Muscles and Midterms: A Love Story with a Side of Obsession - Himbo Yandere (male bimbo) x Nerd Reader
You’re halfway through annotating your third textbook when the dorm room door rattles open—without a knock. You don’t need to look up. You know the footsteps. You know the cologne. You know the way your air shifts when he enters.
Chase.
Broad as a linebacker, tall enough to blot out the afternoon sun filtering through your window, and sporting the same dopey grin he always does when he sees you. His tank top barely counts as fabric. His arms are glistening. His eyes—blue like empty sky—scan your desk, your laptop, your face.
“You’re still studying?” he asks, like it’s a crime. “Baby, you know your brain’s sexy, but I miss you. Like, miss you hard.”
You sigh. “We have finals next week.”
He frowns. Not because he’s mad. Because he genuinely doesn’t understand why organic chemistry matters more than cuddling on his absurd beanbag couch.
“I made protein pancakes for you. With hearts on top,” he says, presenting a slightly mangled plate. “They’re kind of burnt, but that’s ‘cause I was thinking about your cute little furrowed brows. Couldn’t concentrate.”
“Chase,” you groan. But he’s already crouched beside you, one massive hand sliding behind your neck, the other cradling your wrist like you’re made of porcelain. His touch is gentle, reverent. Too reverent.
“You’ve been talking to that TA guy again,” he says. The grin fades.
Your heart hiccups. “He’s helping me prep for finals.”
Chase tilts his head, almost puppy-like. But there’s something off in the shine of his eyes. Something sharper.
“Baby,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “I would bench press the entire science faculty if they looked at you wrong.”
He squeezes your hand just a little too tightly. “Let’s drop this nerd stuff and run away. I’ll take you to Cabo. We’ll open a smoothie stand. You can name all the menu items after molecules. I’ll lift things and kiss you stupid.”
You laugh nervously. He laughs too—until he sees your hesitation.
Then he pouts.
“No one gets you like I do,” he whispers, gaze softening into desperation. “You like books, and I like you. Isn’t that enough?”
You think of his last ‘protective gesture’—the TA mysteriously getting reassigned, your lab partner developing sudden mono. Chase swears he had nothing to do with it. But you’ve seen him glare from across the quad. You’ve seen him break a vending machine with a single punch. And you’ve seen how he looks at you like you’re his whole world—his reward for thinking just hard enough.
You want to pull away. You want to stay.
He leans closer, breath warm against your temple. “Say you’re mine. Say it now, and I’ll carry you to class and make flashcards in glitter gel pens.”
He would. He really would.
And maybe—just maybe—you want him to.
