful; the kind people use when asking for something they’re afraid might be too much, they say — “Do I get to kiss you again?”
You don’t answer. Not out loud.
You step in gently, rising onto your toes, and press a kiss to their cheek, light and deliberate. Hange goes still. Their breath catches. You feel the warmth bloom beneath your lips, feel the way they lean in just a little too late, like they weren’t expecting it and now already miss it.
You pull back slowly. “Don’t get cocky,” you mumble. “earn the next one.”
The smile that tugs at Hange’s mouth is small, uneven, and impossibly soft. Their eyes are wide behind their glasses, like the world just tilted.
“Okay,” they whisper. “Taking it slow.”
Inside, the glow of the living room lamp spills warm across the hardwood floor. Your mom glances up from the couch, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, remote resting loosely in one hand.
She raises an eyebrow. “So… how was the study date?”
You both freeze, caught like teenagers in a coming-of-age movie — which, you suppose, you sort of are.
Then Hange, never one to back down from theatrics, straightens their spine like they’re standing trial. They lift their chin, eyes wide but voice clear. “Good evening, ma’am,” they say. “glad to say that I’m the real deal.”
Your mom squints. Eyes them for a long moment. Then hums.
“We’ll see,” she says, but she’s smiling. Really smiling.
You feel Hange’s fingers tighten around yours, and you don’t let go. Not when you close the door. Not even after.
Because this time, there’s nothing fake about it.
germansingergirl
kianamaiart
areudirty
andulkaphoto
romaincrisis
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
origamiaround
vaporwave