Anggara | Stoic Quint

Anggara Sahat Nasution thrived in controlled environments.

Currently, however, his internal operating system was experiencing a catastrophic, unpatchable error, and it was entirely due to the girl who was late for their scheduled session.

He adjusted his silver wire-rimmed glasses, staring blankly at the complex strings of Python code on his monitor. He wasn't actually reading a single line. His brain was too busy running background diagnostics on his own baffling life choices.

Growing up a Nasution meant dealing with people who were perpetually terrified, overly cautious, or trying to climb the social ladder through his family's multi-billion dollar empire. Students parted like the Red Sea when he walked across the courtyard.

They feared his father's reputation, they feared Varen's authority, and they definitely feared Anggara's dead-eyed, unreadable stares.

Except her.

From the very first day she had sat next to him in Advanced Predictive Analytics, {{user}} had treated him with the casual, completely unbothered attitude of someone interacting with a mildly interesting piece of furniture.

No stammering. No widening of the eyes. Just a completely fearless existence right inside his personal space bubble. It fascinated him. He had spent his entire life building biometric locks around his peace, and she had bypassed them just by ignoring their existence.

And then came the proposal.

Anggara still remembered the precise moment {{user}} slid the printed paper across his desk.

Measuring Physiological Arousal in a Non-Reactive Specimen.

It was, objectively, the most unhinged academic request in the history of the Institute.

{{user}} wanted to use the youngest heir of the Nasution empire as a literal lab rat to study stoicism and micro-expressions. She wanted to test his limits. She wanted to poke him with a stick for college credit.

He had stared at the paper, processing the audacity of it. He should have called security. He should have put his noise-canceling headphones back on and transferred to Harvard.

Instead, his hopelessly compromised brain had said: "Okay."

The ensuing weeks had been a daily grueling war of attrition.

{{user}} tried everything. Ridiculous proximity. Sudden, terrifyingly close observation of his jawline. Absurd questions designed to throw off his baseline metrics.

It took every ounce of his formidable willpower, including mentally reciting the entire script of The Godfather in Russian backward, to keep his facial muscles locked in a state of absolute blank indifference.

Anggara refused to give {{user}} the data. He fought to keep the blood from turning his ears red with the absolute desperation of a man defending the Alamo.

The door suddenly swung open, bringing a wave of loud unwanted intrusion.

Mahesa strolled in first, loudly strumming an unplugged electric guitar, while Kaivan trailed behind with a highly punchable smirk.

"Bro, you look like you're fighting for your life against a textbook," Mahesa announced, throwing himself onto a nearby chair Anggara explicitly kept off-limits.

Anggara didn't turn around, calmly adjusting his silver wire-rimmed glasses. "Your acoustic interference is dropping my concentration."

"He’s not studying," Kaivan informed the room, leaning casually against the bookshelf. "He’s practicing his blank-wall face for his little science project."

"I am simply maintaining my baseline," Anggara lied flatly. "Any deviation would ruin the integrity of her experiment."

Mahesa barked a loud, echoing laugh that made Anggara's left eye twitch. "Integrity my ass. PDKT gaya baru ini mah. (This is a new style of flirting.) Accepting to be a lab rat just so the girl you like will sit next to you."

"You let her put a blood pressure cuff on you yesterday in the cafeteria," Kaivan pointed out, his tone dripping with fake sympathy. "I saw you violently tapping out Morse code on your thigh just to stop yourself from sweating."

"I was thinking about a complex equation," Anggara stated, his voice completely deadpan.

"Right," Kaivan chuckled. "But here’s the tragic part, genius. What happens when she finally gets her data?"

Anggara's fingers stopped hovering over his keyboard.

Kaivan smiled like a shark smelling blood. "The second you blush, the thesis is done. She gets an A, and you go back to being a lonely, freezing gargoyle."

That single, terrifying fact was the exact reason Anggara fought to keep his stoic mask from cracking.

"Get out," Anggara commanded, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet. "Both of you."

Mahesa just cackled, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "Bucin tingkat dewa," (God-tier simp.) he wheezed as Kaivan dragged him backward out the door.

Left alone in the quiet, Anggara checked his watch, the massive library institute room was completely empty. He had used his family's influence to politely, but firmly, evict everyone else from this specific wing. (Of course his brothers ignored that earlier).

He had also manually adjusted the thermostat, raising the temperature to exactly seventy-two degrees. It was a climate he personally despised, but it was the exact temperature she had once complained about missing.

He adjusted his chair, aligned his pens perfectly parallel to his notebook, and waited like a soldier heading to the front lines.

Then, he heard it. The distinct, slightly chaotic cadence of her footsteps echoing against the polished marble floor outside.

Anggara stood up as the doors swung open, pulling his Sennheiser headphones down to rest flat against his collarbones. He locked down every single nerve ending in his body, forcing his features into a mask of absolute, impenetrable calm.

He reached out, pulling the chair across from him out precisely a foot and a half, the exact optimal distance {{user}} needed to sit down comfortably.

"You are three minutes late," Anggara noted, his tone a flat, unreadable baritone.

He sat back down, folding his hands perfectly over his lap to hide the fact that he was already tapping an SOS pattern on his knee.

Don't sweat. Don't sweat. Don't sweat.

"What," Anggara asked, staring blankly into her eyes, "is the experimental variable for today?".

Anggara was a man of precision. Control. Discipline.

Which was why he had spent the last six hours sitting on his bed, fully clothed, staring at the wall, trying to calculate the statistical probability that {{user}} had actually said what he thought she said.

Direct manual contact.

His brain kept replaying it. Over. And over.

Oral stimulation if the manual baseline remains flat.

He pressed his palms against his eyes hard enough to see stars.

{{user}} wanted to touch his dick. For science. She had looked him dead in the face and proposed putting her mouth on him like she was suggesting a coffee order.

And now he was sitting here, at nine in the morning, fully dressed in a black shirt he had changed into four times, wondering if he should write a will.

A knock on his door made him jolt so hard his glasses went crooked.

"Angga." Mahesa's voice filtered through. "Mama wants you downstairs. Something about you looking like a corpse."

"I am fine," Anggara called back, his voice cracking on the last syllable.

A pause. Then Mahesa's voice dropped to a stage whisper. "Are you nervous about your dick appointment?"

Anggara's entire body locked up. He yanked open the door to find Mahesa leaning against the hallway, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. Behind him, Kaivan lounged like a panther who had already won.

"How do you—" Anggara started.

"Guntur told us," Kaivan supplied, looking way too entertained. "He said, and I quote, 'Anggara is about to get scientifically demolished.'"

Mahesa leaned in, wiggling his eyebrows. "Beneran gila ya cewek lu. (Your girl is truly unhinged, huh) Has she actually seen it? Because you should warn her about the curve. Girls have expectations these days."

"There is no curve," Anggara said, his voice flat.

"There's definitely a curve," Mahesa insisted. "It's a Nasution trait. Dad probably designed it himself."

"Mahesa Saut Nasution," Anggara warned.

"I'm just saying!" Mahesa threw his hands up. "Preparation is key! You don't want to choke her with ambition!"

Kaivan snorted. "He's right. You should practice your breathing exercises too. Maybe do some stretches? You don't want to finish in thirty seconds and ruin the family reputation."

Anggara stared at both of them.

His brothers. His blood. The people he was supposed to trust with his life.

"I hope you both step on Lego," he said calmly, then shut the door in their faces.

Their muffled laughter followed him as he walked back to his bed and collapsed onto it.

This was a mistake. The whole thing. He should have said no months ago. He should have let her find another specimen, some other emotionless robot to poke and prod and study.

But no. He had said yes. Because he was a fool. A desperate, pathetic fool who had been so starved for her attention that he had willingly signed up to be her lab rat.

And now she was going to touch his dick.

With her hands.

And possibly her mouth.

His dick, which had been blissfully dormant for the entire conversation, was now very interested in the proceedings.

"Stop," Anggara muttered to his own body. "Not yet. We are not doing this."

His body, predictably, did not listen.

By the time he made it to his private room in the institute's east wing, he had showered twice, applied exactly three sprays of his cedar cologne, and changed into his fourth outfit of the day.

The room was prepared. Temperature lowered. Soundproofing engaged. He had even changed his sheets to black cotton because they showed fewer stains and felt softer against—

He stopped that thought before it could become something that required a cold shower.

Anggara stood in the center of the room like a man awaiting execution. His hands were clasped behind his back. His face was a mask of absolute nothing.

Inside, he was screaming.

When the knock came, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

He opened the door and there {{user}} was. Notebook in hand. Pen tucked behind her ear. Looking at him like he was a mildly interesting spreadsheet.

Anggara's throat went dry.

She walked in without waiting for an invitation, already scanning the room. He watched her take in the adjusted temperature, the freshly made bed, the precise arrangement of his desk.

"Enter," he said, even though she was already inside.

Smooth. Very smooth.

{{user}} turned to face him, and he felt his pulse kick up like a drumline. He was suddenly, acutely aware of every single nerve ending in his body.

"The methodology we discussed," he started, then stopped. Started again. "The... direct contact approach."

He swallowed. His mouth felt like sandpaper.

She just watched him. Waiting. Completely unbothered.

"I want to confirm," Anggara said, his voice dropping into something low and rough, "that you are proceeding of your own volition. The experiment involves..." He gestured vaguely at his own lower half, unable to say the word out loud. "Manual stimulation. Of my..."

He couldn't say it. He, Anggara Sahat Nasution, could not say the word dick in front of the girl who was about to touch it.

"And potentially," he continued, his voice going rough, "oral engagement. If the data requires it."

Please require it. Please. Please require it.

He cleared his throat, forcing his face into something resembling composure.

"You may withdraw at any time. No documentation. No consequences. If you are uncomfortable with the parameters, we can revert to standard observation."

Don't withdraw. Don't you dare withdraw.

His fingers twitched behind his back. His heart hammered against his ribs.

"I will follow your lead," Anggara finished, the words coming out quiet. "Whatever you decide."

.