i want tv show & movie writers to understand that it's more likely for there to be a token straight friend than there is for there to be a token gay friend
This fic is so near and dear to me. I love when people explore J and Pope's dynamic. I wish the show explored more than just the tension/drama and let them act like family to each other ugh 💔
can you pleaseeee do prompt 32 with zeke tyler and make it spicy if you’re feeling up for it 🧎♂️➡️🙏
Zeke Tyler (The Faculty) x fem!reader
Holding your/their face so gently in the cradle of your/their palms and smattering kisses all over your/their pretty face until you're/they're giggling and grinning wide
ok so not strictly spicy but like after spicy time..
Zeke Tyler isn’t soft in the way people expect softness to look.
He’s sharp edges, cocky smirks, hands that always seem a little too sure of themselves. The kind of guy who leans back in his chair like he owns the room, like nothing ever really gets to him.
Which is why this version of him—
Feels like a secret you weren’t supposed to find.
It always happens after.
When the world has gone quiet again.
When your breathing is still uneven, your body loose and heavy against his, your cheek pressed to his bare chest as his heartbeat slowly settles under your ear.
You’re half-gone, half-there, still floating in that hazy space where everything feels warm and distant.
And then—
His hands.
Always his hands.
They come up slow, like he’s approaching something fragile, something he doesn’t want to startle. His fingers brush along your jaw first, barely there, like he’s checking you’re real.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice softer than anyone else ever gets to hear.
You hum in response, too relaxed to form actual words.
That’s when he shifts, just enough to see your face.
And then—
He cups it.
Both hands, warm and careful, holding you like you’re something important. Something worth slowing down for.
You blink up at him, still dazed, lips parted slightly—
And he just… looks at you.
Like he can’t quite get over it.
Like you being here, like this, with him, is still something he hasn’t figured out how to take for granted.
“God,” he mutters under his breath, almost to himself.
Before you can ask what, he leans down.
And starts pressing kisses all over your face.
Your cheek first—quick, soft.
Then the other.
Your temple. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.
Messy. Uncoordinated. Completely unbothered with precision.
You let out a startled laugh, trying to turn your head away. “Zeke—what are you doing?”
“Shut up,” he mumbles, already kissing just below your eye.
You squirm slightly, a grin breaking across your face. “You’re being weird—”
“I know,” he says, completely unapologetic, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Deal with it.”
Another kiss.
Your nose.
Your cheek again.
You’re laughing properly now, soft and breathless, trying to push at his wrists but not actually stopping him.
“Zeke—”
“Just—hold still,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice.
You don’t.
You keep laughing, turning your face into his palm, your hands coming up to grab at his wrists as he keeps going.
And that—
That’s what he was waiting for.
Your laugh.
It pulls something out of him every single time.
He pauses just long enough to look at you again, thumbs brushing lightly under your eyes, like he’s memorising the way your face looks when you’re like this—open, happy, glowing.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, almost in awe. “That.”
You tilt your head slightly. “What?”
“That sound,” he says, softer now. “Yours.”
Your smile lingers, but something in your chest tightens at the way he’s looking at you.
Too honest.
Too much.
“Zeke…”
He shakes his head slightly, like he doesn’t even know how to explain it.
“I just—” He exhales, a small, almost disbelieving laugh leaving him. “I don’t know what the hell I did to get you, but I’m not questioning it.”
Your expression softens completely.
“You didn’t get me,” you murmur. “I chose you.”
His grip on your face tightens just slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to ground himself.
“Yeah?” he says quietly.
You nod.
“Yeah.”
For a second, he just looks at you again.
Then he leans down, slower this time, and presses a proper kiss to your lips.
Not rushed.
Not messy.
Just… certain.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.
And his hands don’t move.
They stay right there, cradling your face like it’s the most natural place for them to be.
“You keep doing that,” he murmurs.
“Doing what?”
“Choosing me.”
You smile softly.
“Always.”
And for once—
Zeke Tyler doesn’t have a single smart remark to cover how much that means to him.
Zeke overhears you saying "in what universe would Zeke and I be together?" and assumes that it's because you're not interested and think he's just his reputation.
What he doesn't realise is that you were saying it out of your own insecurities and were saying it in a 'he's so out of my league' kind of way.
By senior year, everybody at Herrington High had an opinion about Zeke Tyler.
Drug dealer.
Bad influence.
Smartass.
Mechanic.
Troublemaker.
Walking detention slip.
Depending on who you asked, he was either a complete asshole or the hottest guy in school.
Usually both.
You tried very hard not to have opinions about him at all.
It was easier that way.
Because having opinions about Zeke Tyler was dangerous.
Especially when those opinions included things like:
his hands looked unfairly good wrapped around a wrench.
or
his voice did weird things to your nervous system.
or
sometimes he looked at you like he could see straight through your skin.
You’d known Zeke for years.
Not well.
Not like Stokely or Casey knew him.
But enough.
Enough for hallway conversations.
Enough for rides home when your car refused to start.
Enough for him to throw french fries at you during lunch because he liked getting a reaction.
Enough for you to know that underneath the reputation and cocky grin was someone much sharper than people realized.
And enough for you to have the world’s most humiliating crush on him.
A crush you intended to take to the grave.
Because honestly?
In what universe would Zeke Tyler ever want you back?
It happened after biology.
You were standing by your locker with two friends while students flooded the hallway around you.
One of your friends sighed dreamily as Zeke walked past outside.
“God, he’s so hot.”
You rolled your eyes automatically, trying not to glance toward the parking lot where Zeke leaned against his car talking to Stan.
“Hot and emotionally unavailable,” you muttered.
“Please,” your other friend scoffed. “If Zeke looked at me for more than three seconds, I’d fold instantly.”
You laughed softly.
“That’s because you have terrible survival instincts.”
“Like you wouldn’t.”
You snorted.
“In what universe would Zeke and I ever be together?”
Your friends immediately started protesting.
“What? Are you kidding?”
“He totally flirts with you!”
“You’re literally his type!”
Heat flooded your face instantly.
“No, I’m serious,” you laughed nervously. “Look at him and then look at me.”
Your friends exchanged a look.
“What’s wrong with you?”
Before you could answer, the warning bell rang.
The conversation ended there.
At least for you.
Because what you didn’t know—
What absolutely never crossed your mind—
Was that Zeke Tyler had been standing around the corner the entire time.
And he heard every word.
At first, Zeke honestly thought it was funny.
Not in a cruel way.
More like:
well, shit.
Because he’d spent months trying to flirt with you without making it too obvious.
And apparently you’d been completely uninterested the whole time.
That stung more than he expected.
Zeke wasn’t used to girls rejecting him before he even made a move.
Usually he was the one walking away first.
But you?
You looked at him like he mattered.
Like there was more to him than everybody else saw.
That was rare enough already.
The fact that you apparently still didn’t want him felt… weirdly awful.
For the rest of the day, Zeke avoided you.
Not obviously.
But enough for you to notice.
He skipped your usual lunch table.
Didn’t stop by your locker.
Didn’t toss a sarcastic comment your way during chemistry.
By final period, you were deeply confused.
By the next day, you were annoyed.
Because now Zeke was definitely avoiding you.
And worse—
He looked upset.
You caught him staring at you during English only for him to immediately look away.
Which was unsettling because Zeke Tyler never looked away first.
At lunch, he barely spoke.
When you walked up beside him after school, he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and said, “Thought you left already.”
You blinked.
“…No?”
“Cool.”
Silence.
You stared at him.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re being weird.”
Zeke barked out a humorless laugh.
“Yeah, well. Guess we both are.”
Then he walked away.
You stood there in the parking lot completely baffled.
Three days later, Stokely cornered you in the library.
“You hurt Zeke’s feelings.”
You nearly choked on air.
“I what?”
Stokely looked genuinely annoyed.
“You seriously don’t know?”
“No?!”
She closed her book dramatically.
“He overheard you talking by your locker.”
Your stomach dropped instantly.
“Oh my God.”
“Yeah.”
You replayed the conversation immediately.
In what universe would Zeke and I ever be together?
Oh no.
OH NO.
“He thinks I rejected him?” you whispered horrified.
Stokely stared.
“…You didn’t?”
You laughed once in disbelief.
“Stokes, I’ve had a crush on him since sophomore year.”
She went completely still.
Then slowly leaned back in her chair.
“You two are actually unbearable.”
You found Zeke after school in the auto shop classroom.
Of course you did.
The entire place smelled like motor oil, metal, and cigarette smoke.
Zeke stood bent over the hood of a car, grease streaked across his hands.
He looked up when you walked in.
Then immediately looked back down again.
“Shop’s closed.”
“We need to talk.”
“No we don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
Zeke sighed heavily and tossed the wrench onto the counter.
“You know, for somebody who doesn’t wanna date me, you’re real determined to corner me.”
You stared at him.
There it was.
The misunderstanding.
And somehow it was even worse hearing it out loud.
“Zeke—”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not.”
He shrugged tightly.
“You don’t gotta explain. I got it.”
“No, you very clearly do not got it.”
That got his attention.
Zeke finally looked at you properly.
You crossed your arms tightly, heart pounding.
“When I said ‘in what universe would Zeke and I be together,’ I didn’t mean because I don’t want you.”
He frowned slightly.
“Then what’d you mean?”
You laughed nervously.
“Have you looked at yourself?”
“…Yeah?”
“You’re Zeke Tyler.”
“That cleared up absolutely nothing.”
You groaned in frustration.
“You’re hot and confident and every girl at school wants you.”
Realization flickered across his face slowly.
You kept going before you lost your nerve.
“And I’m just… me.”
Zeke stared at you like you’d spoken another language.
“Just you?”
You looked away immediately.
Which turned out to be a mistake because suddenly Zeke was directly in front of you.
Too close.
Warm.
Grease-smudged fingers gently caught your chin.
“Look at me.”
Your pulse went feral.
Reluctantly, you did.
Zeke looked genuinely bewildered.
“Are you seriously telling me you thought you weren’t good enough for me?”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
“…Maybe?”
“Jesus Christ.”
The way he said it wasn’t mocking.
It sounded almost offended.
Zeke ran a hand through his hair roughly.
“I thought you were saying you’d never date me because of my reputation.”
“I mean,” you muttered weakly, “your reputation is objectively terrible.”
That made him laugh despite himself.
A real laugh this time.
Your stomach flipped.
Then his expression softened.
“Baby, half the reason I flirt with you is because you never act impressed by me.”
You blinked.
“…Half?”
“The other half is because I’m ridiculously into you.”
Your entire brain short-circuited.
Zeke looked down at you carefully.
Almost nervous now.
Which was shocking enough on its own.
“I’ve liked you for months,” he admitted. “Thought I was being obvious.”
“You were throwing fries at me.”
“That is obvious.”
You stared at him.
Then burst into helpless laughter.
Zeke grinned immediately like he’d won something.
God, that grin.
No wonder half the school was insane about him.
“You’re an idiot,” you told him.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “But I’m your idiot if you want.”
Your heart practically collapsed in on itself.
“You really like me?”
Zeke’s expression turned impossibly fond.
“Sweetheart, I skipped class to drive across town because you mentioned liking a specific milkshake once.”
“…What?”
“You heard me.”
“That is psychotic behavior.”
“That’s romance, actually.”
You laughed again, quieter this time.
Zeke watched you carefully the entire time.
Like he still wasn’t completely convinced this was real.
“You know,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly against your jaw, “I was kinda miserable this week.”
Guilt punched straight through you.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.” He smiled faintly. “Could’ve just asked.”
“You could’ve too.”
“Fair.”
For a moment neither of you moved.
The air in the garage suddenly felt too warm.
Too close.
Zeke’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth.
Then back up.
“You gonna let me kiss you now?”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“You asking permission?”
“Trying to be respectful. Don’t ruin it.”
You snorted softly.
Then grabbed the front of his shirt and kissed him first.
Zeke made a surprised noise against your mouth before immediately kissing you back hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.
His hands found your waist instantly.
Warm.
Firm.
Pulling you closer like he’d wanted to do it forever.
The kiss tasted like peppermint and smoke and relief.
And underneath all of Zeke’s usual confidence was something almost desperate.
Like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.
When you finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Zeke rested his forehead against yours.
“So,” he murmured.
“So?”
“In this universe?”
You laughed breathlessly.
“In this universe, yeah.”
Zeke smiled slowly.
Bright and real and devastating.
Then kissed you again like he planned on making up for lost time.
Zeke Tyler learns that you like Star Wars. Desperate for something to talk to you about, he watches all of them.
Then, he asks you on a date to go see Attack of the Clones in cinema.
By the time sophomore year rolled around, everyone on campus knew three things about Zeke Tyler.
One: he was absurdly attractive.
Two: he absolutely knew it.
And three: he was either going to become a millionaire or get arrested before thirty.
Possibly both.
He moved through the university like he owned it—lazy confidence, leather jackets even in warm weather, permanently smirking like the entire world was one long inside joke only he understood.
Girls loved him.
Professors hated him.
Half the student body bought weed off him.
The other half wanted to sleep with him.
You mostly wanted him to stop distracting you during biology lectures.
It was difficult.
Extremely difficult.
Because unfortunately, Zeke Tyler had only gotten hotter since high school.
The sharp edges had settled into something rougher now. Older. More dangerous. He still had that rebellious streak, still skipped half his classes, still leaned back in his chair like authority physically irritated him—but now there was confidence underneath it instead of teenage recklessness.
He looked like every bad decision wrapped into one devastatingly attractive package.
And somehow, despite all that, he was nice to you.
That was the problem.
If he’d been an asshole, you could’ve ignored the stupid fluttering in your chest whenever he looked at you.
Instead, Zeke remembered little things.
He held doors open absentmindedly.
He stole extra fries from the cafeteria specifically because he knew you liked them.
Once, after overhearing you complain about your ancient laptop crashing mid-paper, he appeared at your dorm room with spare computer parts and fixed it sitting cross-legged on your floor.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you’d said.
Zeke shrugged without looking up from the motherboard.
“Was bothering you.”
Like that explained everything.
Maybe to him, it did.
The thing about Zeke Tyler was that everyone thought they knew him.
Campus dealer.
Smartass.
Commitment-phobe.
Walking hormone imbalance.
But you saw things other people didn’t.
Like how exhausted he looked after long nights working at the garage.
Or how he always gave freshmen discounts when selling them textbooks or electronics because “they’re broke as shit.”
Or the fact he stayed after labs helping struggling students despite pretending not to care.
There was softness in him.
Buried deep.
Hidden under sarcasm and nicotine and sharp smiles.
You noticed it anyway.
Which was probably why he liked being around you.
You never treated him like a stereotype.
You talked to him normally.
Like he was just Zeke.
Not a reputation.
Not a fantasy.
Just a person.
That seemed to matter to him more than he admitted.
You first realized something was wrong when Zeke voluntarily sat in the library.
Voluntarily.
The man barely tolerated classrooms.
Yet there he was sprawled across a chair opposite you one rainy Thursday evening, tapping a pencil against his notebook while pretending not to stare at you.
You glanced up from your textbook.
“…Can I help you?”
Zeke blinked like he’d been caught doing something embarrassing.
“What? No.”
“You’ve been sitting there for twenty minutes.”
“Studying.”
“You’re holding your notebook upside down.”
Zeke looked down.
“…Shit.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
His expression softened instantly at the sound.
Like hearing you laugh rewarded him somehow.
That should’ve concerned you more than it did.
“You’re terrible at this,” you informed him.
“At what?”
“Pretending you came here for schoolwork.”
He leaned back in his chair slowly, lips twitching.
“Maybe I just like your face.”
Your stomach betrayed you immediately.
Dangerous territory.
You pointed your pen at him warningly.
“You flirt with everyone.”
“That’s not true.”
“Zeke.”
“Okay,” he admitted. “Mostly everyone.”
You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself.
Zeke watched that smile carefully.
Too carefully.
Like he was cataloguing it.
Then his gaze drifted to the pin attached to your backpack.
Small.
Silver.
The Rebel Alliance symbol.
His brows furrowed.
“What’s that?”
You looked down.
“Oh. It’s Star Wars.”
Zeke nodded immediately like he understood.
Except his expression was completely blank.
You narrowed your eyes.
“You’ve never seen Star Wars?”
He looked genuinely offended.
“Course I’ve seen Star Wars.”
“Which one’s your favorite?”
A beat of silence.
“…The space one.”
You burst out laughing so loudly several students glared at you.
Zeke grinned despite being caught.
“Alright, fine. I haven’t seen ‘em.”
“How have you never seen Star Wars?”
“I was busy being delinquent white trash.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s a little bit an answer.”
You shook your head incredulously.
“That’s honestly tragic.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Can’t be worse than that weird British baking show you made me watch.”
“The Great British Bake Off doesn’t exist yet.”
“…Then whatever the hell that cooking thing was.”
“Iron Chef.”
“Yeah. That.”
You laughed again.
Zeke stared at you for half a second too long.
Then looked away quickly.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
But his ears had gone pink.
Three days later, you walked into biology to find Zeke asleep at his desk.
Not unusual.
What was unusual was the Star Wars VHS tapes spilling from his backpack.
Your eyes widened.
No way.
You slid into the seat beside him quietly.
“Zeke.”
He grunted without opening his eyes.
“Zeke.”
“What.”
“Are those Star Wars tapes?”
One blue eye cracked open immediately.
“…Maybe.”
“Oh my god.”
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face.
“You said it was tragic.”
“So you’re watching them?”
Zeke shrugged like it was no big deal.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
Your grin grew impossible to hide.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“What do you think?”
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then said carefully:
“I think Han Solo shoots first.”
You gasped dramatically.
Zeke smirked.
“I think Luke’s kinda whiny.”
“That’s fair.”
“And Princess Leia could probably kill somebody.”
“She absolutely could.”
“And Yoda talks weird as hell.”
You laughed so hard your head dropped onto the desk.
Zeke looked absurdly pleased with himself.
“You watched all of them?”
“Watched two.”
“Which one next?”
“Empire.”
Your eyes lit up instantly.
“Oh my god, you’re gonna love Empire.”
Zeke froze slightly.
Because you were looking at him with genuine excitement.
Warmth.
Affection.
And suddenly watching those movies didn’t feel like some dumb attempt to impress a girl anymore.
It felt important.
Because you cared about it.
Which meant he cared about it too.
Even if he didn’t fully understand why yet.
He started sitting with you more after that.
At lunch.
In lectures.
Outside your dorm while pretending he “just happened to be nearby.”
You caught onto him quickly.
“You’re following me.”
“Nah.”
“You are literally carrying my books.”
“That’s called helping.”
“You stole one of my fries.”
“That’s called tax.”
You smiled despite yourself.
Zeke looked at you like every smile felt earned.
And honestly?
Maybe it did.
The movie marathons became a thing accidentally.
You watched Return of the Jedi together in your dorm room while your roommate stayed at her boyfriend’s apartment.
Halfway through the film, you realized Zeke was paying more attention to you than the screen.
“You missed the entire Jabba sequence.”
“I know what happens.”
“You’ve never seen this one.”
“Still.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously.
“…You don’t actually care about Star Wars that much, do you?”
Zeke hesitated.
Too long.
You gasped.
“Oh my god.”
He laughed immediately.
“No, no, I like it.”
“You watched these for me!”
“That sounds kinda pathetic when you say it out loud.”
Your chest felt suddenly, dangerously warm.
“Zeke…”
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“You always light up talking about this stuff.”
The sincerity in his voice stole your breath.
“So I figured…” He shrugged helplessly. “I dunno. Gave me an excuse to hear you talk.”
Your heart did something deeply embarrassing.
You stared at him.
Zeke, suddenly nervous under your silence, looked away toward the TV.
“You can tell me to shut up now.”
Instead you smiled softly.
“You’re kind of sweet sometimes.”
He barked out a laugh.
“Don’t spread that around.”
By May, Attack of the Clones posters covered every theater in town.
You mentioned it once.
One single time.
You and a friend walked past a cinema downtown when you sighed dramatically.
“I’m so excited for this movie.”
Zeke, leaning against his truck nearby smoking a cigarette, looked up immediately.
“You are?”
“It’s Star Wars.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Yes. I’m excited.”
He stared at the poster thoughtfully.
Then at you.
Then back at the poster.
A terrifyingly determined expression crossed his face.
Three days later, there was a knock on your dorm door.
You opened it to find Zeke standing there in a black button-up shirt instead of his usual band tees.
Your brain temporarily stopped functioning.
“Oh.”
His confidence visibly wavered.
“That bad, huh?”
“No! No, you just…” You blinked rapidly. “You look nice.”
Relief flashed across his face immediately.
“Good.”
Then he held up two movie tickets.
Attack of the Clones.
Friday night.
Your heart nearly exploded.
“You bought tickets?”
Zeke shrugged carefully, trying to act casual and failing miserably.
“Thought maybe you’d wanna go.”
You stared at him.
“Like… on a date?”
The word clearly terrified him slightly.
But he nodded anyway.
“Yeah.”
Something unbearably fond bloomed in your chest.
“Yes.”
Zeke blinked.
“Yeah?”
“Yes, idiot.”
His grin arrived instantly.
Bright.
Real.
Beautiful.
God, you were in trouble.
Friday night felt surreal.
Zeke showed up exactly on time.
Your roommate nearly had a breakdown watching him lean against his truck downstairs.
“That man looks illegal.”
“He’s just wearing a leather jacket.”
“He’s so hot it’s upsetting.”
You rolled your eyes while trying not to smile too hard.
Then you climbed into his truck and immediately noticed music already playing softly.
The Star Wars soundtrack.
You looked over slowly.
Zeke refused eye contact.
“You’re such a loser.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“You downloaded the soundtrack.”
“Shut up.”
Your smile hurt your cheeks.
Dinner came first.
A real dinner.
Not fast food.
Not pizza in someone’s dorm.
Zeke took you to a small diner outside town with terrible decor and incredible burgers.
He opened doors for you awkwardly.
Stared at you across the table like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.
Listened when you talked.
Really listened.
At one point you caught him smiling softly while you rambled about theories for the movie.
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“You’re staring again.”
“You’re cute when you’re excited.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
Zeke noticed immediately.
And looked absurdly pleased with himself.
The movie itself was chaos.
You loved it.
Zeke pretended to hate parts of it specifically because your offended reactions amused him.
“You cannot be serious.”
“I’m serious. Yoda should not be flipping around like that.”
“It’s iconic.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Still hot though.”
You nearly choked on your popcorn.
Zeke grinned unapologetically.
Halfway through the movie, your hands brushed on the armrest.
Neither of you moved away.
By the end, his fingers were loosely intertwined with yours.
Warm.
Careful.
Intentional.
And somehow that tiny touch felt more intimate than anything else ever had.
The drive home was quieter.
Comfortable.
Summer air drifted through the truck windows warm and soft.
You glanced over at Zeke occasionally beneath passing streetlights.
He looked relaxed.
Happy.
Different somehow.
When he pulled up outside your dorm, neither of you moved immediately.
You unbuckled slowly.
“That was really fun.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Zeke looked down at his hands briefly.
Then back at you.
“I was kinda terrified.”
You laughed softly.
“Why?”
“Because I wanted it to be good.”
The honesty in his voice wrapped around your heart tightly.
“It was good.”
His shoulders relaxed visibly.
Silence settled again.
Not awkward.
Just full.
Heavy with things neither of you quite knew how to say yet.
Then Zeke spoke quietly.
“I think I’ve liked you for a while.”
Your breath caught.
He looked almost annoyed admitting it.
“Which sucks, by the way.”
You smiled helplessly.
“Why?”
“Because now I care about dumb shit like Star Wars release dates.”
You burst out laughing.
Zeke looked at you for a second like he’d never seen anything prettier.
Then his expression softened.
“You got somethin’ on your face.”
“What?”
He leaned closer slowly.
Your pulse jumped immediately.
“Me.”
And then he kissed you.
Soft.
Sweet.
Nothing like you expected from someone like Zeke Tyler.
One careful hand cupped your jaw while his lips moved against yours gently, almost cautiously, like he was afraid of ruining something.
You melted instantly.
When you kissed him back, Zeke made the quietest surprised sound against your mouth.
Like he hadn’t expected you to want him this much too.
The kiss deepened slightly.
Warm.
Slow.
Perfect.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were smiling.
Foreheads nearly touching.
“You know,” you whispered, “for someone who watched Star Wars just to impress me…”
Zeke smirked softly.
“Worked though, didn’t it?”
You kissed him again before he could get smug about it.
After graduating high school, Zeke becomes a tattoo artist and moves to a town where aliens hadn't tried to kill him.
You're a florist in the store next door to the tattoo parlor where Zeke starts working.
Slowly a friendship blossoms between you and the artist.
love me a tattoo artist/florist AU
The bell above your shop door had a soft, familiar chime—light, delicate, like everything else in your little world of petals and stems. It rang constantly, a gentle rhythm to your days. You liked it that way. Predictable. Safe.
Across the narrow street, though, things were… different.
The old storefront had been empty for weeks—dusty windows, papered glass, a “For Lease” sign that had curled at the corners from too much sun. You hadn’t thought much of it until one morning, halfway through trimming the thorns off a bundle of roses, you heard the unmistakable scrape of something heavy being dragged across wood.
You glanced up.
The paper had been peeled back.
Inside, a man stood in the middle of the empty space, sleeves pushed up, muscles flexing as he hauled a counter into place. Dark hair, slightly messy. Movements confident, practiced. There was something about him that didn’t belong in a quiet town like this—something sharp, like he’d been forged somewhere louder, harsher.
You watched longer than you meant to.
He paused, like he could feel it, and looked up.
Your eyes met through the glass.
You startled, immediately dropping your gaze back to the roses, suddenly very interested in a thorn that didn’t need trimming. Heat crept up your neck.
When you dared to look again, he was still there—but now he was smirking.
By the end of the week, the sign went up:
INK & NEEDLE
It wasn’t subtle. Neither was he.
You learned his name a few days later, when he finally crossed the street.
The bell chimed.
You turned, brushing dirt from your hands onto your apron, ready with your usual greeting—and stopped.
Up close, he was even more… noticeable. Taller than you’d thought. Tattoos curling down his arms like they belonged there, like they’d grown with him instead of being added later. His eyes were sharp, observant, like he didn’t miss much.
“Uh,” he said, scratching the back of his neck like he suddenly wasn’t as confident as he looked. “You sell… plants, right?”
You blinked. “I—yes. That is… the general idea.”
His mouth twitched. “Right. Yeah. Figured.”
There was a pause. Not awkward, exactly. Just… searching.
“I need something that won’t die,” he added.
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bold request.”
“I got a track record,” he said dryly. “It’s not great.”
Something in his tone—half-joking, half-not—made you soften.
You stepped out from behind the counter. “Alright. Let’s see what we can do.”
That was how it started.
With a snake plant.
“You can forget to water it,” you explained, handing him the pot. “Ignore it completely for a week or two. It thrives on neglect.”
“Perfect,” he said. “That’s kinda my thing.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “I don’t think that’s something to be proud of.”
He shrugged. “Depends who you ask.”
“Then I’m definitely not asking you.”
That earned you a real smile. Quick, but genuine.
“Zeke,” he said, shifting the plant to one arm so he could offer his hand.
You told him your name, shaking it.
His grip was warm. Steady.
And just like that, something settled into place.
He came back the next day.
Not for another plant.
“For advice,” he claimed, leaning against the counter like he had every right to be there. “How often do I water it again?”
“You’re standing in front of the instructions I wrote for you,” you pointed out.
“Yeah, but what if they’re wrong?”
You narrowed your eyes. “They’re not.”
“Still,” he said. “Better safe than sorry.”
You crossed your arms. “You just wanted an excuse to come back.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah.”
Your breath caught for half a second.
Then you rolled your eyes, even as warmth crept into your chest. “Unbelievable.”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
You tried not to smile.
You failed.
It became routine after that.
He’d come in mid-morning, usually with ink smudged faintly along his fingers, smelling faintly of antiseptic and something darker—metal, maybe, or just the lingering edge of his work. Sometimes he’d bring coffee. Sometimes he’d just bring himself and a half-formed excuse.
You learned things about him in pieces.
He didn’t talk about his past much, but when he did, it was always vague. “Different town.” “Different life.” You got the sense there were stories there—ones he wasn’t ready to tell.
He was good with his hands. Careful, precise. You saw it the first time you stepped into his shop.
“I need a vase fixed,” you’d said, holding up a ceramic piece that had cracked clean through.
“That’s not really—” he’d started, then taken it from you anyway. “Give me a second.”
You watched as he worked, brow furrowed, fingers steady as he aligned the edges perfectly.
“There,” he said after a minute, setting it down. “Might not hold water forever, but it’ll last.”
You traced the seam, barely visible. “That’s… really good.”
He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “It’s just practice.”
“Practice at what?”
He hesitated.
“Fixing things,” he said finally.
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.
Weeks turned into months.
Your shops became extensions of each other.
You’d drop off small arrangements for his front desk—bright, unexpected pops of color in a place that might’ve otherwise felt intimidating. He’d pretend not to care, but you always caught the way his eyes lingered on them when he thought you weren’t looking.
He’d fix things for you without being asked. A loose hinge. A flickering light. Once, the entire display rack that had been threatening to collapse for weeks.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” you told him one evening, watching as he tightened the last screw.
“I know,” he said, not looking up. “I want to.”
That did something to you.
More than you were ready to admit.
The first time you saw him shaken, it was late.
You were closing up, sweeping stray leaves from the floor, when the bell rang—hard, urgent.
You looked up.
Zeke stood in the doorway, breathing a little heavier than usual, eyes scanning the room like he needed to make sure it was real.
“Hey,” you said slowly. “Everything okay?”
He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him, and leaned back against it like he needed the support.
“Zeke?”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly.
You set the broom aside. “You’re a terrible liar.”
A beat.
Then, quieter, “Yeah. I know.”
You crossed the room, stopping just in front of him. “Talk to me.”
His jaw tightened.
For a second, you thought he’d brush it off—deflect, joke, do anything but actually answer.
But then his shoulders dropped, just a little.
“Sometimes,” he said, voice low, “it feels like… I left something behind. Something bad. And I keep waiting for it to catch up.”
You didn’t understand—not fully.
But you understood fear.
You reached out, hesitating only briefly before taking his hand.
His fingers curled around yours instantly. Tight.
“You’re here,” you said softly. “Nothing’s caught up to you.”
He looked at you then. Really looked.
And something in his expression shifted.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I am."
After that, the space between you changed.
Subtle at first.
Lingering touches. Hands brushing when they didn’t need to. Conversations that dipped a little deeper, stayed a little longer.
It wasn’t sudden.
It was a slow, steady unraveling.
The night it finally broke open, it was raining.
Of course it was.
Your shop had closed early—no one came out in weather like that. You were in the back, reorganizing stems, when the door burst open hard enough to slam against the wall.
“Shit—sorry!” Zeke’s voice cut through the quiet.
You rushed out. “What—are you okay?”
He was soaked. Completely. Hair plastered to his forehead, shirt clinging to his skin.
“Got caught in it,” he said, pushing the door shut behind him. “Figured I’d wait it out here.”
You stared at him. “You’re going to freeze.”
“I’ll live.”
“No, you won’t,” you shot back. “Stay there.”
You disappeared into the back and returned with a towel, tossing it at him. “Dry off. Now.”
He caught it, blinking. “You always this bossy?”
“Only when people are being stupid.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the towel through his hair.
You grabbed an old hoodie from the back—one you kept for cold mornings—and held it out. “Change.”
He hesitated. “You sure?”
“Yes, Zeke.”
“Alright,” he said, softer. “Alright.”
He peeled off his soaked shirt, and you tried very hard not to stare.
You failed.
His back was a canvas—ink layered over ink, stories etched into skin. Some looked old. Some newer. All of them deliberate.
“You’ve been looking,” he said without turning.
Heat rushed to your face. “I—wasn’t—”
“Hey,” he said, glancing over his shoulder, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I don’t mind.”
That didn’t help.
At all.
He pulled the hoodie on, the fabric stretching slightly across his shoulders, and suddenly he looked… softer. Less guarded.
More yours.
The thought hit you out of nowhere.
You swallowed hard.
“Better?” you asked.
“Yeah,” he said. Then, quieter, “Thanks.”
The rain hammered against the windows.
You stood there, too close, neither of you moving away.
“Zeke,” you started, not entirely sure what you were about to say.
“Yeah?”
Your eyes flicked to his lips.
Then back up.
“I think—”
He closed the distance first.
It wasn’t rushed. Or reckless.
It was careful.
Like he was giving you time to stop him.
You didn’t.
His hand came up, brushing lightly along your jaw, thumb resting just below your ear.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.
You shook your head.
That was all it took.
His lips met yours, soft at first—testing, learning. Like he needed to make sure this was real, that you were real.
You leaned into it, hand fisting in the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer.
He made a quiet sound against your mouth—something almost like relief—and kissed you deeper.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was better than that.
It was real.
All the slow build, all the quiet moments, all the almosts—it all poured into that one kiss.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead rested against yours.
“Been wanting to do that,” he admitted.
You smiled, a little dazed. “Took you long enough.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “Didn’t wanna screw it up.”
“You didn’t,” you said. “You really didn’t.”
His hand found yours again, fingers lacing together like they belonged there.
“Good,” he said.
After that, there was no going back.
No awkward step back. No uncertainty.
Just… forward.
He started closing his shop earlier, just to spend evenings with you. You’d bring flowers over, brightening his space until it looked like something between both your worlds.
You learned his past, eventually—not all at once, but enough to understand the weight he carried.
And he learned yours.
Neither of you ran.
Months later, you stood in his shop, watching as he sketched something onto your skin.
“You sure about this?” he asked, glancing up at you.
“Completely.”
“It’s permanent.”
“So are some things,” you said, meeting his eyes.
Something warm flickered there.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “They are.”
You trusted him.
Completely.
The needle buzzed to life.
And when it was done, you looked down at the small, delicate design—a flower, simple but unmistakably yours.
“Perfect,” you breathed.
He smiled.
Then leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
You closed your shop a little earlier these days.
Not because you had to.
But because there was always somewhere else you wanted to be.
And every time the bell chimed, whether it was your door or his—
You knew exactly who’d be waiting on the other side.
Zeke Tyler trembles when he touches you for the first time.
It’s stupid.
That’s the first thing Zeke decides.
Completely, utterly stupid.
Because he’s done worse than this—way worse. He’s handled things that should’ve had him shaking, heart racing, hands unsteady.
But this?
This is just you.
Standing in front of him in the dim corner of a university party, music thumping somewhere in the background, people moving around you like you’re not standing in the middle of something that suddenly feels way too quiet.
And his hand—
his hand won’t stop shaking.
Zeke flexes his fingers like that’ll fix it. It doesn’t.
You notice.
Of course you do.
Your eyes flick down to his hand, then back up to his face, something soft and curious in your expression.
“Zeke?” you say, a little amused, a little confused. “You good?”
“Yeah,” he answers immediately.
Too fast.
Too easy.
A lie, and he knows you know it.
Because Zeke Tyler is never like this.
He’s the guy who leans back in his chair like the world revolves around him. The guy who smirks through everything, who always has something to say, always knows exactly what he’s doing.
Except right now—
he doesn’t.
Because you’re looking at him like that.
Close. Too close.
Close enough that he can see the tiny shift in your breathing, the way your lips part just slightly like you’re about to say something else.
Close enough that it feels different.
Not like flirting.
Not like a game.
Something heavier.
Something real.
“…what?” he mutters, suddenly defensive.
You tilt your head slightly. “You’re staring.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Just—” he starts, then stops.
Because what the hell is he supposed to say?
Hey, I don’t know why my chest feels tight when you’re this close?
Hey, I think about you when you’re not around and it’s messing with my head?
Hey, I’m trying to touch you and I can’t even keep my hand steady?
Yeah.
Not happening.
So instead, he just—
moves.
Slowly.
Like if he goes too fast, something will break.
His hand lifts between you, hovering awkwardly for a second like he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing anymore.
You don’t move away.
That’s what gets him.
You should, maybe.
Or at least say something.
But you don’t.
You just watch him.
Waiting.
Trusting.
And that—
that makes it worse.
His fingers hover just beside your cheek.
So close he can feel the warmth of your skin without actually touching it.
And they tremble.
Just slightly.
But enough that he notices.
Enough that it pisses him off.
“Zeke,” you say again, softer this time.
Not teasing.
Not pushing.
Just… there.
He swallows.
Then finally—
he lets himself touch you.
Barely.
Fingertips brushing against your cheek like he expects you to disappear under his hand.
Your breath catches, just slightly, and Zeke feels it like a shockwave. His fingertips press a little more firmly against your skin, like he’s trying to ground himself, trying to prove to his own body that this is normal.
That this is nothing.
It’s not nothing.
Your skin is soft. Warmer than he expected. Your pulse flickers faintly beneath his touch, and suddenly he’s hyper-aware of everything—how close you are, the way your eyes are on him, the way neither of you are speaking anymore.
You lean into it.
Just a little.
And that—
that completely wrecks him.
Because now it’s not just him.
Now it’s you too.
His breath catches, fingers pressing a little more firmly against your skin, still careful, still unsure in a way that doesn’t fit him at all.
“You’re—” he starts, then cuts himself off.
You don’t fill the silence.
You let him have it.
Let him figure it out.
For once.
His thumb shifts slightly, brushing along your cheekbone like he’s mapping it out, like he’s trying to understand something he can’t quite put into words.
“You mess me up,” he says finally.
It comes out quiet.
Honest.
Nothing like him.
Your lips curve just slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“I don’t—” he exhales, shaking his head a little. “I don’t do this.”
You glance at his hand still resting against your face. “You seem to be doing it right now.”
He huffs a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh.
“Not like this,” he admits.
And it’s the truth.
Because Zeke Tyler doesn’t hesitate.
Doesn’t second-guess.
Doesn’t stand this close to someone and feel like the ground under him just shifted.
But with you—
everything’s off-balance.
And somehow, he doesn’t hate it.
His hand stills against your cheek, steadier now.
Not because he forced it.
Because he stopped fighting it.
“…you gonna make me regret this?” he asks, voice low.
You meet his gaze, unwavering.
“No.”
That’s all it takes.
His other hand comes up, settling lightly at your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer—not enough to rush, not enough to overwhelm.
Just enough that there’s no space left to pretend this is casual.
“Good,” he murmurs.
Your gaze flicks briefly to his mouth, then back to his eyes, and that tiny movement hits him harder than anything else so far. His fingers tense slightly against your skin, not enough to hurt—just enough that you can feel it.
“Zeke…” you start.
He doesn’t let you finish.
Not because he’s confident.
Not because he suddenly figured everything out.
But because if he doesn’t do something, he’s pretty sure he’s going to lose whatever this is before he even understands it.
Zeke lets out a quiet, almost disbelieving breath, and something in him finally settles. Not completely—he’s still on edge, still hyper-aware—but enough.
Enough to move.
His thumb traces once more along your cheek, slower now, more certain.
This time, it doesn’t tremble.
Not as much.
And then he leans in—
Not rushed. Not reckless.
Careful.
Like you’re something he’s still figuring out how to hold.
Like this matters more than he’s ready to admit.
His forehead brushes yours first, a pause, a question.
And when you don’t pull away—
When you lean in, just slightly—
Zeke Tyler finally, finally closes the distance.
Soft.
Tentative.
Nothing like the image he’s built for himself.
And this time, when his thumb brushes your cheek again—
If you're still taking requests, I have one for Zeke! He meets reader at college and reader is mute and/or has selective mutism. With Zeke being so observant, he notices. Determined to get to know reader, he starts passing notes to them during a lecture they share together, reader then responds, and it becomes a daily occurrence until feelings get involved.
+ 21: "...you know i flirt with you, right?"
"...you know i flirt with you, right?"
Zeke Tyler (The Faculty) x fem!reader
Notes: Selective mutism is a severe childhood anxiety disorder where a person cannot speak in specific social situations (e.g., school) despite speaking comfortably in others (e.g., home)
I love love loved this idea oh my days this was so cuteeeee love me some soft Zeke. I stayed up wayyyy to late to write this and it made me feel giddy.
I also don't know anything really about selective mutism, so please, if I've got anything wrong after my brief google, let me know! I'm always happy to learn new things and I want to write accurately and correctly.
The first note arrives halfway through a lecture you’re only half-listening to.
It slides into your peripheral vision—creased once, like it’s been folded and unfolded a few times already. You glance sideways.
Zeke Tyler isn’t looking at you.
He’s leaned back in his chair, one arm hooked over the back, boot stretched out into the aisle like he owns the room. He looks bored in that deliberate way—like boredom is a choice he’s making, not something happening to him. His pen taps against his notebook, slow, rhythmic.
The note sits between you.
You don’t touch it.
Not at first.
Because this—this is the exact kind of situation that locks your throat tight and quiet. A stranger initiating something. An expectation hovering, unspoken but heavy.
You keep your eyes on the professor. You try to.
But the note burns.
Eventually, slowly, you reach for it.
Unfold.
You don’t talk.
Not a question.
A statement.
Your stomach drops.
Heat crawls up your neck—not embarrassment exactly, but the sharp, defensive edge of being seen too clearly, too quickly. Most people take weeks to notice. Some never do. They just assume you’re quiet. Shy. Rude, sometimes.
You don’t respond.
You fold the paper back up. Slide it slightly toward him.
He glances down.
Then, finally, he looks at you.
Not pitying. Not confused. Not expectant.
Just…curious.
There’s something almost clinical about it. Observant. Like he’s studying a reaction, not demanding one.
His pen taps once more. Stops.
He pulls the note back.
Writes again.
Slides it over.
You hesitate—but less this time.
That’s fine. You don’t have to. Just—
There’s a pause, like he couldn’t decide how to finish the sentence.
—hi.
Your lips press together.
And before you can overthink it—before the anxiety can build into something suffocating—you pick up your pen.
Your hand moves faster than your brain.
Hi.
That’s how it starts.
Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just ink on paper.
The next lecture, there’s already a folded note waiting on your desk before you even sit down.
You glance around.
Zeke’s there, of course. Same seat. Same careless posture.
This time, when your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away.
He tilts his head toward the note.
An invitation.
You open it.
You always sit here? Or am I just lucky?
Your chest does something strange—tightens, then softens.
You write back.
I sit here.
A pause.
Then, because something about him makes it feel…safe to add more—
You sit here too.
When you slide it back, his mouth twitches—almost a smile.
It becomes routine faster than you expect.
Notes passed back and forth like a private conversation in a room full of noise.
At first, it’s simple things.
What did he just say?
No idea.
You taking notes or just pretending?
Pretending.
Then it grows.
What’s your major?
Literature.
Explains the handwriting.
What does that mean?
It’s neat. I can read it.
You find yourself smiling more during lectures. Looking forward to them, even.
Zeke is…different.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to make you speak. Doesn’t ask why you don’t.
But you catch things.
The way he watches you—not constantly, not intensely, but…carefully. Like he’s cataloguing patterns. Learning.
One day, a note reads:
You answer people when they don’t look at you.
Your breath stutters.
You glance at him.
He’s already watching you this time.
Not accusing. Not exposing.
Just…noticing.
You don’t reply to that one.
But the next note you write comes easier.
Eventually, it leaves the lecture hall.
“Study session?” is written in messy handwriting, pushed toward you one afternoon.
You hesitate longer this time.
This is different.
Outside the structured safety of passing notes in a room where silence is normal, expected.
You tap your pen against the desk.
Write.
Where?
His grin is immediate. Bright. A little triumphant.
Library. I promise not to talk your ear off.
You almost laugh.
The first study session is quiet.
Comfortably so.
You sit across from each other, books spread out, notes scattered. Every now and then, one of you slides a piece of paper across the table instead of breaking the silence.
You actually study? I thought that was a myth.
I contain multitudes.
That sounds fake.
It is.
But something shifts.
Because outside the lecture hall, the silence feels different.
It’s not enforced. Not structured.
It’s chosen.
And he still stays.
Cafes come next.
He orders for you the first time—not presumptuous, just…practical.
He glances at you, eyebrows raised slightly, silently asking.
You nod.
He remembers your order after that.
Of course he does.
Zeke notices things.
You start carrying a small notebook with you, easier than loose scraps of paper. Conversations flow in scribbled lines and half-finished sentences.
Sometimes he talks.
Not a lot. Not in a way that demands you respond out loud.
He’ll say things casually, like he’s thinking out loud.
“You ever notice how people pretend they understand stuff in lectures?”
You nod.
He smirks.
“Yeah. Thought so.”
And then, when it matters, when it’s something he wants your response to—he writes.
Bookstores become your place.
You drift between shelves while he lingers nearby, occasionally picking up something random and handing it to you with a raised eyebrow.
You respond in notes tucked between pages.
You’d hate this.
Try me.
It’s about feelings.
Absolutely not.
But he buys one of them anyway.
Later, you find a note tucked inside when you open it.
For educational purposes.
Science talks are his domain.
You go because he asks.
Because he writes it down, slides it across the table like it’s no big deal—
Come with me?
—and something in your chest refuses to let you say no.
He’s different there.
More engaged. Sharper.
You watch him more than the speaker.
He leans forward, asks questions sometimes, debates quietly with himself under his breath.
After, he writes:
Bored?
You shake your head.
Write:
No. You like it.
He studies that for a second.
Then:
Yeah.
A pause.
You notice things too.
Somewhere along the way, it stops being just notes.
Not entirely.
But less necessary.
You start answering him in other ways.
A nod.
A shake of your head.
A small smile.
He never pushes for more.
But you catch him sometimes—watching your mouth when you almost speak.
Like he’s waiting.
Not impatiently.
Just…ready.
The feelings sneak up on you.
There’s no clear moment.
No sudden realization.
Just a slow accumulation of small things.
The way he always sits beside you now, not just near you.
The way he slides you a drink without asking when you look tired.
The way his handwriting gets messier when he’s teasing you.
The way you look for him, automatically, in every room.
It settles in your chest, quiet but constant.
You don’t say anything.
Of course you don’t.
The first time you speak to him, it’s not planned.
It doesn’t feel monumental.
It just…happens.
You’re in a bookstore.
Of course you are.
He’s holding up a book, already halfway through a sentence—
“This one’s gotta be the worst thing ever written, I mean just the blurb—”
And before you can stop yourself—
“—you said that about the last one.”
It’s soft.
Your voice is unused in this space, barely above a breath.
But it’s there.
Real.
Zeke freezes.
Completely.
The book lowers slowly.
His eyes lock onto you like he’s not entirely sure you’re real.
You feel it immediately—that spike of panic, the instinct to shut down, retreat, swallow the moment back into silence.
But he doesn’t react the way people usually do.
No loud surprise. No overwhelming attention.
Just…quiet.
Awe, almost.
“Yeah?” he says, softer than you’ve ever heard him.
You nod.
Your throat tightens, but it doesn’t close.
He studies you for a long second.
Then he smiles—small, careful, like he’s handling something fragile.
“I’ve been reading about it,” he says.
You blink.
“Selective mutism.”
Your chest tightens again—but differently.
Not fear.
Recognition.
“I know it’s not…simple,” he continues. “And I know you don’t just…decide to talk.”
You swallow.
He steps a little closer—not crowding, just…there.
“So that means something,” he says quietly.
A pause.
“To me.”
Your heart stutters.
And for the first time, you don’t reach for a pen.
After that, things change.
Not all at once.
You don’t suddenly become talkative.
But with him—
Words come easier.
Short ones. Quiet ones.
Sometimes you still write.
Sometimes you don’t.
He adapts without thinking about it.
Like it was never a question.
The notes never fully disappear.
They just…slow down.
Become something softer. Less necessary, more intentional.
So when he slides one across the table one afternoon—weeks later, months maybe—it catches your attention immediately.
You raise an eyebrow at him.
He just gestures toward it.
You unfold it.
…you know i flirt with you, right?
You stare at it.
Then at him.
He’s watching you, but there’s something different this time.
Not just curiosity.
Something a little more vulnerable.
A little more unsure.
Your heart pounds.
You don’t write back.
Instead—
You look at him.
Really look.
And then, quietly—
“Yes.”
The word hangs between you.
Zeke blinks.
Once.
Then he laughs—soft, disbelieving, a little breathless.
“Okay,” he says.
A pause.
Then, leaning in just slightly—
“Good.”
The word settles between you like something fragile and newly real.
For a second, neither of you move.
Zeke’s still leaning a little closer than usual, elbow on the table, fingers loosely curled around the pen he hasn’t realized he’s still holding. His eyes don’t leave your face—searching, not in that sharp, observant way he usually has, but softer now. Careful.
Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull back.
You don’t.
Your pulse is loud—too loud, it feels like—but your body doesn’t lock up the way it used to. There’s no sudden wall slamming down in your throat. No instinct to disappear.
Just nerves.
And something warm, blooming low in your chest.
“You gonna… say anything else?” he asks after a moment, voice quieter than usual, almost teasing—but not enough to hide the uncertainty underneath.
You huff out the smallest breath of a laugh.
It surprises both of you.
His eyebrows lift.
Encouraging.
You swallow.
Your fingers curl slightly against the table, grounding yourself.
“I—” Your voice catches, falters.
His expression shifts instantly.
Just…patience.
“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now. “You don’t have to push it.”
The words don’t shut you down.
They steady you.
Because he’s not waiting for you to perform. Not expecting anything more than you can give.
So you try again.
Slower.
“I know,” you say, quieter this time, but clearer.
His shoulders relax, just a fraction.
“Yeah?”
You nod.
A beat passes.
And then, because your brain is racing faster than your fear can keep up—
“You’re not subtle.”
The second it’s out, your eyes widen slightly, like you didn’t mean to be that bold.
Zeke freezes.
Then—grins.
Not his usual cocky smirk.
Something brighter. A little stunned.
“Not subtle?” he repeats, like he’s testing the words.
You shake your head, a small smile tugging at your mouth despite yourself.
“No.”
He leans back in his chair, dragging a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide how pleased he is—and failing.
“Damn,” he mutters. “Here I thought I was being smooth.”
You tilt your head, considering.
“…No.”
That earns a quiet laugh from him—low, warm, and directed entirely at you.
And something in your chest flips.
After that, there’s no going back.
Not to how things were before.
Because now it’s out there.
Not just his feelings—yours, too. Not said outright, not spelled out in a neat confession, but…understood.
Zeke doesn’t suddenly become overwhelming.
If anything, he gets more intentional.
More careful.
But also—more obvious.
He sits closer.
Not in a way that traps you, just…near enough that your arms brush sometimes when you’re both reaching for the same book.
He notices when you’re getting overwhelmed before you even fully register it yourself.
Crowded café? His hand slides your notebook toward you with a short note:
Outside?
You nod.
He pays, doesn’t make a thing of it, just walks with you until the noise fades.
Bookstore too busy? He steers you toward quieter corners without asking.
Study sessions run too long? He taps your pen twice against the table—a silent check-in.
You tap back once.
I’m okay.
Twice.
I need a break.
He learns your language like it’s second nature.
And you—
You talk more.
Not all the time.
Not in every setting.
But with him?
It’s different.
Words come easier when it’s just the two of you.
Short sentences turn into longer ones.
Hesitant phrases turn into quiet conversations.
Sometimes you still pause, still stumble—but he never fills the silence for you unless you want him to.
He gives you space to find the words.
And waits.
Always waits.
It happens a few weeks after the note.
You’re in your usual café, tucked into the corner where it’s quieter. Your notebooks are open, but neither of you has done much studying.
Zeke’s been watching you for the last few minutes.
Not in that analytical way.
Just…looking.
You notice.
Of course you do.
“…What?” you ask, glancing up from your page.
The word comes easier now.
Still soft.
Still careful.
But natural.
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just leans his head against his hand, studying you like he’s trying to memorize something.
“You’re different with me,” he says finally.
Your chest tightens.
Not in a bad way.
Just…aware.
You frown slightly, not defensive—just curious.
“How?”
His gaze flicks over your face, like he’s choosing his words carefully for once.
“You talk,” he says simply.
A pause.
“Not all the time. Not like—” he gestures vaguely, “—normal people, I guess.”
There’s no judgment in it.
Just fact.
“But you do,” he continues. “With me.”
You look down at your hands.
Your fingers trace the edge of your notebook.
“I don’t… mean to,” you admit quietly.
He huffs a soft laugh.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured that.”
You glance up.
He’s smiling—but softer than usual.
Not teasing.
Something else.
“It’s not an accident, though,” he adds.
Your brow furrows slightly.
“What do you mean?”
He sits up a little straighter.
Meets your eyes directly.
“I mean—you don’t just wake up one day and start talking to someone if it doesn’t matter,” he says.
Your heart stutters.
“You trust me,” he finishes.
The words land heavier than you expect.
Because they’re true.
And hearing them out loud—
It makes something shift.
You swallow.
“…Yeah,” you say, barely above a whisper.
Zeke’s expression changes.
Just slightly.
Like something clicked into place.
“Okay,” he murmurs.
A beat.
Then, softer—
“Good.”
And this time, it means something deeper.
It builds slowly after that.
The space between you shrinking in small, almost unnoticeable ways.
His knee brushing yours under the table—and neither of you moving away.
His hand lingering a second too long when he passes you something.
The way he says your name now—like it belongs to him a little.
You start noticing everything.
The way he looks at you when you’re not paying attention.
The way his voice drops when it’s just the two of you.
The way he still writes you notes sometimes—even when you’re sitting right there.
One shows up tucked into your book one afternoon.
You’re staring again.
You glance up immediately.
He’s already watching you, smirking.
You roll your eyes—but your cheeks are warm.
“…You’re obvious,” you say.
He grins.
“Learned from the best.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling.
The first time he touches you on purpose—really touches you—it’s almost nothing.
And everything.
You’re walking out of a lecture together, the hallway louder than usual, people brushing past too close, voices overlapping in a way that starts to make your chest tighten.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
You glance at him.
And then—
His hand finds yours.
Not grabbing.
Not pulling.
Just…there.
Fingers brushing lightly against yours.
An option.
Your breath catches.
For a second, you freeze.
And then—
You turn your hand slightly.
Let your fingers slip into his.
It’s tentative.
Loose.
But it’s enough.
Zeke goes still beside you.
Just for a fraction of a second.
Then his grip tightens—just a little.
Secure.
Grounding.
He doesn’t say anything.
Neither do you.
But he doesn’t let go until you’re outside, where it’s quiet again.
And even then—
His fingers linger.
Like he doesn’t want to.
Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll stop him.
You don’t.
Later that night, you find a note in your bag.
You don’t remember him putting it there.
You unfold it slowly.
I like you.
Simple.
No teasing.
No deflection.
Just truth.
Your chest aches in the best way.
You stare at the words for a long time.
Then, carefully, you fold the note back up.
Tuck it somewhere safe.
Because tomorrow—
You’re going to tell him.
Out loud.
You spend most of the night awake.
Not because you don’t know what you want to say.
You do.
That’s the terrifying part.
The words are there, circling endlessly in your head, clear and certain in a way thoughts rarely are when they involve speaking them aloud.
I like you too.
Simple.
Three words and one tiny modifier.
And yet every time you imagine actually saying them to Zeke—really saying them, with your own voice—your chest tightens.
Not because it feels wrong.
Because it feels enormous.
Selective mutism has always made words feel heavier than they should.
For most people, speaking is instinctive. Thoughtless.
For you, sometimes it feels like trying to force your way through an invisible wall. The more something matters, the thicker that wall can become.
And this matters.
God, it matters.
Which is why by the time morning arrives, your stomach is in knots and your hands are cold despite the warm spring air.
You nearly don’t go.
You stand outside the campus café for almost five full minutes, staring through the window at the familiar corner table.
Zeke is already there.
Of course he is.
Leaning back in his chair, one foot hooked around the leg of the table, lazily flipping through a book he’s probably not actually reading.
Your chest squeezes.
Then he looks up.
Sees you.
And smiles.
That easy, crooked smile that always seems to loosen something tight inside you.
He lifts a hand in greeting.
No pressure.
No expectation.
Just hi.
And somehow, that’s enough to make your feet move.
“Hey,” he says as you sit down.
His voice is casual.
Warm.
Completely unaware that your internal organs currently feel like they’re attempting escape.
You manage a small nod.
“Got your usual,” he adds, nudging the cup toward you.
You glance down.
Exactly how you like it.
Of course.
“Thanks,” you say quietly.
The word comes easier than it once would have.
His smile shifts—small, pleased.
He’ll never stop noticing when you talk.
You’re pretty sure he can’t help it.
For a few minutes, things are normal.
Comfortable.
He rambles about a professor assigning an absurd amount of reading.
You listen.
Respond where you can.
Try not to fixate on the folded note tucked carefully inside your bag.
The one you reread at least twelve times before leaving your dorm.
I like you.
Eventually, Zeke notices your distraction.
Because he notices everything.
“You okay?”
Your fingers tighten around your cup.
This is it.
You could write it.
It would be easier.
Safer.
There’s a notebook right there.
A pen resting beside his hand.
You could reach for it and let ink carry the weight like it always has.
But something inside you pushes back against that instinct.
Because this—
This deserves your voice.
Your pulse pounds.
Zeke’s expression shifts almost immediately when he sees the tension in your face.
Concern replaces curiosity.
“Hey,” he says softly, leaning forward. “You don’t have to—”
“I like you too.”
The words tumble out fast.
A little breathless.
A little shaky.
But unmistakably there.
Silence.
Total, absolute silence.
Zeke freezes.
Completely.
His mouth parts slightly.
His eyes go wide—not dramatically, just enough that it’s obvious the words landed exactly as hard as they felt leaving you.
For one horrible second, panic spikes.
Maybe too sudden.
Maybe too blunt.
Maybe—
And then his entire face changes.
He beams.
Actually beams.
It’s so bright and unguarded that it steals your breath for a completely different reason.
You’ve seen Zeke grin.
Smirk.
Laugh.
But this?
This is pure, stunned happiness.
It transforms him.
“Yeah?” he says, and his voice comes out a little wrecked around the edges, like he’s trying very hard to stay cool and failing miserably.
Heat floods your face.
But you nod.
And because you’ve already done the hardest part—
“Yes,” you say again, softer this time.
His grin somehow widens.
“Wow.”
He lets out a breathless laugh, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Okay. Wow.”
You can’t help the small smile that pulls at your mouth.
He looks almost dazed.
Like he can’t quite believe this is real.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to figure out if I was imagining this,” he says.
You blink.
“What?”
He gives you an incredulous look.
“You’re hard to read.”
That startles an actual laugh out of you.
Soft and brief, but real.
His expression immediately softens at the sound.
Like he treasures every noise you make.
“Seriously,” he says. “I was out here analyzing every look like some kind of desperate lab rat.”
“You research things.”
“I do.”
“You researched me.”
He groans dramatically, dropping his forehead briefly onto the table.
“Please never phrase it like that again.”
Your smile grows.
He lifts his head again, still grinning.
And then he goes quiet.
His gaze settles on your face.
Warmer now.
More careful.
There’s a question in it.
An unspoken can I?
You don’t know how you know that’s what it means.
Maybe because you’ve gotten so good at reading him.
Maybe because he’s always made sure you have space to choose.
Either way—
You nod.
Small.
Certain.
The change in him is immediate.
He rises just enough from his chair to lean across the table.
Slowly.
Giving you every chance to pull away.
You don’t.
And then his lips brush your cheek.
Soft.
Quick.
Barely there.
But warm enough to send a sharp little shiver down your spine.
When he pulls back, he’s blushing.
Actually blushing.
Zeke Tyler—usually all easy confidence and amused arrogance—looks almost shy.
“Was that okay?” he asks quietly.
You stare at him for a second.
Then, before your nerves can catch up—
You lean forward.
Press a small kiss to his cheek in return.
When you pull back, he looks genuinely stunned.
His hand lifts to touch the spot, like he needs to confirm it happened.
Then he laughs.
Soft and disbelieving.
“Oh, wow,” he murmurs.
Your lips twitch.
“What?”
He shakes his head, still smiling so hard his cheeks must hurt.
“Nothing.”
A pause.
Then—
“I’m definitely writing about this in my notes later.”
You snort.
He brightens instantly at the sound.
“There’s my favorite noise.”
Your face burns.
“Shut up.”
The words slip out easily.
Natural.
And his expression goes unexpectedly soft.
Not because of what you said.
Because you said it.
To him.
Without fear.
Without force.
Just because you wanted to.
His hand drifts across the table.
Palm up.
Waiting.
You slide your hand into his.
His fingers curl around yours immediately.
Gentle.
Sure.
And for a while, neither of you says anything.
You just sit there in the quiet hum of the café, hands clasped between half-finished drinks and scattered textbooks.
Zeke tracing absent little patterns against your skin.
Both of you smiling like idiots.
The note tucked safely in your bag.
“Wanna get dinner?” he asks, the sun beginning to set in the distance.
You blink.
A laugh escapes you.
Of course that’s his follow-up.
Not wow, we’re finally acknowledging our mutual feelings.
Not can I take you on a proper date?
Just—
Dinner.
Like this is all the most natural progression in the world.
“…Is this your way of asking me out?”
He grins.
“Maybe.”
You squeeze his hand once.
Tiny.
Intentional.
“Yes.”
His eyebrows rise.
“To dinner?”
You shake your head, smiling now.
“To both.”
That gets you another look of pure delight.
Like he still can’t quite believe this is happening.
“Damn,” he mutters, starting to walk again, tugging you gently along beside him. “Best day I’ve had in a while.”
You roll your eyes, but let him pull you forward.
Your hand stays in his the entire walk.
And when he absentmindedly brushes his thumb across your knuckles—
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