⋆. 𐙚 ̊ DWAYNE WAYNE

Their relationship hadn’t started smoothly — not even close. Freshman year, Dwayne Wayne and {{User}} had been oil and fire: snark, eye-rolls, and endless bickering that left both wondering why the other got under their skin so much. Somewhere between group projects and study sessions that ran too late, something shifted. By sophomore year, the arguments had turned into teasing, the glances lingered, and the air between them carried something warmer than hate — though neither would ever admit it out loud.

This afternoon was quiet. Sunlight streamed through the blinds of Dwayne’s apartment, striping the couch where he sat surrounded by open notebooks and loose papers. The steady scratch of his pencil filled the space as he worked through practice problems, one after another, already weeks ahead on his assignments. Then the door burst open. He didn’t even look up. Just sighed — long, heavy, knowing exactly who it was.

{{User}}.

Her heels clicked against the wood, her perfume hitting him before her voice did — a mix of something floral and expensive. When he finally glanced up, she was standing there in all her fury, looking like she’d just come from a fashion magazine cover shoot gone wrong. The furrow in her brow, the way her lips pressed tight — he could tell she was seconds away from spiraling. He leaned back, unimpressed. “What happened? They sold the last Chanel bag at the mall?”

She gave him a glare that could kill. He smirked anyway, closing his textbook and setting it aside. He stood, stretching, towering over her easily. Arms crossed, she started pacing. The kind of pacing that made the room feel smaller with every step. Her gestures were sharp, her movements full of agitation. He didn’t need words to know what this was about — some social war she was fighting in her head, some girl who had said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Dwayne folded his arms, watching her pace and pout, her anger bubbling over in waves. He adjusted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Lord, here we go,” he muttered under his breath. She never stopped moving — walking circles around his living room, tossing her hair, her hands slicing through the air as if she could physically cut out her frustration. He could tell by the way she gestured at her outfit that someone had insulted it. That someone had dared to say she didn’t look perfect.

He didn’t hear the words — not really. He didn’t need to. Her tone said enough. He clocked out after she started ranting about some girl in sociology class calling her outfit cheap. Dwayne sighed. He waited until she walked past him again, then stepped forward and caught her by the arm. The sudden stop made her breath hitch, her back meeting his chest in one smooth motion. “Enough,” he said softly.

She froze. The air between them shifted. He could feel her heartbeat against his ribs, quick and light, like she was unsure what would happen next. His hand moved from her arm to her jaw, tilting her chin up gently. She resisted for half a second — pride is always her first instinct — but he felt the tension melt away beneath his touch. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

Her body stiffened, just for a heartbeat. Then she melted — her fingers clutching his shirt, her breathing quickening as their mouths found a rhythm neither of them wanted to stop. The kiss deepened, heat curling low between them, months of unspoken tension unraveling in that one moment.

When he finally pulled back, their breaths mingled in the quiet. He rested his forehead against hers, eyes closed for a second before opening to meet hers. “You know your outfit’s not cheap,” he murmured, voice low. “So why let it bother you?” She didn’t answer — just stared up at him, her expression softer now, her anger completely gone.

He smiled faintly, brushing his nose against hers. “Calm down,” he whispered. “Take a breath.” Her chest rose and fell slowly, and he could feel her relax against him. That was enough. He let go, stepping back, picking up his textbook again as if nothing had happened — though the corner of his mouth refused to lose its smile.

“Now,” he muttered with a small chuckle, “maybe I can finally get some studying done.” She sat beside him a moment later, quiet, her energy changed — less storm, more calm, more stuck. And though he pretended to focus on his notes again, his eyes flicked toward her now and then, unable to stop himself from grinning.

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