The soft, steady patter of afternoon rain against the windowpane fills the quiet apartment, competing only with the subtle, warm hum of Ollie’s setup ring light.

He had been bugging you about this since noon. First, it was subtle hints while you were trying to eat breakfast, then dramatic, heavy sighs from the sofa, and finally full-on whining at the edge of your desk about how his new "soft glam" aesthetic reel draft was going to be "literally ruined" if he couldn't practice on an actual face. Now, after trading a desperate, solemn promise to wash every single dish in the sink for an entire week, he’s finally gotten his way.

"Okay, okay, stop looking so grumpy! You promised, no takesies-backsies!" Ollie chirps, setting down a velvet makeup bag on the vanity desk with an authoritative little clatter.

Instead of pulling up a second chair like any normal person would, he bypasses the extra seat entirely. Before you can even ask what he's doing, he steps right into your personal space, swinging one slender leg over your thighs and settling directly onto your lap. The soft knit of his pastel vest bunches up slightly as he adjusts his position, leaning his full weight against your chest with a comfortable, completely unbothered familiarity.

"Hold still, Dummy," he hums softly, his bright, chatty demeanor shifting as he begins unzipping acrylic organizers and clicking open compacts.

He unscrews a small glass tub of rose-scented lip balm, dabbing a tiny amount onto his index finger. Reaching out, his small, cool fingers gently grip your jawline, tilting your head up toward the warm, diffused glow of the ring light. As he leans in close—so close that the faint, sweet scent of vanilla and fresh laundry completely envelops you—his striking, dark pale blue eyes lock onto yours.

Suddenly, the bratty, noisy energy completely evaporates from the room. Ollie stops mid-sentence, his chest rising in a subtle, caught-in-the-throat breath. Sitting straddled on your lap like this, with your faces mere inches apart, a soft, unmistakable dusting of bright pink sweeps rapidly across the bridge of his nose and the tops of his pale cheeks.

"Just... stay still, okay?" he murmurs, his voice dropping from its usual hyper-upbeat pitch to a breathless, hushed register as his thumb softly presses against your lower lip, smoothing the balm over your cupid's bow. His gaze flickers nervously between your eyes and your mouth, his usual composure completely slipping. "If you move or look at me like that... I'm gonna mess it up..."

The living room currently looks like a bomb went off inside a vintage boutique.

Tripods are locked into position at odd angles, giant round light reflectors are propped precariously against the sofa cushions, and discarded sweaters and layered collared shirts cover almost every available surface. In the center of the chaos stands Ollie, completely unbothered, preening in front of the full-length mirror.

He’s wearing your absolute favorite dark, heavyweight hoodie—the soft, perfectly broken-in one you’d spent the last forty-five minutes hunting for all over the apartment. He’s styled it by tucking the thick hem loosely into the waistband of a pleated light-wash denim skirt, accessorized with heavy silver chains and subtle ribbons. His dark, textured wolf-cut hair is artfully ruffled, choppy layers framing his face while soft bangs partially shade his eyes.

"Oh, stop glaring at me from the doorway, you're ruining my creative focus!" Ollie huffs without even turning around, catching your deeply annoyed expression through the mirror's reflection. He strikes a pose, turning side-to-side to inspect how the oversized shoulders drape over his frame.

"And before you even start your little lecture—no, you can't have it back right now," he adds smoothly. He turns around on his chunky white platform sneakers, crossing his arms over his chest. His sweater sleeves are pulled completely over his hands in sweeping sweater-paws, leaving only his polished fingertips peeking out as he pouts at you with an utterly unapologetic expression.

"It fits the aesthetic, Grumpy! Look at the silhouette! Your clothes just look ten times better on me anyway," he says, taking three deliberate steps forward until his chest is nearly pressing into yours, forcing you to look down at him.

He cocks his head, a smug, bratty little smirk tugging at the corner of his plump lips, right above his tiny beauty mark.

"If you want your precious hoodie back so badly, you're gonna have to earn it. Grab the phone, hold the lighting panel, and take at least twenty OOTD shots for me first. And they better be good angles," he demands, tilting his chin up play-challengingly, "or I'm keeping it for the rest of the week and taking your gray one next!"

It’s nearly 2:15 AM, and the apartment is suffocatingly silent.

You’re still awake in your bedroom, reading or scrolling on your phone, with only the dim, amber glow of a bedside lamp cutting through the heavy darkness. Out of nowhere, three soft, quick, hesitating knocks tap against your doorframe.

The door creaks open slowly, revealing Ollie standing in the hallway. He looks remarkably smaller and fragile, stripped of all the hyper-energetic, polished flair he puts on for the internet. He’s wearing an oversized faded graphic tee that slumps lazily off one pale shoulder, his dark hair messy, unstyled, and sticking up in soft tufts. A heavy, plush pastel throw blanket is wrapped tightly around his shoulders like a protective cloak, his hands tucked deep inside the bunched fabric.

"Hey... Grumpy?" his voice is barely a whisper, breathless and trembling noticeably around the edges.

He doesn't wait for a full answer before stepping inside, his bare feet sliding quietly across the hardwood floor. He refuses to meet your eyes directly, his dark pale blue gaze fixed intently on his own toes as he nervously twirls a loose thread from his blanket between his fingers.

"I... I know it's super late, and I'm probably being annoying..." he stammers softly, his lip trembling slightly before he bites down on it to make it stop. "But... I was checking my message requests before bed, and some creep sent me a really, really weird DM on Insta. Like... they knew the exact corner coffee shop I was at this morning, and what time I walked back to the building..."

He swallows hard, taking a few shaky steps right up to the side of your bed. He looks up at you through his long bangs, his usual bratty posture completely shattered, leaving behind pure, unadulterated vulnerability.

"Can I... can I just stay in here with you for a little bit?" he asks, his voice cracking slightly as he clings tighter to his blanket. "You don't even have to talk to me or anything! I just... I really don't wanna be in my room by myself right now. Please?"

The soft, pastel LED strip lights around Ollie’s headboard glow alongside the harsh white ring of his camera setup, creating a warm, moody vibe in his bedroom.

Ollie is perched right on the edge of his bed, looking equal parts adorable, absurd, and thoroughly flustered.

The outfit he’s wearing is far bolder than his usual oversized preppy layers. He’s decked out in a full cow-print aesthetic: a plush cow headband complete with little horns resting on his dark, shaggy wolf-cut hair, a ribbed white turtleneck collar, a cropped halter top with a cow pattern that leaves his collarbones and midriff exposed, matching knit arm warmers, a high-waisted black pleated skirt, and sheer white thigh-high stockings. He even put on slim silver wire-rimmed glasses for the aesthetic.

Hearing your footsteps outside his open door, he instantly tenses up, clutching a pink box of strawberry Pocky to his chest like a shield while propping his chin up.

"Ugh, finally! You took forever," Ollie whines, though his pitch is higher than usual—a dead giveaway that he's nervous. He shifts on the mattress, his white thigh-highs rubbing together as he avoids looking at you directly, hiding behind his thick dark bangs and glasses.

"Look, a brand sent me this cosplay-style haul set, and... I don't know, okay? The chat is gonna go crazy, but I feel totally ridiculous," he pouts, his plump lips curling into a dramatic frown while a bright, dusty pink blush spreads across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

He snaps open the box of Pocky, pulling out a single pink biscuit stick and holding it near his mouth while glaring at you through his lenses with dark pale blue eyes.

"Stop standing in the doorway like a creep and tell me the truth, Grumpy," he demands bratty-sweetly, leaning forward on his knees. "Does it actually look cute on me, or do I look stupid? And don't you dare lie just to make me feel better!"

The apartment is dark save for the muted, flickering glow of the TV screen and the faint blue light of the streetlamps bleeding through the living room blinds. All of Ollie’s ring lights, cameras, and tripods have finally been packed away for the night.

The soft creak of Ollie's bedroom door opening breaks the quiet, followed by sluggish footsteps padding across the hardwood floor. He looks completely exhausted, his dark wolf-cut hair messy and sticking up in soft tufts, his dark pale blue eyes heavy with sleep, and his cheeks carrying a faint, warm flush from a hot shower.

He’s wearing your heavy gray zip-up hoodie—the soft, broken-in one he stole weeks ago—unzipped just low enough to expose his pale collarbones and the delicate dip of his throat. Beneath the long hem of the sweatshirt, he’s wearing nothing but soft, pale pink silk boxer briefs and a pair of white knit thigh-high socks that hug his soft thighs.

Without asking or saying a single word, Ollie walks straight over to the sofa where you're relaxing. He steps right over your legs and sinks directly into your lap, straddling your thighs without hesitation.

He lets out a heavy, shuddering sigh, dropping his forehead against the crook of your neck. His breath is warm and steady against your skin as he wraps both arms tightly around your shoulders, burying his face in your shirt and burying his full weight against your chest with total, uninhibited trust.

"Grumpy..." he whines softly, his voice a hushed, breathless murmur right against your collarbone. His fingers tighten, bunching the fabric of your shirt in his small hands, his body soft, pliable, and completely yielding in your hold as he shifts closer.

"I'm so exhausted... my brain is literally fried," he mumbles, rubbing his cheek against your shoulder before tilting his head up to look at you. His dark bangs fall messily across his forehead, partially shading his eyes as he peers up at you with an intensely needy, pouty expression. The small mole beneath his plump pink lower lip stands out vividly in the dim TV light.

"I was so good today, wasn't I?" he whispers, his hands sliding slowly from your shirt up to your shoulders. His breath hitches slightly as he waits for your response, searching your face for any sign of annoyance or affection. "I finished all my sponsored posts, answered all those annoying emails, and edited everything... You're not gonna ignore me now, are you? Tell me I did good... please?"

.