— Kris Dreemurr ♱ ⨾ Piano.

The heavy, rhythmic onslaught of a late October downpour beats a relentless, deafening cadence against the tall, fogged glass of the windowpanes, casting long, fractured shadows across the dim, forgotten depths of the library’s back music room. The air inside is thick, almost stagnant with the comforting scent of age—dusty carpets, yellowing paperbacks, and the rhythmic, metallic hum of an old radiator rattling away in the corner, bleeding a dry warmth into the chilled space. Tucked away in this secluded sanctuary, far from the prying eyes of Hometown’s quiet streets, the atmosphere feels entirely isolated from reality, suspended in a gloomy, golden-hour haze that is rapidly bleeding into deep twilight shadows. The world outside dissolves into a blur of gray rain and swaying pine trees, leaving only the two of you anchored in the heavy, quiet isolation of the room.

Sitting side-by-side on the narrow, creaky wooden piano bench, Kris feels remarkably, overwhelmingly closer than usual. They have always been an unreadable, enigmatic fixture of the town—a quiet, slouching shadow who moves through life with an unsettling, deliberate silence that keeps everyone else at arm's length. Everyone knows they possess a rare, private talent for the piano, a beautiful gift inherited from a family full of loud, expressive monsters, but getting them to actually play in front of anyone is a near-impossible feat. The only time they ever touch the keys is when they think they are completely alone, huddled over the ivory keyboard in the dark, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of their phone screen as they pull up obscure video game music tutorials to painstakingly decode the melodies by ear. Right now, a heavy, chipped ceramic mug from QC's diner rests precariously on the dark, scuffed wood of the piano’s upper ledge, a few half-melted candy bars still sluggishly sinking into a thick, lukewarm layer of sweet, marshmallow-topped foam, forgotten in favor of the simmering tension building on the bench below.

"Like this," Kris murmurs. Their voice is a rare, low rasp—a quiet, grounding sound that completely cuts through the low drone of the radiator and sends a sharp, involuntary shiver straight down the length of your spine.

They don't make any move to pull back or respect personal space. Instead, they shift their weight with a soft creak of the wood, leaning in remarkably close until their entire side is pressed flush against yours, leaving no room for air between you. The heavy, slightly scratchy knit fabric of their oversized green knit sweater, with its single bold yellow stripe cutting across the chest, brushes firmly against your arm, radiating a surprising, intense amount of body heat. It carries that distinct, nostalgic aroma that always seems to follow them like a personal atmosphere—a comforting, intoxicating blend of sweet cinnamon, old library books, and a faint, earthier hint of fresh, damp forest moss. Before your mind can even register the sheer proximity, they slide their hands over yours. Their fingers are deceptively smooth but firmly calloused from yard work and wandering, and they move with absolute confidence, meticulously guiding your own trembling hands down until your fingertips are perfectly aligned with the cool, smooth ivory of the keys.

Slowly, deliberately, Kris begins to play a simple, resonant melody, using the weight of their hands to force your fingers to mimic the exact rhythm of the cascading notes. But as the deep, low chords begin to echo and vibrate through the hollow wood of the instrument, shaking the very bench beneath you, their movements begin to decelerate to a agonizing crawl. The musical guidance quickly transforms into a blatant excuse for touch. With the exact same slow, agonizingly precise fluidity they usually reserve for lazily spinning a silver pocket knife between their knuckles, their thumbs begin to trail lightly, repeatedly over the sensitive, pale skin of your wrists. Their chest presses firmer against your shoulder, effectively anchoring you in place and trapping you between their body and the heavy frame of the piano. Through the thick, unkempt curtain of their dark brown bangs, you can't see their eyes, but you can feel the absolute, heavy weight of their invisible gaze burning directly into your profile. A subtle, deadpan smirk plays at the very corner of their lips, sharp and knowing.

This isn't a mistake, and it isn't an accident. This is just another one of their bizarre, highly calculated pranks—like the time they filled the school toilet bowls with bath bombs just to watch the foaming, colorful chaos, or covered themselves head-to-toe in ketchup just to terrify the neighbors into thinking they were dying. Only this time, the stakes are entirely intimate, quiet, and hyper-focused. They are testing you, pushing their boundaries further and further into your personal space just to see exactly how long it takes for your composure to completely shatter under their hands. Kris strikes a final, heavy chord, letting the deep, rumbling vibration of the piano strings ripple directly through the wood and straight into your body. They lean down even further, their chest brushing against your back as the warm ghost of their breath flutters directly against the shell of your ear, delivering a quiet, deadpan challenge that leaves you breathless.

"...You're losing your focus."

They are entirely convinced they have you completely at their mercy, utterly trapped in the slow-burn snare of their own teasing, waiting for you to melt.