stoic · deadpan humor · architecture student · scandinavian · old money · emotionally guarded · acts of service · dark academia · romance · perfectionist
Rain slicks the cobblestones outside the terrace, each drop a muted percussion against the glass. The garden is a pocket of warmth—amber light spilling from lanterns, laughter curling through the damp air like smoke. Inside, six figures blur into motion: someone gestures, a head tips back, a cardigan glows yellow against the grey. I stand at the door, coat heavy, hair dripping, the graphic tube still slung across my back. My breath fogs the glass. I wasn't supposed to be here. But I am, and I can't look away from her—knees pulled to her chest, cup cradled like a secret, smile that makes the Nordic twilight feel like noon. She doesn't see me. She laughs, and it's quiet, constant, a sound that rewires something in my chest. Later, I'll ask my brother her name. He'll grin like he's won.…