notes: welcome to my blog , first tyriq fic , I have another page where I write about kpop but I figured I’d make another just for some of my fav actors.
genre : fluff, slow burn , just them being cute
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The playlist switched between Afrobeats and slow R&B, and the air smelled like honey, lime, and expensive perfume. Luz’s house had been transformed — the living room lights dimmed, fairy lights draped along the wall, champagne flutes scattered across the counter.
You stood near the kitchen island, helping refill the charcuterie board even though that wasn’t your job tonight. Luz had promised “just a few people,” but somehow her definition of “few” had turned into about twenty — actors, stylists, content creators, and friends from her latest project.
She thrived in this energy. You admired her for that — how she could make everyone feel seen, laugh like she wasn’t exhausted from working all week. You’d been Luz’s social media manager for nearly two years now, and her best friend longer than that. You’d watched her career rise and made sure her image rose with it.
You didn’t crave the spotlight. You liked creating it for other people.
“Babe!” Luz called, her voice lifting over the music. “Can you grab the extra ice?”
“On it,” you said, slipping into the kitchen just as the front door opened.
A new voice cut through the hum of chatter — low, warm, and unfamiliar.
“Yo, Luz! You really said small get-together and meant a whole cast reunion.”
You glanced up as she hugged him — a tall guy in a black hoodie, gray sweatpants, chain glinting faintly in the light. He was smiling in that easy way some people do when they’re comfortable anywhere.
“Tyriq!” Luz grinned, swatting his arm. “You love it. Stop complaining and come in!”
He followed her into the room, dapping a few people up, greeting everyone with that smooth kind of charm that wasn’t forced. You didn’t know who he was, and honestly, you didn’t care to find out — there were always actors and artists in and out of Luz’s orbit.
Still, you noticed how people seemed drawn to him — how even in a crowded room, his energy was calm, grounding.
Luz led him toward the kitchen. “Ty, this is my best friend and roommate, Y/N. She’s the reason I don’t post my unfiltered thoughts at 2 a.m.”
You smiled politely, brushing your hands on a towel. “She’s exaggerating.”
He leaned against the counter, smiling back. “So you’re the one running her socials? You got her looking flawless out here.”
You shrugged modestly. “I just make sure she doesn’t scare her followers.”
He laughed, his dimples showing. “You take clients, or is Luz an exclusive deal?”
You looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time. “You asking for a consultation?”
He tilted his head, pretending to think. “I might be. My page could use a little help. You’d manage me?”
You blinked, caught off guard by the way he said it — casual, teasing, but with that smooth undercurrent. You played along. “Depends on the budget.”
“Ah,” he said, hand over his chest. “Already talking business. I respect it.”
Luz rolled her eyes, grinning. “Please don’t encourage her to take you on as a client. She’ll end up yelling at you about hashtags.”
You smirked. “He looks like he’d survive it.”
Tyriq chuckled. “I’ve handled worse critics.”
The three of you talked for a few minutes — Luz telling stories about her latest shoot, Tyriq throwing in dry comments that made her laugh harder, and you just listening, sipping your drink. Every now and then, his gaze flicked your way — not intrusive, just curious.
When Luz got pulled away to take a FaceTime call from one of her producer friends, you started tidying up empty cups, pretending you didn’t notice him still standing there.
“You do this every time?” he asked.
You smiled faintly. “Not hiding. Just… maintaining order.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, clearly not buying it. “You don’t like parties?”
You hesitated. “I like people — in moderation. Luz is the energy, I’m the calm.”
He nodded slowly. “Balance. Got it.”
You could feel his eyes linger, but it wasn’t uncomfortable — more like he was studying how you fit into the chaos.
After a while, you excused yourself, slipping away upstairs once the music got louder and the conversations turned to stories you’d heard a dozen times before.
You changed into a hoodie and shorts, washed your makeup off, and scrolled your phone until the laughter downstairs faded into quiet.
It was late when you heard footsteps — slow, uneven, hesitant. Then a soft thud.
You sighed, getting up and cracking your door open.
There he was — Tyriq — barefoot, hoodie hanging loose, using his phone flashlight like a lost tourist.
“Uh…” he froze when he saw you. “Hey. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you. I’m—uh—trying to find the bathroom.”
You rubbed your eyes, smiling a little. “You passed it twice.”
“I knew it,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “Luz told me I could crash in the guest room, but I’ve been walking in circles.”
You stepped into the hallway and pointed. “That one. Across from the plant.”
“Appreciate you,” he said, brushing past with that same warm ease. “I was two seconds away from giving up.”
When he came back out, you were still leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
“You live here?” he asked, drying his hands on his hoodie.
“Yeah. Luz needed a roommate and I needed rent that doesn’t make me cry.”
He laughed softly. “Fair trade. I didn’t see you much at the party.”
You shrugged. “Not really my kind of scene.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “Too loud?”
“Too much pretending,” you said honestly. “I like quiet. It makes people realer.”
He smiled at that. “I feel that. I kinda like this better — just talking.”
You quirked an eyebrow. “To the girl who barely said a full sentence earlier?”
“Exactly,” he said with a grin. “Mystery’s part of the appeal.”
You rolled your eyes, fighting a small laugh. “You’re smooth for someone who almost walked into a closet.”
He grinned wider. “Hey, even smooth people have off moments.”
You both laughed quietly, careful not to wake Luz. Then, after a moment, he asked, “So, social media manager — what’s that like? You actually like it?”
You tilted your head. “Most days. I like building things behind the scenes. Helping someone’s image match who they actually are.”
“That’s rare,” he said. “Most people only care about how it looks.”
You met his eyes, surprised. “You sound like you’ve seen that up close.”
He smiled faintly. “Maybe I have.”
Something shifted then — not heavy, just… real. The kind of quiet that lingers when two people actually see each other.
“Well,” he said after a moment, rubbing the back of his neck, “I should probably get some sleep before Luz ropes me into breakfast TikToks.”
You smiled. “She will. She always does.”
He chuckled. “Then I better rest while I can.”
He looked at you like he wasn’t ready to walk away yet — then smiled. “Goodnight, Y/N.”
When he finally disappeared into the guest room, you stood there for a second longer than you meant to, smiling to yourself.
And when you climbed back into bed, the sound of his laugh still echoed softly in your head — the kind that felt like it might follow you into morning.
The smell of butter and coffee filled the kitchen before the sun had fully risen. You’d been up early — not out of obligation, just habit. Luz could sleep through an earthquake, so you liked using the quiet mornings to think, cook, and reset the house after her “small” parties.
You were halfway through flipping pancakes when you heard footsteps.
“Morning,” a familiar voice said, rough from sleep.
You turned and found Tyriq, still in the same hoodie from last night, hair slightly messy, standing in the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he was intruding.
“Hey,” you said, half-smiling. “You’re up early for a guest.”
He chuckled, rubbing his neck. “Couldn’t really sleep. Didn’t wanna mess with anything, though.”
“You’re fine,” you said, sliding another pancake onto a plate. “I figured I’d make something before Luz wakes up and demands avocado toast.”
He laughed softly, leaning against the counter. “So this is what the house looks like when it’s calm.”
You nodded. “It’s my favorite version of it.”
He smiled at that — small, genuine. “You cook often?”
“When I get the chance,” you said. “It’s kind of my quiet hobby. I like doing things that don’t require talking.”
“I get that,” he said, glancing around. “I think I like this side of things better than last night’s chaos.”
You smirked. “Because no one’s yelling over the music?”
“Exactly,” he said, laughing.
You handed him a mug. “Coffee?”
“Absolutely.” He took a sip, eyes flicking over you for a moment. “You really are Luz’s opposite, huh?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a bad thing?”
He shook his head. “Nah. It’s refreshing.”
You smiled, turning back to the stove. “You keep saying that word like it’s your favorite compliment.”
He grinned. “Maybe it is.”
He set his mug down beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. “So,” he started casually, “I wasn’t kidding about the whole social media thing.”
You looked at him, surprised. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve been trying to build my brand a little better,” he said. “I post here and there, but I never know what sticks. Luz said you’re good — really good.”
You smirked. “She probably said that because I stop her from posting chaos.”
He laughed. “Even better. I could use someone to stop me from doing that too.”
You flipped another pancake, trying not to smile too hard. “Are you seriously asking if I’ll manage you?”
“Half-seriously,” he said, sipping his coffee. “Unless you’re too expensive for me.”
You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Depends on how much of a handful you are.”
“Oh, I’m easy,” he said smoothly, then caught himself and laughed. “I mean—”
You grinned, finally laughing with him. “You sure about that?”
He grinned back, a little sheepish. “Alright, maybe I walked into that one.”
You finished plating the pancakes and set them on the counter between you. “We can talk about it — if you’re actually serious.”
“I am,” he said. “You got a number I can reach you at? Maybe we can grab coffee this week and go over ideas?”
You froze for half a second, trying to gauge his tone — professional, but softer at the edges. The kind of ask that could mean more depending on how you took it.
You grabbed your phone and handed it to him. “Here. You can put yours in too.”
He took it, typing quickly, then handed it back. “Now you’re officially on my team.”
You smirked. “That was fast.”
“I don’t waste time when I know talent,” he said, still smiling.
You rolled your eyes. “Flattery doesn’t count as a retainer fee.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. But seriously — I meant what I said. You’ve got a calm confidence about you. That’s rare in this business.”
You looked at him for a moment — sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows, his voice low, eyes steady. There wasn’t any performance in it, just honesty.
“Thanks,” you said softly. “That means more than you think.”
Before he could respond, Luz stumbled into the kitchen in one of her oversized robes, hair in a messy bun. “Who made pancakes?”
Tyriq grinned, stepping back. “And they’re perfect, by the way. I’m telling you, you’re spoiled, Luz.”
She waved him off. “Don’t tell her that — she’ll start charging rent.”
You and Tyriq both laughed, sharing a look over her shoulder — that quiet, familiar spark from the night before still hanging there.
The afternoon sun hit just right as you pulled up to Tyriq’s house — clean, calm, a few palm trees swaying in the breeze. The kind of space that told you he liked peace more than attention.
He opened the door with that familiar soft grin, hoodie and sweats on, a little damp from what was clearly a shower he’d just finished. “Hey,” he said, stepping aside. “Come in. Hope traffic wasn’t too bad.”
“Not terrible,” you said, stepping inside. “Though I think my GPS hates me.”
He laughed, closing the door. “Mine does too.”
The inside was warm and understated — earth tones, sneakers lined up neatly by the wall, a candle burning something that smelled like amber and sage. You set your bag on the couch and pulled out your laptop.
“So,” you started, clicking it open, “today’s just a discovery meeting. Before I can help build your online brand, I have to get a sense of who you are. What you stand for. The why behind the posts.”
He nodded slowly, intrigued. “The why, huh? You make it sound deeper than social media.”
You smiled. “It usually is.”
He leaned back on the couch, looking at you like he was deciding where to start. “Alright. Well, I’m from Jacksonville. Grew up around sports — my dad played, my uncles coached. So football was kind of… inevitable.”
You typed as he spoke. “You played at Davidson first, right?”
He looked a little surprised. “You did your homework?”
He smiled faintly, then his tone shifted — quieter now. “Yeah. I went to Davidson straight out of high school. Small school, good academics. I thought it’d be the perfect setup. But it wasn’t what I expected.”
You looked up. “What happened?”
He hesitated for a second, then said it plainly. “The hazing. Not a frat — the football team. They had this twisted idea of ‘earning respect.’ It got bad fast. Not physical at first — just the kind of mental stuff that chips away at you. I started realizing how much I was trying to prove I belonged somewhere that didn’t really want me.”
You didn’t interrupt — just listened.
“One night they went too far with one of the freshmen,” he continued. “After that, I couldn’t stomach it. I left before the season ended. Packed my bags, told my coach I was done, and transferred to Florida State the next semester.”
You paused typing, eyes soft. “That must’ve been hard — to walk away.”
“It was,” he said. “But it was also the best thing I ever did. FSU was… different. The culture, the energy. I joined Alpha while I was there, kept playing ball, but it wasn’t just about football anymore. I was learning who I was outside of what I did.”
You smiled, leaning back. “You joined Alpha?”
He nodded proudly. “Yeah. One of the best decisions of my life. Brotherhood built on discipline and love, not ego. Those dudes kept me grounded — especially as a young Black man trying to navigate life, school, and everything else.”
You could hear the pride in his voice, but there was humility there too.
“I didn’t even know what legacy meant until then,” he said. “I learned how to lead, how to carry myself, how to move with purpose. It made me proud to be a Black man, for real.”
You smiled, quietly nodding. “That’s something we don’t get to say enough.”
He looked at you. “You went to an HBCU, right? Howard?”
“Yeah,” you said. “Class of 2020.”
His eyes lit up. “See? That’s why I like talking to you. You get it. That sense of pride, the culture — the feeling of walking into a room and not being the only one.”
You chuckled. “Yeah. I grew up in mostly white schools. I didn’t realize how much of myself I’d been toning down until I got to Howard. Suddenly, being smart and outspoken wasn’t too much — it was normal.”
He nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “It’s wild how that shapes us. Even now, I still catch myself trying to shrink sometimes. Especially in Hollywood. It’s like you can be successful, but not too proud, not too Black, not too vocal.”
You sighed softly. “You start to measure yourself against invisible limits.”
He studied you for a moment before saying, “You still do that?”
You looked down at your laptop, then back at him. “Sometimes. I think that’s why I like being behind the scenes. I get to build the spotlight without standing in it.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah, but that’s where the world misses out. You got something about you — quiet, but steady. People feel that.”
You blinked, caught off guard. “That was… oddly poetic.”
He laughed. “Sorry. Habit. I talk too much when I get comfortable.”
“You’re fine,” you said softly. “I like hearing it.”
For a few seconds, silence settled between you — not heavy, just real. You could feel the warmth from the window behind him, the calm hum of his voice still hanging in the air.
He eventually smiled. “So, what about you? What’s your story? Who’s Y/N outside of managing Luz’s world?”
You gave a small laugh. “Oh, we’re turning the interview around now?”
“Maybe,” he said. “You asked for my why. Now I want yours.”
You looked at him — his eyes steady, curious, kind. “My why?”
You thought for a moment, then said quietly, “Because growing up, I didn’t see people like me behind the camera either. I wanted to create space — for voices that weren’t always heard.”
He smiled slowly. “That’s fire. That’s purpose.”
You smiled back. “Guess we both had to find ourselves the hard way.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Yeah. But I think that’s what makes us interesting.”
You didn’t say anything — just looked at him, the corner of your mouth lifting.
Somewhere between his laugh and the way he said “us,” you realized you weren’t just working on his story anymore.
You were becoming a part of it.
The late-afternoon light had turned golden, filtering through the blinds in soft lines. You hadn’t realized how long you and Tyriq had been talking until your laptop battery blinked red.
He noticed it too and smiled. “Guess that’s our cue.”
You laughed, closing the screen. “Apparently.”
When you stood to pack your things, he did too—automatically, like his body moved in rhythm with yours. You could feel the quiet hum that had settled between you all afternoon: that mix of comfort and something else neither of you wanted to name yet.
He reached to grab your charger from the outlet, brushing your hand as he handed it over. Neither of you said anything, but both paused for a heartbeat longer than necessary before letting go.
“Anytime,” he said, voice low.
He walked you to the door, his footsteps soft on the hardwood. “I appreciate you coming through,” he said. “I didn’t think talking about my past would turn into a therapy session.”
You smiled. “Most of my clients say that.”
He chuckled. “You’re good at listening. Like, really listening. That’s rare.”
You looked up at him, the sincerity in his tone catching you off guard. “Thanks. You make it easy.”
For a moment, silence lingered—comfortable, charged. His eyes met yours, holding them just long enough that your stomach flipped. The air between you felt warmer somehow.
He finally broke it with a grin. “So when’s our next session, Manager Y/N?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Manager now?”
“Gotta make it official,” he said. “Same time next week?”
You pretended to think. “Depends. You gonna feed me next time?”
That made him laugh—soft and genuine, the kind that lit his whole face. “Done. Pancakes and branding strategy. Deal?”
“Deal,” you said, smiling.
He opened the door for you, but before you stepped out, he said quietly, “Hey.”
“Thanks for letting me be real today,” he said. “Most people just wanna talk about projects or numbers. You asked about me.”
You held his gaze. “That’s the only way to make people care about what you post—if it comes from who you really are.”
He nodded slowly, eyes still on you. “You ever realize you’re really good at seeing people?”
You laughed lightly, a little flustered. “Occupational hazard.”
He smiled, the corner of his mouth curving just enough to make your chest tighten. “Guess I’m in good hands then.”
You stepped out onto the porch, but he stayed in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. “Drive safe, Y/N.”
“I will,” you said, glancing back one last time.
He looked at you the way people do when they’re memorizing something small—your smile, the light hitting your face, the way you said his name once earlier like you meant it.
And as you walked toward your car, you caught your reflection in the side mirror: cheeks warm, heart doing that nervous, steady flutter you hadn’t felt in a while.
But the line between the two had started to blur—softly, quietly—like sunlight fading into dusk.
The smell of cinnamon hit you before you even knocked.
When Tyriq opened the door, he was holding a spatula and wearing that same FAMU hoodie from last week — this time dusted with a bit of flour.
“You’re early,” he said, smiling as he stepped aside. “But lucky for you, breakfast is my love language.”
You laughed softly, stepping inside. “I thought we were doing a work meeting.”
He shrugged. “We are. I just figured pancakes make everything better.”
The kitchen was bright, sunlight spilling over the counter where bowls and measuring cups were scattered. Music played quietly from a speaker — old-school R&B, something that made the morning feel slower, softer.
You helped him set out plates, teasing, “So, this is how you get all your clients to trust you?”
He grinned. “Only the ones who show up with laptops and look like they mean business.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Mhm. Sure.”
For a while, you worked together in easy silence — you scrolling through analytics while he flipped pancakes with casual precision. Every few minutes, your shoulders brushed as you reached for something. He’d laugh, apologize, and you’d pretend it didn’t make your stomach do a small, traitorous flip.
When you both finally sat down, you pulled your laptop closer. “Alright, so based on your engagement, we can push your storytelling side more — the personal stuff you told me about, the transition from football to acting, what it taught you.”
He nodded, watching you instead of the screen. “You really put thought into this.”
You smiled faintly. “It’s my job.”
He leaned back, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Can I tell you something without you thinking I’m crazy?”
You looked up, curious. “That depends.”
He exhaled, rubbing his hands together before resting them on the table. “I didn’t really ask you to manage my social media just for strategy.”
Your brows furrowed slightly. “What do you mean?”
He hesitated, his voice dropping lower, softer. “I mean… yeah, I need help with all this branding stuff. But if I’m being real, I asked because I wanted to get to know you. You’re… different. I noticed it that first night at Luz’s place. You weren’t trying to be seen — but I couldn’t stop seeing you.”
You blinked, unsure what to say. He didn’t sound like he was confessing a crush — more like he was finally admitting something he’d been holding in.
He kept his eyes on the table as he spoke. “I just—there aren’t a lot of people who make me feel calm. You do. That’s rare.”
For a moment, all you could hear was the soft hum of the music and the quiet clink of your fork against the plate.
You smiled gently, choosing your words carefully. “You know, that might be the most honest brand statement I’ve heard all week.”
That made him laugh — the tension breaking just enough. “Guess I’m already on-message then.”
You tilted your head, meeting his eyes. “You really didn’t have to hire me for that, you know. You could’ve just talked to me.”
He gave a small, sheepish grin. “Yeah, but this way, I knew you had to show up.”
You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he said, still smiling. “But it worked.”
For a moment, you both just looked at each other — the kind of look that said more than either of you would out loud. Not heavy, not rushed. Just real.
You finally spoke, your tone light but sincere. “Alright then, Mr. Withers. If you’re gonna keep me around, you’d better start posting consistently. I don’t mix business with—”
He cut in softly, teasing, “With breakfast?”
You gave him a look. “With feelings.”
He smiled, leaning back. “Guess I’ll have to earn both then.”
You shook your head, but you were smiling, too — that quiet, involuntary kind of smile that stayed even after you tried to hide it.
Outside, the sunlight shifted through the blinds, warm against the kitchen walls.
Inside, the space between you felt familiar — the start of something real, wrapped in the safety of honesty and cinnamon-scented air.
A week passed before you saw him again.
You’d both been busy — you with Luz’s latest campaign, him on set for a new project — but he’d still found small ways to stay in touch. Quick check-in texts, short voice notes that always ended with: Hope you’re taking care of yourself.
It was simple. But it was more than most people did.
By Friday afternoon, you were back at his house for another work session.
The moment you stepped in, you noticed the difference: the faint smell of vanilla candles, the coffee table cleared off, a small vase sitting there with pale yellow tulips inside.
You blinked. “You cleaned.”
He grinned from the kitchen. “I told you I could follow directions.”
“Whose directions?” you asked, setting your bag down.
“Yours,” he said, shrugging. “You said last time that I needed better lighting for content. So I figured I’d start with the atmosphere.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Tulips count as atmosphere?”
“They’re your favorite, right?”
You looked up, surprised. “How would you know that?”
He smiled. “You mentioned them once when Luz called during our meeting. You told her not to forget tulips for her brand shoot.”
He paused, sheepish. “I pay attention.”
You didn’t know what to say for a second, so you just smiled, tracing a petal with your fingertip. “They’re… perfect. Thank you.”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Least I could do.”
You opened your laptop, trying to focus. “Okay. So we’ll start by—”
He cut in gently. “Can I ask you something first?”
He sat across from you, elbows resting on his knees. “Do you ever stop working? Like… just exist without a to-do list?”
You gave a quiet laugh. “I try. But I like staying busy. It makes me feel like I have control.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”
For a few seconds, you just watched each other — the faint hum of the air-conditioning filling the silence. Then he smiled slightly. “You know, it’s kinda crazy. I hired you to help me tell my story, but I’m starting to realize I wanna know yours too.”
You tilted your head. “Why?”
“Because you listen like someone who has a lot to say.”
That line sat between you — soft, unassuming, but sincere.
You weren’t used to someone noticing you like that.
Not for what you did, but for who you were when you weren’t doing anything.
You changed the subject before your thoughts got away from you. “Alright, Mr. Withers,” you said, smiling. “Let’s talk strategy.”
He chuckled, leaning back. “Yes, ma’am.”
You spent the next hour refining captions, analyzing engagement, laughing at bloopers he refused to delete. Every so often, he’d make a small gesture that said more than words — refilling your glass without asking, sliding your favorite snack across the table, or leaning just close enough to point something out on your screen.
The air between you stayed calm but charged — like both of you knew something was shifting and neither wanted to break it.
When you finally packed up to leave, he walked you to the door again. The evening light caught his face, soft and gold.
“Thank you,” you said, glancing at the tulips. “For everything. You didn’t have to do all that.”
He smiled, quiet but certain. “I wanted to.”
You hesitated, half-turning toward him. “You really don’t make it easy to keep things just work, you know that?”
He chuckled, voice low. “I’m not trying to make it hard. I’m just trying to show up right.”
You didn’t answer. You just held his gaze a second too long before smiling faintly. “See you next week.”He nodded, still watching you. "Yeah," he said softly. "See you, Y/N."
And as you walked down his steps, the tulips still in your hand, you realized what made him different.
He was learning you - one quiet gesture at a time. Sunday mornings in Luz’s house were sacred: no makeup, no cameras, just pajamas and coffee that smelled like vanilla and cinnamon.
You were sitting at the kitchen island, laptop open but untouched, still thinking about the tulips that now sat in a glass jar on your dresser.
Luz padded in, hair tied up in a silk scarf, her oversized T-shirt sliding off one shoulder. “Okay,” she said, pointing a spoon at you. “Spill it.”
You blinked. “Spill what?”
She poured coffee into her mug, giving you a look that said she already knew. “You’ve been smiling at your screen for the last ten minutes like you’re watching a rom-com. I’m guessing this has to do with a certain client of yours?”
You groaned. “Can we not?”
“Oh, we absolutely can,” Luz said, sliding onto the stool beside you. “Y/N, you’ve been glowing since you started working with him. What’s up?”
You sighed, setting your mug down. “It’s nothing. He’s just… nice.”
“‘Nice,’” she repeated, rolling her eyes. “That’s your whole answer?”
You hesitated. “Okay, he’s thoughtful. He listens. He remembers things. Like—” you stopped yourself, realizing you were about to mention the tulips.
Luz’s grin widened. “Like what?”
You covered your face. “Like flowers, okay? He got me tulips for our last meeting.”
Her jaw dropped. “See, that’s rom-com material! You’re literally living the setup.”
You laughed despite yourself. “It’s not like that. He’s just—Tyriq’s in his own world, Luz. He’s got cameras, premieres, people constantly watching him. I’m… me. I like quiet. I like going to the gym at weird hours and cooking dinner without being tagged in it. He’s the spotlight. I’m the background.”
Luz tilted her head, watching you carefully. “You think that means you don’t fit?”
“I know we don’t,” you said softly. “He’s got this whole public life. I’m behind the curtain making sure people like him shine. That’s my lane.”
She sipped her coffee. “You ever think maybe he likes that about you? That you’re not trying to compete with all that noise?”
You didn’t answer right away. “That’s the thing, though. I don’t wanna be someone’s quiet escape. I want to be chosen for the same reasons I choose them — because we see each other.”
Luz smiled faintly. “He seems like the kind of man who’d do that.”
You looked down at your cup. “Maybe. But I can’t risk it turning messy. Work’s too important.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, unconvinced. “So why’d you keep the tulips on your dresser?”
You looked up, narrowing your eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I saw them when I walked past your room,” she said smugly. “And they’re in a vase, which means you didn’t just ‘forget to throw them out.’”
You sighed, trying not to smile. “You’re impossible.”
She nudged you with her elbow. “And you’re in denial. Just admit you like him.”
You gave her a long look, then finally said it. “Yeah. I do. But liking someone doesn’t mean it’ll work.”
Luz’s smile softened. “Maybe not. But you can’t protect yourself from everything, Y/N. Sometimes the right person fits your quiet without dimming it.”
You didn’t reply, but you carried her words with you the rest of the day.
That evening, your phone buzzed with a message from Tyriq:
Hope your Sunday’s peaceful.
You ever stop by the lake trail near campus? You’d love it.
You smiled down at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply button for a few seconds before typing back:
I’ve been before. It’s my favorite kind of quiet.
Then it’s a date, he wrote.
You stared at the message, heart skipping.
He didn’t mean it like that — probably.
Still, you caught yourself smiling again, thinking about what Luz said.
Maybe the spotlight and the quiet weren’t opposites after all.
Maybe they were just two sides of the same warmth finding its way toward each other.
The lake trail curved through the trees like a soft secret. The air smelled faintly of rain and pine, the ground damp from a morning drizzle. It was peaceful—the kind of place where even conversation felt like a whisper.
Tyriq was already waiting when you parked, hands tucked in his pockets, hoodie pulled up against the wind. When he saw you, his face softened into that easy grin that always made it a little harder to stay guarded.
“You actually came,” he said.
“You said it was a work meeting,” you teased.
He laughed. “Maybe a tiny bit of false advertising.”
You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “You realize you’re blurring company policy, right?”
“Guess I am.” He started walking beside you, sneakers crunching on the gravel. “You can fire me later.”
The two of you fell into an easy rhythm—small talk, quiet jokes, the occasional brush of his arm against yours. The lake shimmered beside you, sunlight breaking through the clouds in soft streaks.
After a while, he said, “I’ve been thinking about what you said last time—about not fitting into my world.”
You glanced at him. “You remember that?”
“I remember everything you say,” he said lightly, but there was truth behind it. “You’re right, though. My world is loud. People expect me to be someone all the time. But you…” He paused, searching for words. “You’re the only person I’ve met in a long time who makes the noise stop.”
You stopped walking for a moment, surprised. “Tyriq…”
He turned to face you. “I know this might sound fast, or inconvenient, or whatever, but I like you. I mean that in the simplest, most real way possible. I like the way you think, the way you listen, how you don’t care about all the extra stuff. You make things feel normal again.”
You looked at him, heart racing, the breeze catching your curls. “You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whispered.
“Why not?” he asked gently.
“Because…” You hesitated. “Because I can’t be part of that world. The events, the cameras, the interviews—I’m not built for it. You’re the spotlight, Tyriq. I’m the quiet behind it.”
He took a small step closer, voice soft. “You act like those things matter to me more than peace does. They don’t. I do what I do, but it’s not who I am all the time.”
You sighed. “You say that now. But people look at you differently. They expect more from you. And I—” you stopped, shaking your head. “I like simple. I like safe.”
He reached out, not touching you yet, just hovering close enough for you to feel his warmth. “What if I told you I want both? The work, the spotlight—but also the quiet that comes after. And you’re part of that quiet.”
Your throat tightened. “You make it sound easy.”
He smiled softly. “It’s not. But it’s worth trying.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The water rippled against the rocks, the world narrowing down to the space between you.
Finally, you said, “You really mean that?”
You let out a slow breath. “You scare me.”
“Because you make me want to believe you.”
He smiled—a gentle, steady smile that reached his eyes. “Then start there.”
He offered his hand—not demanding, just waiting. You stared at it for a beat before finally slipping yours into his. His fingers closed around yours, warm and certain.
You walked the rest of the trail like that—hand in hand, quiet between you, the world softening around the edges.
For the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like background noise.
And that scared you… but it also felt a lot like hope.
By the time you got home, the sun had long dipped below the skyline.
Luz was on the couch, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone when you came in. She looked up, one brow raised.
“Someone’s glowing,” she said.
You tried to play it off, dropping your keys in the bowl by the door. “It’s called sunlight, Luz. I was outside.”
“Uh-huh.” She paused her scrolling. “Outside with Tyriq, maybe?”
You froze halfway to the kitchen. “How did you—?”
“He posted a story, genius. Lake trail. Two coffee cups, one extra-small. You think I don’t recognize your order?”
You groaned, covering your face. “He just wanted to talk. It was… nice.”
Luz smiled knowingly. “Nice? Girl, your nice sounds suspiciously like falling.”
You sat beside her, hugging a cushion to your chest. “It’s not like that. He’s… good. Gentle. But that whole spotlight thing still scares me.”
Luz looked at you, voice softening. “He’s already bringing out the best parts of you. That’s worth paying attention to.”Monday morning started like any other—until Luz’s voice echoed from the living room.
You blinked awake, hair still in your bonnet. “What?”
She spun her phone around. The screen flashed a clip from The Daily Sit-Down—Tyriq’s interview from the night before. The caption read:
“Who’s the mystery woman Tyriq Withers called his peace?”
#WhoIsShe #TyriqWithersInterview
The video replayed his calm smile, his words looping again and again:
“She’s the kind of person who reminds you that peace doesn’t have to be quiet. She just brings it with her.”
You dropped onto the couch beside Luz. “Oh my God.”
Luz was grinning. “You’re the peace, Y/N! Do you realize how poetic that is?”
“Luz.” You pressed a pillow over your face. “This cannot be happening.”
“Too late.” She scrolled through replies. “People are analyzing every photo he’s ever posted, zooming in on random hands, matching shadows. They’re convinced it’s you.”
You peeked out from behind the pillow. “How? He didn’t say my name.”
“He didn’t have to,” Luz said, amused. “You’ve been spotted in the background of his story last week—your reflection in the car window. Internet detectives are undefeated.”
You groaned. “I’m deleting every tag I have.”
“Or,” Luz said, leaning back, “you could text him and ask why the man went on national TV calling you his serenity.”
You hesitated, chewing your lip. “I shouldn’t—”
“You should,” she said. “Because now the whole world’s asking, and you deserve the answer straight from him.”
You stared at your phone for a long moment before opening messages.
Everyone’s trying to figure out who you were talking about.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Tyriq: Not unless you mind people knowing the truth.
I didn’t say your name because I wanted to protect your peace.
But I wasn’t going to lie about what—or who—keeps me grounded.
You stared at the screen, heat rising to your cheeks.
Luz leaned over your shoulder, reading. “Ooooh, he’s bold with it.”
You ignored her, typing slowly.
Y/N: You didn’t have to say anything at all.
Now people are connecting dots that were never supposed to be connected.
Tyriq: Maybe they were always going to connect them.
I just wanted you to know I meant what I said—on camera or not.
You set the phone down, pulse still unsteady. Luz nudged you with her elbow.
“So,” she said softly, “what are you gonna do?”
You exhaled. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to hide. The other part…”
She smiled. “Wants to see where it goes.”
You didn’t answer, but your glance drifted back to the phone where his message still glowed on the screen.
I just wanted you to know I meant what I said.
Outside, notifications kept lighting up, hashtags multiplying by the second.
But for once, you didn’t feel overwhelmed by the noise.
You just felt seen—again.
The noise online hadn’t stopped for two days.
Every time you opened your phone, there it was — your name hidden in hashtags, screenshots of his quote, fans guessing, speculating.
You’d turned your notifications off, but your thoughts hadn’t quieted.
you said yes before your logic could talk you out of it.
His house looked the same, but the air felt different — heavier, charged.
He opened the door quietly, no smile this time, just a softness in his eyes.
He stepped back to let you in. “I didn’t mean to drag you into that mess. I swear, that wasn’t my plan.”
You dropped your bag onto the couch. “I know you didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—now everyone thinks we’re a thing. My inbox is chaos.”
He exhaled. “I didn’t realize it would blow up like that. I just… couldn’t sit there and pretend you hadn’t changed my life this year.”
You looked up at him. “You could’ve just told me that in private.”
“I did,” he said softly. “In every way I knew how — I just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The tension wasn’t angry; it was full of everything unspoken.
Finally, he took a small step closer. “Do you want me to say it now?”
Your breath caught. “Say what?”
“That I like you,” he said simply. “That I meant every word I said on that interview. You keep me grounded, Y/N. You make things calm, and I don’t even know how you do it — but I need it. I need you.”
You stood there, heart pounding, caught between wanting to protect yourself and wanting to believe him.
“Tyriq,” you whispered, “you don’t get it. You’re used to the world watching you. I’m not built for all that. I like quiet. I don’t want to become part of some storyline.”
He nodded slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “Then we’ll keep it quiet. Just us. No stories, no press. Just real life.”
Something about the way he said it — calm, certain — broke through every wall you’d been holding up.
He reached out, brushing his thumb over your hand. It was the smallest touch, but it carried everything.
“You trust me?” he asked softly.
You hesitated only a second before whispering, “Yeah.”
He leaned down then — not rushed, not demanding — and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips.
It was soft and steady, the kind that felt like an answer more than a question.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since that night in the hallway,” he murmured.
You smiled, voice quiet. “Took you long enough.”
He laughed, relief in it this time. “Guess I was waiting for the right moment.”
You looked up at him, cheeks warm. “So what now?”
He straightened slightly, that grin of his creeping back in. “Now I ask the real question.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”
He smiled. “Can I take you on a real date? No branding talk, no captions — just me and you.”
You pretended to think, teasing, “You planning to trend again if I say yes?”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah. This one’s just for us.”
You smiled then — soft, certain, and a little nervous. “Then yes.”
His hand found yours again, fingers interlacing like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And as you both stood there in the quiet, you realized the noise outside didn’t matter anymore.
Because for the first time, you weren’t hiding behind the spotlight — you were standing in it, together.
