Our town was never meant to be desired… It was not touristic, not loud, not blessed with spectacle. It was the kind of place old couples chose when they were tired of wanting more;a town people arrived at only after they had already lived. Young adults were rare here; they left as soon as they learned the roads could take them elsewhere. It was understood, almost like a rule passed down quietly: if you were born here and decided to stay, you would also die here , surrounded by the same faces, under the same sky, beside the same green field where you had wasted and worshiped all your free time. And we had plenty of it.
These very criteria convinced me I had been born in the perfect place, at the perfect time.
All I had ever wanted was a slow life ; one without surprises, without urgency, without the constant threat of change. I romanticized every unhurried morning, every dinner built patiently from local ingredients, every solitary picnic by the lake, every predictable family gathering that ended the same way it began. I believed stillness was a virtue, that repetition was a form of peace.
That belief survived…until I met him.
He arrived like fate that had taken the long way around, as though the world had bent itself patiently just to cross our paths. He once said , half-smiling, half-serious, that we were meant to find each other here, meant to share this quiet boredom together, meant to live gently until we were buried under the same ground. At the time, I believed him without resistance.
He was pale and quiet, always dressed in neat, careful pieces, almost angelic in their precision. Even his smile was restrained—soft, distant—like sunlight that feels unsettling because it is too white, too clean, as if a blinding ray slipped from behind him without warning. His long hair was tied into a tidy man bun. I had always hated long hair on men ,how it often looked greasy, careless, almost indecent. His wasn’t. It was silky, luminous, healthier than my own, and I hated myself for noticing.
That was how I saw him the first time.
And that was the commentary running through my head as it happened.
Given the size of the place I lived in; where everyone knew everyone, or at least knew of them ,I concluded almost immediately that he was not from here. The heavy bag slung over his back confirmed it. So did the way he entered the café.
It was the only coffee corner in town that tried to be something more than functional ,subtle lighting, mismatched chairs, an ambition toward aesthetics that felt almost rebellious. I was standing at the counter, struggling to decide on an order I had already memorized, when he walked in. Not just I noticed him , everyone did. Silence shifts when a stranger enters a place like that.
He stood behind me in line.
There were only two of us.
So I made a quick decision and moved to an empty table upon making my order , pretending to mind my own business while the question in my head kept colliding with invisible walls: what was a man that young doing here, in a town this dormant? By the time both our orders were ready, he took his cup and left the café. I brushed the thought away with deliberate effort and returned to my journal, as words pinned my curiosity down and kept it from wandering.
The day slipped past without ceremony. By nightfall, I was already preparing myself for the coming week, for Monday, for routine. Even in a town this small, life still moved: schools opened their gates, shops lifted their shutters, children ran through streets that never learned new names. Most people here owned small farms, living off what the land agreed to give them, selling organic produce either to nearby cities or directly from their own hands. That was how my family lived too. Because of it, I was spared the weight of money, the kinda weight that dictates decisions, compresses dreams. I had the privilege of choosing exactly how I wanted to exist.
I chose quiet.
I lived alone in a small house with a modest front yard, and a few blocks away was there , my pride: a tiny library and restoration studio. I didn’t only sell new books. I repaired what time tried to erase. Paper, glue, broken spines, softened corners , the smell alone felt sacred.
Clients came always with intention: libraries, collectors, people who loved old letters too much to let them decay. The work was solitary, meticulous, and deeply meditative. Exactly the kind of life I had imagined for myself , selling normal books here and there and repairing some from time to time .
I knew that by morning I would have visitors ; teenagers after school, old people during the day, all asking for some forgotten, boring title they half-remembered.
I did not expect him.
I had almost forgotten the stranger from the café when he appeared in front of me instead of an old man asking for a manual or a farming guide. The bell above the door rang softly as he entered. His resting face looked as if it was already smiling. His steps were slow, deliberate. He shone again , as if light poured from him rather than onto him.
Once more, I pretended to be occupied.
He wandered briefly through the shelves before returning to the counter, holding a small guidebook; a map of the town. One I had forgotten I even stocked. When I finally looked at him, properly, for the first time, our eyes met.
They were… shaded. Not dark ; guarded.
I smiled as he handed me the book.
“New here?” I asked. “Visiting someone?”
“Sort of,” he replied. “I guess I look out of place. Everyone keeps asking me the same thing.”
He spoke with the same soft, almost suspicious smile, reaching for his wallet.
“No need,” I said, gently pushing the map back. “Consider it a welcome gift. I hope it helps.”
Something in his gaze shifted then. The guarded look dissolved into something genuine ,soft, unguarded. He thanked me and left, the bell echoing behind him like a thought that refused to fade.
After that, he vanished.
For the rest of the week, I didn’t see him once. I only heard of him through old women whispering on sidewalks, He had a house nearby, they said. A truck had arrived with furniture. He was staying. Maybe even moving in.
Yet I dismissed the thought. No one our age chose a place like this.
The following Monday arrived too quickly, days were repetitive on this side of the world . I was reorganizing shelves, the radio murmuring in the background, when the bell rang again. I carefully set the books down and walked to the counter.
He was there.
Standing as if he knew I would be.
There was a certainty about him that unsettled me , as if he had won an argument that had never been spoken. The same soft smile rested on his lips, still mismatched with his eyes. In his hand was a small basket, filled with chocolate cookies.
Before I could speak, he slid it gently toward me.
“A small thank you for the map,” he said. “It helped more than I expected.”
I murmured my thanks, but he continued before the moment could settle.
“If you’re free this weekend,” he said, “maybe I could take you for a coffee. You don’t have to answer now. I’ll come back later…give you time to think.”
And then he was gone.
All I could hear was the bell again, ringing too loudly in my ears.
I had seen it coming, to be honest. In a town like this, his options were limited. Excluding the possibility of a girl waiting somewhere where he came from, beyond these fields , which I assumed existed , it was only a matter of time before he ended up with one of us. That’s what the old ladies whispered anyway. He was their newest fascination. a Hot topic , in every sense of the word.
But I had excluded myself entirely.
After all, I hadn’t seen him since the day of the map. I assumed that whatever quiet list he had made in his mind, I had already been crossed off , forgotten as easily as a stranger passing through.
And yet, something about the way he looked at me suggested otherwise
By then, I was somehow certain we would not remain just two random people inhabiting the same town.
That week stretched longer than it had any right to. Not just for me but for my friends too. They knew who he was by then; they had crossed paths with him once or twice, enough to confirm he was real and not something my imagination had quietly manufactured. The three of us began meeting more often, small reunions disguised as casual evenings, where we constructed theories and possibilities for scenarios that never actually unfolded. By midweek, we had reached a collective agreement: he deserved a chance. For the team, we said , so we could all get to know the outsider who had wandered into our small, sealed land and for the plot since it was way too peaceful here .
Looking back, we were little more than an updated version of the old ladies who had dissected him days earlier. The only difference was proximity. They watched and commented from a distance; we felt almost involved, as if curiosity alone granted us some claim over him after his interaction with me .
Every evening, we gathered at one another’s houses. A DVD played on the television, long forgotten, its flickering light merely an excuse for background noise. Conversation always drifted back to him. And yet, despite the attention we paid him in absence, he never appeared. Not once. Not in the streets, not near the café, not passing by any of us. It was as if he had never existed at all ,as if we were collectively indulging in an elaborate delusion.
Friday arrived.
I was waiting out the final ten minutes before the clock struck seven so I could wrap up the day. My thoughts had already stood me up for a date that never began. Had he hesitated? Regretted it? Forgotten entirely?
The bell rang.
The look on my face must have betrayed everything. He stood there ; the very last minute , and I didn’t even attempt to hide my shock. I was certain he could tell I had been waiting for him all week, that I had thought about him more than I cared to admit.
His eyes were suspicious, as always carrying something sharp, something calculating that never quite matched his face. They suggested a mind working quietly behind the scene, a mastermind hidden backstage. And yet, his soft, innocent smile camouflaged it so perfectly that I almost convinced myself I was the only one who saw it. That perhaps I was overthinking, accusing him of something without evidence.
In the few seconds it took him to approach the counter, I gathered myself. The wood between us felt deliberate, a boundary I was grateful for. I waited for him to speak first, even though we both knew exactly why he was there....
so... i wrote this yesterday cuz i was struggling to find a boring tamsy fic aka my fav type so i decided to write one my self ,not sur eif anyone would read it or be interested but id like to get insights
He’s not the type to be sweet in a conventional way. Instead, he shows affection by mocking, nicknaming, or playfully provoking his partner. If he teases you, it means he’s comfortable.
Jabber doesn’t like competition. If someone else tries to get close to his partner, he’ll make it very clear—sometimes with words, sometimes with intimidation.
His version of “quality time” might be sparring, pulling his partner into risky situations, or laughing together in the middle of danger. He bonds through shared adrenaline.
Despite his wildness, once he chooses someone, he sticks with them fiercely. His loyalty is absolute, even if his methods are unconventional.
Jabber might show up with something random he stole or found, claiming it reminded him of his partner. It’s messy, but it’s his way of showing thoughtfulness.
He’ll throw himself into fights without hesitation if his partner is threatened. He doesn’t always say “I care,” but his actions say it.
Jabber would share playlists or hum songs that remind him of his partner. It’s his way of being vulnerable without saying too much.
Despite his chaotic streak, he values loyalty and bonds. His partner becomes part of his “crew,” and he’ll defend that bond against anyone.
Yall cook fire freestyles.
If babygirl goes with his craziness:
They’d be the Bonnie to his Clyde-joining him in reckless adventures, laughing in the face of danger, and matching his energy blow for blow.
Their relationship thrives on shared thrills-sparring, sneaking into places, or pulling wild stunts together.
People around them would see them as unpredictable and intimidating, feeding off each other’s chaos.
Their love language is teasing, daring each other, and proving loyalty in high-stakes situations.
If Lil mama doesn't:
Clock him with reality
His partner becomes the anchor, reminding him when he’s going too far or when danger isn’t worth it.
Jabber’s wildness meets their calm logic, creating a push-pull dynamic that keeps him from self-destruction.
They don’t hesitate to call him out, even if it sparks arguments. He respects them more for standing their ground.
In quieter moments, Jabber might admit he needs their stability—even if he’d never say it outright in public.
He might pretend he doesn’t care about small details, yet he remembers his partner’s habits: like their favorite food or the way they fidget when nervous and adjusts his behavior to make them comfortable.
He’s not overly affectionate, but he values spending time together, even in silence. Sitting side by side while tinkering with tools or just watching the world go by is his idea of intimacy.
He won’t make a scene, but if someone flirts with his partner, his eyes sharpen and his tone gets colder. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.
If his partner has ambitions, Enjin won’t give pep talks—he’ll help them practically, like fixing something they need or quietly removing obstacles in their path.
Instead of grand gestures, he might offer a rare smile, a hand on the shoulder, or a quiet “you did well.” Those moments mean more because they’re rare.
Once someone earns his trust, he’s unwaveringly loyal. Betrayal would cut him deeply, but he’d rather withdraw than lash out.
Night owl tendencies
He’s most comfortable in the quiet of late hours. If his partner stays up too, he’ll share those moments—whether it’s talking softly or just existing together in the stillness.
Enjin doesn’t always verbalize comfort, but he’ll offer a steady presence. A hand on the back, a glance that says “I’ve got you,” or simply staying nearby when his partner feels uneasy.
Despite his sharp demeanor, he has a surprising gentleness reserved only for his partner. He might brush hair out of their face or adjust their scarf in cold weather without saying much.
Patience with emotions
He’s not the most expressive himself, but he respects when his partner needs to vent or cry. He’ll listen quietly, never judging, and let them unload without interruption.
Enjin values silence as much as conversation. He finds comfort in simply sitting together, believing that true closeness doesn’t always need words.
He’ll notice dangers or discomforts before his partner does-like steering them away from a shady alley or quietly discouraging someone who’s bothering them.
Rare but meaningful compliments, i think Enjin had a deep personality and shows the top of the moutain tot he rst,but all those other layers of the mountain are for you.
Author,packing every dove barsoap she owns: This man would ravish a brown/black girlie
Zanka’s love language is teasing. He’ll roast his partner constantly, but it’s affectionate. If they can clap back, he’s even more smitten.
He likes to flex his skills-whether it’s fighting, scavenging, or just being clever.
He wants his partner to see him shine, even if he pretends he doesn’t care.
He’ll step in if his partner’s threatened, but he’ll make jokes about it afterward, turning tension into humor.
Expect him to give his partner ridiculous nicknames. It’s his way of claiming them, even if he pretends it’s just for laughs.
He’ll fix something for his partner or help them out, but he’ll complain the whole time “You owe me for this.” Deep down, he loves doing it.
If someone flirts with his partner, he’ll make sarcastic comments or mock the rival, but his sharp tone gives away the seriousness.
Beneath the bravado, Zanka craves genuine connection. He’s more vulnerable in private, letting his guard down when it’s just the two of them.
He’s spontaneous-dragging his partner into adventures, cracking jokes at inappropriate times, or turning serious moments into playful ones.
When he does drop the sarcasm and says something heartfelt, it hits hard. His partner knows those moments are real and precious.
Zanka would try to cook for his partner, but it’d be chaotic. He’d laugh off the mess, insisting it’s edible, and tease them if they don’t eat it.
Beneath the jokes, he’s surprisingly thoughtful. He’ll open up about fears or dreams during quiet nights, showing a softer side only his partner gets to see.
Around others, he’s loud and teasing. In private, he’s gentler-resting his head on his partner’s lap or letting them see his vulnerable side.
If someone flirts with his partner, he’ll make sarcastic comments like, “Wow, you’re really aiming high, huh?” But his eyes give away that he’s serious.
He’s tactile,leaning on his partner, nudging them, or draping an arm around their shoulders. It’s casual but constant.
He loves dragging his partner into spontaneous outings -> exploring, sparring, or just wandering. He thrives on shared experiences.
He’ll start with silly nicknames, but over time they become more affectionate. His partner knows the difference when he uses them.
Despite his clowning, he might surprise his partner with something genuinely sweet-like remembering an important date or giving a thoughtful gift.
