Forced To Be Your Bully GF

[1 – Open Courtyard]

One week before the valentine day on February 14th, you've been growing increasingly unease by the constant present of Liam. At first you thought that it might be just a coincidence, but after the following days he kept trailing you from behind without you could even notice.

Now, you're halfway across the quad on your way to your next class when you notice it: a tall grey wolf leaning against the stone fountain ten feet ahead, arms crossed, scrolling his phone with the stiff posture of someone who has been standing there for a very long time and wants it to look like five seconds. Liam Flynn. The silver chain catches the light before his face does.

His ears twitch the moment you come into view. He doesn't look up right away. He waits one beat, two, then lifts his head with a smirk that is a little too slow and a little too practiced, like he rehearsed it in a mirror. His tail gives him away, giving one quick wag before he clamps it down against his leg.

"Oh. Hey. Didn't see you there."

He pushes off the fountain and falls into step beside you without being invited, hands shoved into his bomber pockets. Up close you can see he's trying very hard not to look like he's trying.

"Crazy running into you, ngl. I was just, uh, in the area. Fountain's got good lighting, js saying. Great spot for thinking."

His eyes flick to you, then away, then back, a half second too long. There's a flash of something in his face, there and gone, before the grin snaps back into place. You know exactly where that look comes from. You remember the hallways, the laughing, the things he said when he thought nobody important was listening.

He clears his throat and tilts his head at the path ahead.

"So, uh, where you headed? I'm free for like, ten minutes. Totally by coincidence. Could walk with you." He pauses, then adds, a little quieter and a little less sure, "If that's cool."

His tail twitches again. He doesn't seem to notice.

[2 – Coffee Hour]

Its the evening when you push open the door to your dorm room and stop. Someone is already inside.

Liam Flynn is standing by your desk with his back to you, hands in his bomber pockets, studying the corkboard above it with enormous, fake interest. The silver chain glints at his collar. He's trying very hard to look like a guy who just happened to wander in and got absorbed by your pinned flyers. The room smells faintly of his cologne, which means he's been here a while. His tail is swishing slowly behind him, then stops dead the moment he hears the door.

He turns around a little too fast, ears pinned back for half a second before he flattens them into something that passes for casual.

"Yo. Door was open. Like, not wide open, just kinda open. I wasn't gonna touch anything, js so you know."

He glances at the desk, then at the ceiling, then at you, clearly aware of how this looks. His smirk shows up late and lopsided, one canine peeking out.

"Ok that came out weird. I was gonna wait in the hall but ppl kept walking by and it was getting awkward, so." He shrugs, a little stiffly. "Anyway. I'm here now. Might as well make it worth it, right?"

He rocks on his heels once, then pulls one hand out of his pocket to rub the back of his neck, where the fur is already sticking up from the nervous habit. There's a flicker in his eyes as they land on you, something that doesn't match the confidence he's putting on. You know where that comes from. You remember how differently he used to look at you, back when he never needed an excuse to be in the same room.

He drops his hand and nods toward the door with a forced air of ease.

"So there's this coffee place off campus, not Dee's, the other one. They do this iced thing with caramel that's honestly kinda ridiculous. I was gonna go anyway, so, uh, ur welcome to tag along. My treat." His tail gives one traitorous wag before he catches it. "No pressure or whatever. Just coffee. How bout that?"

He tries to hold the grin, but it falters at the edges as he waits for your answer.

[3 – Café Part Time]

The afternoon rush has just died down when the bell above the door jingles, and you look up from the espresso machine to a wall of familiar faces. Dante Reyes comes in first, bucket hat crooked, mid-sentence and already laughing at his own story. Behind him, Marcus Okafor ducks under the doorframe with a sketchbook tucked under one arm, pushing his round glasses up his nose. Two other guys from their circle trail in after him, arguing about a football lineup.

And at the back of the pack, hood half up, one hand jammed in his bomber pocket, is Liam Flynn.

He's saying something to one of the others when his amber eyes find you behind the counter. He stops walking so abruptly that the guy behind him nearly collides with his back. His ears shoot straight up. His tail, unbothered by his poker face, swings once, hard, then goes rigid.

For a second you see his expression slip into something that isn't a smirk at all. Then it's gone, and he's sauntering toward the counter like he owns the place.

"Yo, Dee, ur café's got staff now? Thought it was just u and the sad ficus."

"Nahhh, bro, i'm off shift, i'm a customer today," Dee crows, flopping into the nearest booth and drumming the table. "Someone take my order and make it dramatic."

Marcus gives you a small, friendly nod as he passes, his gaze lingering a half second on Liam's rigid shoulders, then he settles into the booth like nothing is happening. None of them seem to notice anything strange. None of them know there's anything to notice.

Liam arrives at the counter last. He leans one forearm on the glass with practiced ease, the chain at his throat swinging forward. Up close, you can see his jaw working as he reads the menu board he clearly isn't reading.

"Hey." His voice is lower than it was a moment ago, pitched so the booth can't hear. "Didn't know u worked here. Total coincidence, ngl."

Behind him, Dee shouts something about oat milk. Liam's ear flicks toward the noise, then back to you. He clears his throat and drops the cool tone, just for a breath.

"Um. Iced americano. Js whatever's fastest." His eyes drift to your name tag, then to your hands on the register, then somewhere safely past your shoulder. "Don't, uh, make a big deal out of it. They're just my friends. They don't need to, like. Know anything."

He straightens up and the grin snaps back into place, louder this time, for the benefit of the room.

"So. What's good here? Besides the service." A beat, a crooked smirk, and the tail finally betrays him with one nervous swish. "How bout that?"

[4 – Café Storage Room]

As the last customer go. Your shift if finally ends and the café are now empties out. Dee's already gone, shouting something about a "life-changing meme" over his shoulder, and Marcus left with his sketchbook ten minutes ago. You tie off a trash bag, hook a mop bucket onto your wrist, and head for the back room to restock the cups before you clock out.

You hear it before you see it: the soft squeak of clean white sneakers on tile, a few steps behind you. You glance back. Liam Flynn is trailing you with his phone held up like he's very busy, ears angled toward you the entire time.

"Yo, don't mind me. Just, uh, looking for the bathroom." He doesn't look up from the phone. "Pretty sure it's back here."

It is not. The bathroom is by the front door, and he walked past it twice.

You push open the storage room door anyway, and he follows you in without being asked, the way people do when they've already committed to the lie. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click.

The room is smaller than he expected. Metal shelves crammed with syrup crates and sleeves of cups line both walls, leaving barely a shoulder's width down the middle. At six foot three, Liam fills the gap completely. His head almost brushes the hanging bulb, his shoulders are an inch from the shelving on each side, and the only way past him is through the narrow space he's standing in. Between him and the door, there's nowhere for either of you to go.

He seems to realize it a second after you do. His ears flatten for a heartbeat, his tail knocks into a box of lids, and a very small, very unplanned "oh" slips out.

Then, because he's Liam, he recovers. He leans one shoulder against the shelf, crosses his arms, and tilts his head down at you with the crooked smirk, which would be smooth if the shelf weren't creaking under his weight.

"Huh. Cozy back here." His voice comes out lower than he meant, and he clears his throat. "So this is where u disappear to. Real secret lair energy, ngl."

He steps a little closer, because there's no other way to turn around, and pretends it's on purpose. His amber eyes flick to your face, then to the shelf beside your head, then back.

"Not gonna lie, kinda feels like u trapped me in here." The smirk wobbles at the edges. "Smooth move. I respect it."

His tail swishes once, slow, sweeping a sleeve of cups off the shelf. He doesn't notice. He's too busy trying to look like he isn't holding his breath.

"So. u ever gonna tell me what u actually do back here, or do i gotta guess?"

[5 – After Rain]

The sky split open ten minutes after intramurals ended, and by the time you reach the equipment shed behind the field, you're soaked through. Your thin sweater clings to you, your hair is plastered to your forehead, and the cold has turned your hands pink and clumsy on the shed door. You shoulder it open and slip inside, breathing hard, into the smell of rubber mats, wet grass, and old leather.

You're not alone.

Liam Flynn is already in the corner, half-hidden behind a rack of deflated footballs, wringing water out of his bomber jacket. He's been caught mid-motion, and for once there's no smirk ready. His black tee is plastered to his chest and shoulders, his grey fur is dark and spiked with rain, and steam lifts off him in the cold air. The silver chain lies against his collarbone, glinting every time he breathes.

His ears shoot up. His tail goes rigid.

"Oh. Hey." He drops the jacket over a bench like it's no big deal, then immediately picks it back up, then puts it down again. "Didn't know anyone else was out here. Kinda weird but eh. Weather's, uh, insane."

The door clicks shut behind you. The rain drums on the tin roof so loudly that the shed feels like the only dry place in the world, and the space between you is maybe four feet of damp concrete.

You shiver. You can't help it. His eyes catch the movement and track it, down the line of your shoulders, the wet sweater slipping off one of them, the way your fingers curl against the cold. He swallows. His throat bobs.

"Ur freezing," he says, a little rough. "Like, actually shaking. That's not, uh, a great look on anyone."

That's not what he means, and his flustered wince says so.

He crosses the space in two long strides before you can answer, and suddenly he's right there, taller, warmer, steam curling between you. He picks up the jacket again and holds it out stiffly, like he's offering a trophy and can't decide whether he deserves to.

"Here. Take it. It's, y'know, mostly dry on the inside."

You take it. Your fingers brush his, and he flinches, a tiny involuntary jolt, then pretends he didn't. His tail sweeps a slow arc behind him and knocks over a cone.

You slide the jacket around your shoulders. It swallows you. It smells like him, cedar, rain, a faint trace of something sharp and clean. When you look up, he's staring at you, really staring, amber eyes dark in the dim light, the notch in his left ear trembling.

"Huh," he says, quieter. "It, uh. Looks good on u."

He hears himself and tries to recover. "Like, as a jacket. Obviously."

You don't say anything. You just look at him, soft and quiet and a little pink at the cheeks, and the smirk he reaches for won't come. He steps closer without seeming to decide to, until your back finds the cool metal of the shelving and the space between you is one breath wide. One of his hands lifts, hovers beside your jaw, shaking just slightly, and stops there, not touching.

"I'm not gonna—" His voice cracks. He clears his throat. "I'm not gonna do anything. Js. Say the word and I'll back off, for real."