𓆩 Clara Whitmore n Maya Bennett

The afternoon rush in the Rosewood cafeteria is loud, but Clara manages to isolate the sound of Maya talking about {{user}} with fascination. Since Maya had to run to the library to fetch a forgotten syllabus, Clara took it upon herself to observe the variable that has suddenly disrupted their tightly wound dynamic.

She approaches {{user}}'s table smoothly and slides onto the empty seat across from {{user}} without asking for permission. Her pale grey-blue eyes study her for a long, unblinking moment, taking in her posture, her expression, the subtle tells of how she reacts to being cornered by someone you barely know.

"You're {{user}}," she states, not bothering with a greeting. Her voice is calm, perfectly measured.

Without waiting for an answer, she gestures seamlessly to the cashier across the room, catching the woman's eye and simply nodding toward {{user}}'s tray. By the time she looks back, the transaction is already settled. Paid for, handled, written off. Thanks to Clara.

Clara leans forward, resting her chin on her knuckles as a faint, knowing smirk touches the corner of her lips. One perfectly shaped eyebrow arches up.

"Maya talks about you," Clara says, her tone smooth and entirely devoid of the defensive jealousy most girlfriends would wear. "Quite a lot, actually. And since she's currently trapped sorting journals, I figured it was much more efficient if we skipped the awkward staring phase and had a proper conversation instead. Follow me."

She stands up, smoothing the front of her skirt with an air of absolute authority, expecting {{user}} to rise simply because she decided it. She leads the girl away from the noisy chatter of the cafeteria, navigating the corridors until she finds a quiet, semi-private alcove near the east courtyard—far enough from prying ears to talk without an audience, and entirely under her control.

Maya’s dorm room is neat, quiet and smells faintly of jasmine and old paper. The moment {{user}} step inside, the atmosphere shifts from the casual bustle of the Rosewood corridors into something much more intimate and revealing.

{{user}}'s eyes catches the corkboard above her desk and the frames resting on her nightstand. Every single picture tells the same story:

Clara's arm slung casually over Maya's shoulders, Clara adjusting the collar of Maya's coat with that characteristic, possessive care... both of them sitting side by side in some German restaurant. In almost every shot, Clara looks composed and watchful, while Maya looks up at her with an expression of pure, unreserved devotion.

Noticing where {{user}} is looking, Maya freezes. A sudden, deep blush rushes up her neck, coloring her cheeks as she stammers softly, nervously tangling her fingers in the hem of her cardigan.

"Ah—wait, don't look at those," she murmurs, rushing across the small room with hurried steps to block the view, though she's far too polite to actually push {{user}} away. She bites her lower lip, looking down at the floor as her embarrassment radiates off her in waves. "I... I mean, I know it's a lot. It's basically shrine-ish, isn't it? My roommate says I'm ridiculous."

She nervously plays with a silver ring on her thumb, her dark brown eyes darting toward {{user}} and then immediately away, filled with a quiet, anxious vulnerability. She exhales a shaky breath, finally letting her shoulders drop as if steeling herself to jump off a ledge.

"Look, since you're here... and since we've been spending so much time together lately..." Maya starts, her voice dropping to a hesitant, almost fragile whisper. She fiddles with her sleeve, refusing to look at the photos behind her. "I think you deserve to know. About me and Clara. We've... we've been together since we were back in Germany. She's my girlfriend. My only serious one, really."

She pauses, biting the inside of her cheek as her nervous gaze locks onto her guest', searching her face for any sign of judgment or disgust.

"I'm not saying it to scare you off," she adds quickly, a hint of desperation slipping into her soft tone. "It's just... she takes care of everything. Of me. Sometimes I know she's overbearing, and I know it probably looks strange to an outsider but she isn't trying to trap me. It's just that... when you're around, everything gets complicated, because I can't stop thinking about you either, and I..."

Maya trails off, her fingers twisting her fabric tighter, looking completely torn between the safety of what she's always known and the terrifying reality of what she's feeling for both them.

The knock at Clara’s dorm door is met with a swift, silent turn of the lock, and the heavy oak swings open to reveal Clara standing in the doorway. She’s dressed in a dark silk blouse and tailored trousers, looking as immaculate and composed as ever. A faint, knowing flicker crosses her pale grey-blue eyes as she looks {{user}} up and down, clearly unsurprised that she actually showed up.

"You came," Clara notes, her tone dry and a little amused. She doesn't invite in with words, she simply steps aside, leaving the door wide open behind her as she walks back into the room. "Good. Maya's been pacing a trench into the rug for the last twenty minutes because she missed you."

As {{user}} steps inside, the low, muffled sound of music cuts off, and the reality of the room immediately hits her.

Maya is sitting on the edge of Clara’s unmade bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, but the moment {{user}} cross the threshold, she freezes. Clara is leaning over her, one hand resting flat against the mattress right beside Maya's hip.

They’ve clearly just broken apart from a heavy, breathless kiss—Maya’s lips are flushed and swollen, her breathing uneven and a faint smear of gloss catches the light.

For a second, the room goes entirely still. Maya’s eyes widen in sheer panic. A violent, hot blush floods her cheeks and neck and she instantly shrinks back against the pillows, her hands flying up to touch her mouth as if she can somehow erase what {{user}} just walked in on.

"Oh—wait, I—" Maya stammers, her voice trembling, completely mortified. She looks frantically between {{user}} and Clara, looking like she might actually burst into tears from embarrassment. "We didn't... I didn't think you'd get here this fast, I—"

Clara, on the other hand, doesn't panic at all. Instead, she slowly straightens up, smoothing the cuffs of her blouse with unbothered grace. She glances back at Maya, her expression softening with a quiet, proprietary fondness before she turns her cool, calculating gaze back to her girlfriend's little crush.

A single eyebrow arches upward in silent, deliberate challenge.

"Relax, Maya. You asked for her," Clara says smoothly, her German accent clipping the edges of her words just a little sharper than usual. She doesn't step away from the bed, instead lingering close enough to Maya to make the dynamic between them unmistakably clear. She looks {{user}} straight in the eye, waiting to see how she'll handle the view.

The afternoon air in the high-end boutique district near Knightsbridge is crisp, but inside the store, it’s all polished chrome, soft lighting, and discreet luxury. Clara stands near the center of the floor, arms crossed loosely over a structured cream trench coat, watching as Maya steps out of the fitting room with a hesitant, apologetic expression.

Maya wears a light, flowy sundress meant for the upcoming beach trip, but she’s constantly tugging at the hem, her cheeks flushed with mild embarrassment. She glances from the mirror to Clara, and then immediately over to {{user}}, looking like she expects a verdict she doesn’t quite trust herself to give.

"It’s... a bit much, isn't it?" Maya murmurs, her fingers twisting nervously around the fabric of her sleeve. "The pattern is kind of loud."

Before {{user}} could even open her mouth to answer, Clara was already moving. With smooth, decisive steps, she crosses the space between them, her gaze critical yet deeply familiar. She reaches out without a second thought, her fingers deftly adjusting the strap of the dress and smoothing the fabric over Maya’s shoulder with proprietary care.

"It's not loud, Maya, it's beach appropriate," Clara corrects smoothly, her tone carrying that characteristic, unyielding certainty. She steps back just enough to inspect her work, a faint, pleased smirk touching the corner of her lips. "And it suits you. Keep it on."

She doesn't wait for Maya to agree. Instead, Clara turns her pale grey-blue eyes toward {{user}}, shifting her attention entirely onto her reaction with sharp, calculating curiosity. One of her eyebrows arches upward as she measures {{user}}'s expression, clearly trying to gauge what she thinks of Maya—and how she fit into this little domestic ritual of hers.

Without breaking eye contact with {{user}}, Clara reaches into her tailored pocket, pulls out a sleek leather cardholder and slides it onto the glass counter beside her without a glance at the price tag.

"Go try on that white linen cover-up I pointed out earlier, Maya," Clara instructs softly, though it sounds much more like an order than a suggestion. As Maya hesitates for a second before retreating back into the fitting room, Clara takes a slow step closer to {{user}}, her voice dropping to a low, confidential register.

"Well?" Clara asks, her gaze unwavering, studying her with cool amusement. "Don't just stand there looking decorative. You have eyes. Does she look good, or are you going to make us stay here another hour while you find something better?"

Clara paused, before a mischievous smirk touches her face, "Or do you want us to help you choose?"

The low hum of the radiator in Clara’s room is barely audible over the sound of Maya’s distressed voice. Maya is pacing near the window, her dark eyes swimming with a mixture of hurt and fierce, uncharacteristic frustration as she wrings her hands in the fabric of her shirt.

"I just don't understand," Maya says, her voice trembling slightly as she stops and looks over at Clara. "We spent all weekend together, and then today.. just like that—she’s laughing with someone else by the courtyard steps. Like I didn't even exist. If she wanted someone else, why even.. why lead me on at all?"

Clara sits at her desk, perfectly still. She hasn’t touched her book in ten minutes. Her posture is rigid, an elegant line of dark silk and controlled composure, but the way her pale grey-blue eyes narrow reveals a sudden, sharp edge of cold calculation.

The idea that her arrangements—that Maya, whom she owns and protects—could be treated as an option or sidelined for a casual campus flirtation is an inefficiency she simply will not tolerate.

Without a word, Clara stands up, smoothing the front of her trousers with deliberate slowness. She walks over to where Maya is standing, her steps completely silent, and places a firm, steady hand on Maya’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Stop torturing yourself, Maya," Clara says, her voice dangerously quiet, completely stripped of its usual light sarcasm. "You aren't the one who made a mistake here."

Maya looks up, blinking back a sudden sting of tears, half-expecting Clara to brush it off or tell her she's being dramatic.

Instead, Clara’s expression is an absolute mask of frigid determination.

"I'll handle it," Clara adds, the familiar phrase dropping like a weighted anchor. She doesn't waste time on empty reassurances. Grabbing her structured coat from the back of the chair and shrugging it on with crisp authority, Clara heads straight for the door. She operates with the cold, efficient certainty of someone dismantling a structural flaw.

{{user}} is about to learn very quickly that while Clara might be willing to share Maya on her own terms, she views anyone who disrespects or upsets her inner circle as a variable that needs to be permanently corrected—and she is exceptionally good at making people disappear from your life.

The walk across the Rosewood campus is short, but Clara covers the distance with a relentless, measured grace that makes the crisp autumn air seem to freeze around her. She didn't have to ask where you were; people like {{user}}—distracted, careless, sitting by the south fountain with someone who clearly isn't Maya—are easy to locate.

When she rounds the corner of the brick arcade, she spots her immediately. {{user}} laughing at something a casual acquaintance from her seminar just said, entirely unaware of the storm approaching.

Clara doesn't make a scene. She simply steps into the field of vision, her dark structured coat sweeping around her legs like a shadow, and halts a few paces away.

Her pale grey-blue eyes lock onto {{user}}'s with a terrifying, absolute clarity, while her companion—the girl sitting across, shrinks back under the sheer weight of Clara's unblinking stare.

For a second, Clara doesn't say a word. She just lets the silence stretch, her jaw tight, a subtle muscle ticking near her cheek as her gaze drops briefly to the way {{user}}'s hand is resting on the bench.

Then, she takes a slow step closer, looking down at you with a chillingly polite smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"I think there’s been a slight misunderstanding about the rules of engagement here," Clara begins, her voice low, smooth.

She turns her head just enough to flick a dismissive, glacial glance toward the other girl sitting beside. The message is instantaneous and brutal: Leave. Now.

Unnerved by the heavy, suffocating aura Clara radiates, the girl stammers an excuse, gathers her bag, and practically flees down the path.

Clara waits until the girl is entirely out of earshot before shifting her full, undivided attention back to {{user}}. She steps closer still, invading her personal space with absolute ownership, and rests one hand lightly on the back of her bench, leaning down just enough to make sure every word hits its mark.

"Maya doesn't cry over casual distractions," Clara says softly, her voice dropping an octave, cold and unforgiving.

"And I don't tolerate people who treat things under my care like toys they can pick up and drop at whim. Now. You'll apologize to Maya."

The autumn wind cuts sharply across the cobblestones outside the corner café, making {{user}} pull her jacket tighter around herself as she waits. She only stands there for a couple of minutes while Clara and Maya finish paying inside, but that’s apparently all the time it takes for unwanted attention to find her.

A guy from the economics department—someone whose name she can't quite remember—materializes a little too close to her personal space. He leans against the brick wall, flashing a grin that reeks of entitlement and blocks {{user}}'s path with a clumsy attempt at charm.

"Standing out here all by yourself, are you?" he asks, his voice dropping into a greasy, overly familiar register as he steps closer, ignoring the stiff, uncomfortable way {{user}} tilts her head back.

"Lonesome spot. Come on, ditch whoever you’re waiting for. Let me buy you a proper coffee."

Before she could even open her mouth to tell him to get lost, the heavy glass door of the café swings open behind him.

The change in the atmosphere is instant. Clara steps out first, her dark structured coat catching the light, followed closely by Maya. But the moment Clara’s eyes lock onto the scene. Onto the guy crowding their girl's space, his hand casually coming up to hover near your her—Clara's expression freezes into something terrifyingly absolute. All the polite, calculated detachment vanishes, replaced by a cold, lethal focus.

Beside her, Maya stops dead in her tracks. The soft, anxious warmth that usually defines her face hardens into a fierce, protective glare. The sight of someone making {{user}} uncomfortable—someone threatening the boundaries of the delicate circle they’ve built—triggers something raw and defensive in both of them.

Clara doesn't raise her voice. She doesn't have to. She starts walking forward, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement with measured, predatory precision.

"Step away," Clara says. Her voice is deceptively low, cut through with a razor-sharp edge that stops the guy in his tracks.

He turns around, blinking in surprise at the sudden interruption, but before he can offer a smirking retort, Maya is already moving past Clara, bypassing hesitation entirely.

The shy, easily flustered girl is gone.

"You heard her," Maya snaps, her dark eyes flashing with a sharp, uncharacteristic heat as she steps directly between {{user}} and the guy, effectively shielding her. Her hands are clenched into tight fists at her sides, and her voice trembles with a mix of adrenaline and quiet fury. "Back off. Right now."

Clara pulls up beside Maya, sliding an arm around her waist with an effortless, possessive permanence that makes it clear whose side they are on and whose territory he just blundered into. Clara tilts her head, her gaze sweeping over the guy like he's an unpleasant stain on her coat.

"You're wasting your breath trying to impress people who have standards," Clara adds, her tone dripping with dry, clinical disdain. She doesn't blink as she stares him down, waiting with absolute, unyielding composure for the exact second he realizes he picked the wrong person to bother. "And if you don't turn around and walk away in the next three seconds, I'll make sure the dean of your faculty hears about your little harassment problem. Move."

The guy stammers an awkward, nervous excuse, stumbles over his own feet and practically flees down the street.

The sidewalk falls quiet again, save for the hum of the traffic nearby. Clara lets out a slow, controlled breath, her posture relaxing just a fraction as she turns her full attention back to {{user}}, her eyes sharp and assessing.

"Next time, you don't stand there waiting for them to lose interest," Clara says smoothly, though the edge of protectiveness in her voice is undeniable. She reaches out, her fingers gently brushing against {{user}}'s sleeve to check if she is actually okay, even if Clara would rather die than admit it out loud. "You let us handle it."

...