MinyaRPs

Adara pulled up to the curb in front of a small, cozy-looking house with flower boxes under the windows and a bike half-tipped on the porch. The place looked lived in—warm light spilling from the kitchen window, a curtain tugged just slightly open.

“Here we are, Einstein,” Adara said, shifting into park. “Safe and sound. And you survived both detention and my driving playlist. Miracle of miracles.”

Cosmo chuckled nervously as he unbuckled, still pink around the ears. “Thanks. For the ride… and the conversation.” He hesitated, then smiled crookedly. “You’re not as scary as you look.”

Adara grinned, flipping her hair with a mock flourish. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Go on, before your Bubbe sends out a search party.”

Cosmo nodded, slinging his heavy bag over one shoulder. “See you tomorrow.” With that, he jogged up the short walk to the porch.

The door opened before he even reached it. His Bubbe—small, silver-haired, apron dusted with flour—stood framed in the light, eyes soft and searching.

“Nu, Cosmele,” she said, voice warm with relief. “First day already made you late.”

“Detention,” he admitted sheepishly, ducking inside. The smell of fresh-baked muffins and black tea wrapped around him like a blanket.

Bubbe clucked her tongue, guiding him toward the table. “You, detention? Sit, eat. Tell me everything.”

And Cosmo did. He couldn’t help it—lying never worked with her. Between bites of muffin, he explained the accident in the lab, the pink slip, the strange mix of kids crammed into detention. When he got to Rook—the orange hair, the grin, the relentless flirting—his voice faltered, cheeks burning.

Bubbe’s eyes twinkled as she poured tea. “Ahhh. This boy makes you blush, eh?”

“Bubbe,” Cosmo groaned, covering his face with one hand.

She only chuckled, patting his arm. “All right, go clean up, change your shirt—you smell like smoke and chalkboard. Then text the boy. Give him your number. He asked, yes?”

Cosmo blinked, flustered. “I—I didn’t—he just—”

“Text him.” Her tone brooked no argument, softened by love. “Life is short, Cosmele. Even detention can bring good things.”

Still red as a tomato, Cosmo shuffled off toward his room, clutching his phone like it might explode. Bubbe watched him go, a knowing smile tugging at her mouth.

Cosmo shut the door behind him, dropped his bag with a heavy thud, and flopped onto his bed. The phone sat in his hand like it weighed fifty pounds.

“Just text him,” he muttered to himself. “Normal. Casual. Totally not weird.”

He opened the screen, thumb hovering over the new contact he’d just typed in: Rook (Detention Club). His stomach twisted. He backspaced it. Tried again. Rook. Simple. Clean. Don’t overthink.

He started typing:

> hey, it’s cosmo.



Then deleted it. Too short. He tried again:

> hey, it’s cosmo. from detention.

Deleted. Too formal. He groaned and buried his face in his pillow.

“Cosmele?” Bubbe’s voice floated through the door, sing-song. “You are not hiding in there, are you?”

“I’m thinking, Bubbe!” he called back, muffled.

“You’re overthinking,” she corrected, footsteps retreating toward the kitchen.

Cosmo groaned again, rolling onto his back. His fingers moved almost without his permission this time:

> hey… uh, thanks for not letting me drown in detention today.
also, bubbe says i should give you my number, so… here.



He hesitated, then tacked on a shaky joke:

> don’t blow up my phone. that’s my job. 🔥🚀



His thumb hovered over send until his heart practically threatened to punch through his ribs. Then—tap.

Message sent. Now he's just had to wait for Rook to reply.
--Fin--

Rook’s board hummed underfoot, streetlights flicking past in slow strobe. His phone buzzed; he one-footed the deck, fished it out, and nearly drifted into a parked car from grinning so hard.

“Eyes up,” Nathan muttered.

“Worth it,” Rook said, already snapping a quick selfie—two-finger salute, board under one arm, streetlight halo; Nathan’s scowl a shadow over his shoulder, some goth blur behind that. He scribbled a tiny wolf and rocket high-five in the corner and hit attach.

Then he thumbed back:

> hey cosmo — you survived detention and my terrible handwriting 😎
your bubbe has excellent taste (tell her i said hi).
promise not to blow up your phone—just spark it a little. 🔥🚀
we’re rolling after a quick pit stop for some paint at a wall—low-key, good view. wanna come watch / sketch / heckle?
if not tonight, i’ll trade you coffee for a tour of your projects.
— rook 🐺🛹



Send. He kicked the board back into motion, grin still glued on.

-fin-

Cosmo was still half in his desk chair, math book open in front of him, when his phone buzzed. He snatched it up, pulse already kicking faster.

On his screen: a selfie—Rook mid-roll, two-finger salute, streetlight behind him like a halo. Nathan’s scowl lurked in the background, Alastor blurred further back. Attached underneath, doodled in the corner, a tiny wolf and rocket high-fiving.

Cosmo laughed out loud before he could stop himself. Too loud—Bubbe’s voice floated from the kitchen, “What’s funny?”

“Homework!” he yelped back, face heating.

Then he read the text. He reread it. And by the third pass, he was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard, erased twice, hovered again. “Be cool, Cos. Just be cool,” he muttered.

Finally he typed:

> hey — didn’t think you’d actually text this fast 😅
bubbe says hi back (and now she’s baking muffins for you too).
glad you’re not blowing up my phone… my desk can’t take another fire. 🔥💻
paint + view sounds… really cool. sketching’s more my speed than heckling tho.

He hesitated, then added:

> coffee for a tour sounds like a deal. ☕🔧
maybe… both?


His thumb hovered, nerves rattling every bone.

“Cosmele,” Bubbe called again, perfectly timed. “Stop thinking so much. Text the boy.”

Groaning, Cosmo hit send. Then dropped back in his chair, hands covering his face, muffling the strangled noise of a grin he couldn’t suppress.
--fin

The second the last of Blaze’s crew limped off and things settled, Rook dug his phone out, grin tugging at his lip when he saw the notification waiting. Cosmo’s name lit the screen, and just like that, the ache in his ribs didn’t matter anymore.

He snorted at the muffin line, thumbs already flying.

> tell her i say hey 👋 would definitely risk my life for those cookies.
meet me at the busted circle k on newton st—1 hr.



He snapped a quick pic: split lip, a few bruises already blooming purple, Nathan glowering in the background while the last of the bullies slunk off. Rook angled the shot just right—battle scars framed like trophies.

> proof of survival 😎🔥



Satisfied, he hit send, slipping the phone back in his pocket with a smug little hum.

-fin-


The minutes ticked by. Then twenty. Then thirty. No reply.

Cosmo chewed the inside of his cheek, eyes darting between the math problems half-finished on his desk and his phone screen. Finally—buzz.

He grabbed it so fast his chair nearly tipped.

The text opened, and his heart lurched.

Rook’s face filled the screen, grinning despite a split lip and bruises already darkening his cheek. Nathan was a shadow in the background, scowling like thunder, while some of Blaze’s crew limped away at the edge of the frame. Below it, the caption:

> proof of survival 😎🔥



Cosmo’s stomach flipped. For a second he just stared, thumb hovering, pulse hammering. Then he fired back, fingers flying:

> are you kidding me???
you look like you went 3 rounds with a truck
i’m bringing a first aid kit. and cookies. don’t argue.



He didn’t even wait for a reply. He shoved his homework into a messy pile, grabbed the battered tin first aid box from under his bed, and then raided the kitchen for the bag of cookies Bubbe had packed away.

“Cosmele?” Bubbe’s voice drifted from the living room as he fumbled into his sneakers.

“Rook’s hurt,” Cosmo blurted, clutching the kit and cookies like lifelines. “I—he texted—can I go meet him? Just for a couple hours?”

Bubbe’s brows arched, but her gaze softened at the sight of his frantic expression. She sighed, handing him his bike helmet from the rack by the door. “Text me when you arrive. And don’t forget the cookies.”

“I won’t,” Cosmo promised, hugging her quickly before bolting out the door.

Moments later, he was on his bike, pedaling hard into the night, heart rattling louder than the chain. First aid kit in his backpack. Cookies wedged carefully on top. Maybe he should have asked for a ride from Bubbe, circle k  was still a good distance away.

Cosmo pedaled like his heart was chasing the wheels. Midway to the busted Circle K, his phone buzzed again, lighting up the screen. Not a response, just… more time gone. Another 15 minutes. Then 20.

Panic started hissing at his ribs. Rook looked hurt in that photo—bruised, lip split—and he was still five blocks away. His legs wobbled and He gulped.

Dropping his phone on the handlebars, he coasted to a stop under a flickering streetlight. The bag of cookies felt like it weighed ten pounds. He stared down at them—and at the medkit. He was supposed to be the helper, not the nervous kid.

Take a breath.

Reaching into his pocket, he thumbed the message keyboard:

> hey… you still okay?
……. i’ll be there soon.

He shoved his phone deep into his pocket and got moving again.

Cosmo’s shoulders slumped when he finally made it and rested against the handle bars catching his breath. Relief simmered through him—but worry stayed. He didn’t move from under the street lamp, his eyes watching for Rook.

The cold air brushed past. He glanced down the street, every distant headlight making his heart drum louder. He repeated to himself: “You’re safe. You’re waiting.”
--+---

Rook’s thumb hovered over his phone, a grin tugging at his bruised mouth as Cosmo’s message blinked back at him.

> Don’t overreact, I’m fine. See you soon!


He exhaled, shoulders loosening as the restless edge of the fight finally began to ebb. Just a few more minutes and he’d see Cosmo roll up, cookies and all. That thought alone was enough to steady him.

But then—

The air split with a snarl.

Rook’s head jerked up just in time to see Nathan’s form twist, bones cracking, clothes shredding. In the space of a heartbeat, the boy was gone, replaced by a hulking black wolf with eyes lit by raw fury.

Rook froze, shock rooting him where he stood. “...oh, ****.”

The wolf lunged, all teeth and muscle aimed straight at Asher.

Rook’s voice broke sharp through the night. “Nathan—STOP!”

It was less a command than a desperate plea, the sound of someone who’d seen fights go too far, too fast—and knew what it cost when nobody pulled back.

-fin-

Cosmo’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he snatched it out quickly. Relief hit like a tide when he read the words.

> Don’t overreact, I’m fine. See you soon!

His chest eased, the knot between his shoulders loosening just a little. “See you soon,” he murmured under his breath, like saying it out loud might make the remaining time to shrink down to a minute.

He thumbed the message again. Still, a shadow of worry lingered, nagging at the back of his mind. Rook might say he was fine, but split lips and bruises didn’t just happen from nothing.

Cosmo settled his bike against a nearby sign and sat, pulling his knees up, resting his chin there for a moment. His fingers found the frayed edge of a hole in his jeans, worrying the loose threads until they curled tighter around his nail. It gave him something to do—keep the nervous energy from spiraling.

He glanced toward the end of the street, half-expecting the sound of wheels on pavement, even though he knew he had time. Too much time.

So he sat with the phone propped up where he could see any new buzz instantly, one eye on the screen, the other darting cars and random bikes, waiting for a shadow, a blur of motion—something that meant Rook was close.

Until then, all he could do was sit tight. Wait. And keep his wolf of worry on a leash.
--Fin--

The wheels of Rook’s board sang against the **** pavement, backstreets blurring under his feet as he thumbed out a quick text one-handed:

> Sorry I’m late—got held up at Nathan’s. Just ganna be you and me. Hope that’s okay. We can call it a date if you want.



His pulse ticked faster than the streetlights slipping by. Half an hour late—classic. He half-expected Cosmo to be gone, to get a buzz back saying forget it.

But when the rundown convenience store came into view, there he was. Curled up on the curb, phone propped beside him, eyes scanning the street like he’d been waiting every second.

Rook’s grin spread without permission, relief easing something tight in his chest. He kicked up his board with a practiced snap, catching it under his arm as he strode closer.

“Hey there, cutie,” he drawled, delight threading through the words. His hood shadowed his face, but his eyes shone bright when they found Cosmo’s.

The half hour he’d stolen from Cosmo suddenly felt like a sin worth confessing—though with that one line, he was already trying to charm forgiveness out of him.

-fin-

Cosmo’s phone buzzed. He glanced down, thumb swiping quick—

> Sorry I’m late—got held up at Nathan’s. Just ganna be you and me. Hope that’s okay. We can call it a date if you want.



A sharp inhale punched his chest. A date? His brain scrambled, cheeks already burning, but his thumbs tapped before he could stop himself:

> …yeah. i’m still here.
and… um. i wouldn’t mind calling it that. 😳

He hit send with a half-panicked groan, clutching his face for a second before forcing himself to look up, scanning the street.

And then—finally—Rook was there. Board under his arm, hoodie shadowing his face, grin lit like a flare. Relief knocked the air out of Cosmo’s lungs—until his eyes adjusted and the grin wasn’t what he saw first.

It was the bruises. The split lip, worse up close than any photo, the dark marks blooming against Rook’s cheek.

Cosmo’s heart lurched into his throat. “Rook—holy crap, you weren’t kidding.”

Before Rook could get another word out, Cosmo was on his feet, bag already unzipped. “Sit. Right there. Don’t even argue, I’ve got the kit.”

Cookies clattered to the bench as Cosmo yanked out the battered tin, popping it open with shaky determination. Alcohol wipes, bandages, the little tube of antibiotic cream—all lined up like soldiers on the curb.

“Let me see,” Cosmo muttered, gentler now, leaning in with careful hands. His brows pinched together as he dabbed at the corner of Rook’s lip, frowning every time the other boy flinched. “God, you should’ve told me it was this bad. A picture doesn’t show half of it.”

“Don’t try with the charm,” Cosmo cut  in a second later glaring, though his hands stayed feather-light. “You don’t get points for reckless. You get disinfectant. And cookies. That’s it.”

He softened a little at the edges, thumb brushing just shy of the bruise on Rook’s cheek. “You scared me, you know.”

 Cosmo, still fussing, still fretting, tried to ignore the way his own pulse tripped over itself at being so close.
--Fin--

The look on Cosmo’s face when he spotted him—wide-eyed, sharp with worry—made Rook’s grin twitch guilty for a heartbeat. But by the time he slid his board under the bench and dropped obediently where Cosmo pointed, the smirk was back in place.

“You stress too much,” he said, voice lazy and charming, though he didn’t move an inch out of Cosmo’s reach. “I’m fine.”

The sting of disinfectant bit at his lip, but instead of jerking away, Rook found himself leaning in—letting Cosmo fuss, letting him touch. Weird, how much he liked it. No one ever handled him like he might break and meant it.

His grin crooked wider, softer this time. “Though, if you’re gonna keep fussing over me like this…” He tilted his head just enough to catch Cosmo’s eye, cheeky spark cutting through the bruise. “Does that mean you’re my boyfriend now?”

He said it with a grin, but there was a thread of something more underneath—hope dressed up as humor, testing the waters without quite admitting he wanted the answer.

-fin-

Cosmo’s hand froze mid-dab, the alcohol wipe hovering an inch from Rook’s lip.

Boyfriend?

His brain blue-screened. The word rattled around his skull like a loose screw, sparking hot across his cheeks until he was sure his whole face had gone radioactive red.

“B-b-boy—?!” he squeaked, voice cracking so hard he almost dropped the wipe. He clamped his mouth shut immediately, eyes darting everywhere but Rook’s—streetlight, curb, cookie bag, literally anywhere safer than those bruised lips shaped around that word.

His ears burned. He muttered into his collar, “You can’t just… just say stuff like that when I’m trying to—when I’m literally cleaning blood off your face.”

Rook’s grin only widened, and Cosmo felt the oxygen evacuate his lungs.

“I mean—uh—” He scrambled, fumbling for a comeback, for something that didn’t sound like his heart trying to crawl out of his throat. “I… I’m not—! Unless…?” His hands betrayed him, fluttering uselessly before clamping around the medkit.

Finally, he shoved a cookie into Rook’s free hand like it was armor, blurting too fast: “Eat. Shut up. Heal. Then maybe we’ll talk about… that.”

His gaze darted away again, but not before a tiny, traitorous smile slipped through.
--Fin--

When Cosmo showed him the verdict from Bubbe, Rook lit up like someone had handed him fireworks. He bounced up to his feet, grinning ear to ear. “Cookie tax? Pfft, done. I’ll pay in fries too—come on, let’s move before she changes her mind.” His excitement had the same energy as a puppy catching sight of its leash.

Without giving Cosmo much chance to protest, he caught his hand and tugged him along, skateboard tucked under his arm. They made a quick pit stop at a greasy fast-food joint, Rook dramatically insisting on ordering enough fries to feed a small army. He shoved the warm bag into Cosmo’s hands with a smirk. “Snacks secured. Mission: approved date, accomplished.”

From there, he led the way into the quieter, rougher parts of town, the streetlights dimmer, the brick walls tagged and faded. They stopped at one wall in particular—covered in peeling spray paint, tired old graffiti layered over itself until nothing made sense anymore. To Rook, it was perfect. A blank stage waiting for its encore.

Dropping his board and kneeling by his bag, he yanked out cans of paint with an eager gleam in his eye. “Alright. Watch and learn, Cosmo. Tonight, this wall’s gonna breathe again.” He shook a can, the rattle filling the alley, then glanced back with a mischievous grin. “But—you’re not just watching. You’re helping.”

He slid behind Cosmo, guiding the boy’s hands with his own as he pressed the can into his grip. The hiss of paint filled the night as Rook steered his motions, close enough that Cosmo could feel the warmth of him at his back. Together, the wall began to transform into a night sky alive with color: galaxies spiraling, planets glowing, and at the center, a pack of wolves howling up at a silver-painted moon.

Rook leaned in, his voice low but playful against Cosmo’s ear. “Not bad, nurse boy. You’re a natural. Bet you didn’t know you had artist hands.”

He pulled back just enough to flash him a crooked smile, paint speckled across his knuckles. “Guess that means detention wasn’t wasted after all.”

—fin—

Cosmo wheeled his bike alongside Rook most of the way, the cookie bag and first-aid kit jostling in the basket up front. He tried not to look too obviously thrilled every time Rook tugged him closer, but the stupid smile on his face gave him away more than once. By the time they hit the wall, his cheeks already ached from grinning.

When Rook pressed the can into his hands and slid behind him, Cosmo nearly short-circuited on the spot. His ears went crimson, pulse jackhammering as he tried to focus on the wall and not the solid warmth crowding his back.

“Okay, uh… like this?” he muttered, biting his lip in concentration as he tried to keep the line straight. A faint blush crept higher when the paint hissed out in a shaky streak. “Oh no—that looks terrible—”

Rook’s hands steadied his, guiding the motion with infuriating ease.  The boy gave him encouraging words as he guided him, making Cosmo blush even darker.

Cosmo swallowed, nodding, and tried again. This time the paint arced smooth across the brick, stars beginning to dot the surface. Slowly, hesitantly, he lost himself in it—the hiss of color, the soft tug of Rook’s voice in his ear, the quiet satisfaction of seeing shapes form under his hands.

By the time they stepped back, the galaxies had begun to take shape, and Cosmo’s lips parted in awe. “Oh,” he breathed, almost forgetting he’d helped make it. “It’s… beautiful.”

Then he realized he was still clutching the can like a lifeline, paint speckles dusting his sleeves, and his face promptly caught fire again. He cleared his throat, fumbling to set the can down. “I, uh—sorry. Got carried away.”

His fingers fidgeted against the hem of his hoodie, eyes darting everywhere but Rook. “Guess I kinda… forgot you were, y’know. Right there. Breathing. Behind me. The whole time.”

The admission slipped out, awkward and endearing all at once, his blush so deep it could rival the neon galaxies blooming on the wall.

Cosmo’s words hung in the air, and he immediately wanted to crawl into his hoodie and disappear. He tried to busy his hands by dusting off the faint speckles of paint on his sleeves, but his blush only deepened when Rook’s grin sharpened in the corner of his eye.

Desperate to redirect, Cosmo blurted, “Uh—hey, maybe… maybe we should, um—take a picture? With the wall, I mean. Before it gets, like, painted over again or something.”

He fumbled his phone out, nearly dropping it in the process, then gave a weak laugh. “Y’know. Just… proof. Our first masterpiece. And maybe our… um… first date?”

The last words slipped out quieter, sheepish, but they lingered, hanging between them like a secret.

He held up the phone, still not quite looking Rook in the eye. “If you don’t mind being in the shot with a total dork, that is.”

Cosmo bit his lip again, half-hopeful, half-ready to melt into the pavement if Rook laughed.

--Fin--

Rook couldn’t help it—the way Cosmo glowed under the streetlight, paint-speckled and proud, put a soft, stupid smile on his face.

“Picture sounds perfect,” he said, sliding in close and looping an arm around Cosmo’s waist. “Gotta document our first masterpiece… and our first date.”

He angled the phone for a wide shot with the galaxies blazing behind them, snapped one, then flipped to selfie mode and tugged gently on Cosmo’s hoodie drawstring to bring him a breath closer.

“Okay, three… two—”

He stole a quick kiss to Cosmo’s cheek right as the shutter fired, then leaned back with a wicked-sweet grin. “For the archives,” he teased, eyes searching Cosmo’s. “And hey—if that was too much, say the word and I’ll delete it. Consent looks better than any filter.”

He glanced at the screen and huffed a happy laugh. “Look at you—star thief. You match the sky.”

Rook tucked the phone away and nudged the paper bag with his sneaker. “Fries before they go tragic,” he said lightly. “Plus, I owe your Bubbe a cookie tax per bruise, remember? Might as well pay interest.”

He bumped shoulders with him, softer now. “After we eat, I’m walking you home. Escort duty. No bike-lane solos when you’ve got me.”

A beat; his grin tipped crooked. “And for the record? Breathing behind you was part of the tutorial. You did great.”

He offered a fry like a toast. “To our wall, our photo, and… date one.”

-fin-

Cosmo just about combusted on the spot. His hand flew up to his cheek where Rook’s kiss still burned, fingers splayed like he could hide the blush crawling all the way to his ears.

“You—you can’t just—” he sputtered, words tripping over each other, “you didn’t even warn me!”

But then he caught sight of the photo on the screen before Rook tucked the phone away—the galaxies flaring behind them, Rook grinning wide, and himself mid-shock with a blush that could light the whole alley. Somehow… it looked perfect.

Cosmo bit his lip, fighting a shy smile. “Don’t delete it,” he mumbled finally, voice soft. “It’s… good. Really good.”

When Rook bumped his shoulder, Cosmo bumped back, smaller, but with more courage than before. “Fine. Fries and cookie taxes. But you’re not carrying me home if I eat too many, got it?”

He snagged the offered fry, lifting it like a toast in return, his eyes flicking toward Rook’s just long enough to hold. “To… our wall. Our photo. And, um… our first date.”

The grin that slipped through after was crooked and boyish, the kind that said despite all the nerves and blushing, he wouldn’t trade this night for anything.
++Fin++

Rook pocketed the phone and fell into step, board under one arm, grin permanent. “Warning? Please. I operate on a zero-notice policy for great shots and better kisses. Artist’s code.”

He bumped shoulders, stole a fry, and declared, “Cookie tax is now in effect—one per block, payable to the bruised party. Don’t worry, I itemize.”

As they walked, he talked—pointed out a real constellation over the roofs, christened it “The Dorky Medic,” then added, softer, “Top tier constellation, though.” On the next corner he hooked his pinky around theirs. “Science experiment,” he announced, mock-serious, not letting it go unless he had to.

“Agenda for tomorrow,” he went on, sing-song: “detention, fries, you obliterating me at Galaga, and me pretending I didn’t try. After that, more firsts. New wall, new photo, possibly a kiss—with… minimal warning.” Beat. “Maybe.”

At the steps he pressed the fry bag into their hands. “For Bubbe’s ledger. Tell her I’m paying interest.” Two-finger salute to the temple. “Text me when you’re in, or I stage a dramatic rescue and get grounded by your grandma.”

He waited at the bottom stair—hands in pockets, board nudging his ankle—until the door shut and the lock clicked. Only then did he let the grin break wide, drop his board to the asphalt, and push off into the quiet street.

“First date: nailed,” he told the night, already drafting a caption for the galaxy selfie as wheels hummed him home.

-fin-

Cosmo’s blush had settled into something permanent by the time they reached his steps. Every bump of the shoulders, every fry tax, every stupid little “science experiment” pinky hook had him half-smiling, half-dying inside.

When Rook pointed at the crooked scatter of stars above the roofs and dubbed it The Dorky Medic, Cosmo couldn’t help himself. He snorted, shoving his glasses up his nose. “That’s actually Lyra,” he corrected, voice slipping into the certainty of someone raised by an astronomer. “Tiny constellation, harp-shaped. My dad used to make me find it before bed.” He hesitated, then added quieter, “Guess I don’t mind if it’s ‘The Dorky Medic’ now. Kind of… nice, having both.”

The pinky hook lingered all the way to his front step, making his pulse thrum against the thin tether between them. When Rook finally pressed the bag of fries into his hands and tossed the salute, Cosmo stood frozen on the top step, watching until the board wheels hummed out of earshot. Only then did he slip inside, pressing his back against the door and exhaling a laugh that was half relief, half giddy disbelief.

Bubbe was waiting in the kitchen, teacup in hand, her eyes sharp but kind. “So?” she prompted, one silver brow arched. “How was your date?”

Cosmo nearly dropped the fry bag. “Bubbe!” His face went crimson again, ears on fire. “It wasn’t— I mean—it was—” He flailed for words, then finally collapsed into a chair with a groan. “It was… good.”

Her smile softened, eyes twinkling. “Good, hm? That’s all I need to know.”

Cosmo buried his face in his hands, grinning helplessly behind them. The paint on his sleeves, the lingering warmth on his cheek, the constellation still hanging bright in his mind—it was all proof enough.

First date, he thought, heart racing. And maybe… not the last.

Later that night, Cosmo lay sprawled on his bed, the faint glow of his phone screen lighting the ceiling. His backpack sat abandoned in the corner—math problems forgotten, medkit half-open where he’d dropped it. The only thing that mattered was the picture on his screen: galaxies blazing behind them, Rook’s grin wolfish and wide, himself mid-blush with Rook’s lips caught against his cheek.

He must’ve stared at it a hundred times already, thumb hovering over the “favorite” button before he finally tapped it. A stupid smile stretched across his face, one he couldn’t fight even if he tried.

His mind replayed the night in endless loops—the hiss of paint in his hands, the warmth of Rook pressed close, the fry-tax jokes, the pinky hook swinging between them, that shameless little kiss for the camera. Each memory tightened his chest in the best way, nerves and excitement tangled together until he had to bury his face in his pillow just to muffle the giddy laugh bubbling up.

For once, he wasn’t dreading school the next morning. He was excited. Excited to see Rook again in detention, to maybe sit close enough their knees brushed under the desk, to share more fries, to hear another dumb nickname whispered just for him.

His phone buzzed—just a late-night weather alert—but his heart jumped anyway, imagining it was Rook already. He shook his head at himself, still grinning, and tucked the phone under his pillow like keeping the memory close might help him dream about it.

Cosmo drifted off with galaxies on the wall behind his eyes and Rook’s laugh in his ears, counting the hours until morning like a kid waiting for his favorite holiday.
---Fin--

Cosmo blinked after the kids disappeared, chest still tight. Rook’s words—sharp, loud, unflinching—echoed over the arcade noise in his head. He swallowed hard, gripping the striker like it was an anchor.

When Rook turned back with that softer grin, the knot in Cosmo’s throat unraveled a little. He ducked his head, glasses slipping down his nose, voice quiet. “Thanks. For… y’know. Not letting them get away with that.”

His ears burned hotter as Rook’s words replayed: you look ten times hotter when you’re leaning over this table. Cosmo bit his lip, fumbling for something—anything—that didn’t sound like a squeak.

“You can’t just—say stuff like that. Not after—” He cut himself off, shaking his head with a tiny laugh. “You’re seriously going to give me a heart attack before the night’s over.”

Still, when the puck slid toward him, he shifted, blocking it clumsily but successful this time. A tiny spark of pride flared in his chest.

He glanced up, cheeks flaming, but the corner of his mouth tugged into a shy smile. “Alright, fine. But if I’m terrible, you’re not allowed to tell anyone, got it?”

He tapped the puck back, lighter than he meant to, but his eyes were steady on Rook’s now, gratitude and nerves tangled together.
--Fin--

Rook let the cocky grin linger, then softened it just for Cosmo.

“still waiting on that ‘why,’ stargazer,” he teased, tapping the puck so gently it moseyed across the table like it had all night. “until then, i’ll try not to melt you.”

He shifted into coach mode without the condescension—chin tilt, quick demo with the striker. “Tiny wrist flick. Keep your striker a little off the goal line—gives you room to react. And bank shots are your friends.”

Then he played… badly. Convincingly badly.

He over-sold a few lunges, clipped the post with a theatrical wince, and “oops”-ed a clean miss that let the puck drift home. When Cosmo blocked him, Rook’s eyes lit like he’d just watched a championship save.

“There he is,” he said, low and proud. “That’s my menace.”

Every point Cosmo scored, Rook made it feel earned—upping the speed a hair, then dialing it back, feeding him lanes, letting confidence creep back into Cosmo’s shoulders. Neon washed over them; the table hummed; Rook’s laughter stayed easy and close.

9–9.

Rook lined up, met Cosmo’s eyes, and smirked. “House rule: winner claims the other guy’s bag… and one photo for the trophy wall.”

He flicked a lazy bank that Cosmo read perfectly, snapped it back past Rook’s “too slow” dive, and the puck thunked into the back of the goal.

Victory tone. Lights. Rook threw his hands up like he’d planned the parade.

“CHAMPION!” He caught Cosmo’s wrist and lifted it high, then bowed over dramatically. “Teach me, Professor.”

He leaned on the rail, grin all teeth and sunshine. “And, for the record? I’m totally telling everyone you destroyed me.” Beat. “By ‘everyone’ I mean my camera roll. And maybe my grandma. She loves a prodigy.”

He slid a fresh quarter across the glass with a knuckle. “Rematch… after a celebratory cookie? Tax rate’s tripled for winners.” A wink, easier than breathing. “Can’t help it—confidence looks stupid hot on you.”

-fin-

Cosmo’s face went nuclear at the wrist-lifted victory pose, his laugh coming out half-snort, half-disbelieving giggle. “Professor? Oh my god, you’re insufferable.” He pulled his hand back and buried it in his hoodie pocket, though the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him.

“And the cookie tax? At this rate you’re gonna eat through Bubbe’s entire kitchen,” he muttered, shaking his head. “She’s gonna start charging me interest for supplying you.”

Still, when Rook slid the quarter across the table, Cosmo picked it up, twirling it nervously between his fingers. The compliment—confidence looks stupid hot on you—burned hotter than any neon overhead. His ears went scarlet, and he ducked his head with a groan.

“You seriously need a filter,” he said, voice muffled but not without warmth. “But… I guess I don’t mind feeding your cookie addiction. Just… don’t tell Bubbe you’ve tripled the rate. She’ll put me on kitchen duty for the rest of the semester.”

He flicked the puck into play again, biting his lip to hide the grin sneaking up. “Loser buys the next round of fries. And spoiler alert—it’s not gonna be me this time.”
--Fin--

Rook bit back a grin so hard it almost hurt. There you are.

“Insufferable? absolutely,” he said, rolling his shoulders like a prizefighter and tapping the mallet to the rail twice. “And for the record, my filter is factory-defective. Return policy expired.”

He leaned in over the table, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Tell Bubbe I’m willing to pay in labor. Dishes, peeling potatoes, taste-testing cookies—whatever gets me a line of credit.”

The puck zipped; Rook met it with an easy block, then sent it back just off-center—quick enough to feel legit, soft enough to give Cosmo a lane. “There you go, stargazer,” he coached, playful. “Ride the rail—yup, like that.”

Cosmo scored. Rook whooped like he’d lost the Stanley Cup on purpose. “OH NOOO, MY PRIDE,” he groaned, head thrown back, then flashed him a wicked smile. “Do it again.”

He kept it competitive—smart angles, lazy power—always leaving just a breath of space where Cosmo could thread the shot. And every time Cosmo nailed one, Rook hyped him like a stadium crowd: knuckles drumming the glass, a quick tap to Cosmo’s wrist when he returned the puck, eyes shining like this was the only galaxy in the room.

Match point. Rook let the puck kiss the rim of his own goal, then clack—game. He flung his hands up, wrists crossed in mock surrender. “Professor Cosmo: 1. Menace Rook: 0. I accept my fries-buying fate.”

He slid the mallet aside, leaning on the table, voice soft around the edges. “Confidence looks good on you. Keep it.”

Then, lighter: “Victory lap to the fry counter? Or—hear me out—photo booth. Winner gets to choose the pose, loser carries the cookie bag… at triple tax.” He winked. “I’ll make room in the ledger.”

-fin-

Cosmo tried—really tried—to glare at him over the rail, but the way Rook threw his head back and groaned like he’d just lost an Olympic medal **** him. A laugh burst out before he could stop it, bright and unguarded, and he ducked his head immediately, ears flaming.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though the little grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him completely. He pushed his glasses up with one hand, still flushed from the hype. “Nobody cheers this much when they’re losing.”

But Rook’s praise—confidence looks good on you—landed right in his chest, and suddenly Cosmo was fidgeting with the striker, biting his lip like he could swallow the blush away. “…Thanks,” he mumbled, softer, but it carried.

When the options hit the air—fry counter or photo booth—Cosmo groaned, burying his face in his hoodie sleeve. “You and your cookie tax are out of control.” He peeked up, shy but shining. “But… photo booth. Fries after. I’m not carrying that bag everywhere while you gloat.”

He tried for a smirk but it came out crooked, boyish, nervous. “Fair warning though—I’m vetoing any pose where you make me look like your sidekick. Equal billing only.”

He shoved the striker back into the slot and tugged at his ponytail, cheeks still glowing. “So yeah. Photo booth. But only if you promise not to steal another kiss in front of a camera this time.”

The way his voice **** halfway through made the warning less threatening and more like an open dare.
-fin

Rook slid an arm along the rail and flashed a helpless, theatrical groan—then broke into a grin so bright it was practically neon.

“Then I guess I’m nobody,” he said, tipping two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute. “Equal billing, Professor. Cross my heart.”

He laced their fingers for exactly three steps, then let go to tug back the photo-booth curtain, feeding in quarters like he owned the place. “Okay, high art only,” he murmured, thumbing through frames until he found one with 8-bit stars and a tiny rocket. “Stargazer theme. Obviously.”

The countdown lit.

4 — Rook dropped into the frame with his best troublemaker smirk, chin tipped down, eyes up, knuckles at his jaw like a wanted poster.

3 — He popped both hands into ridiculous peace signs, tongue out, committing to the bit.

 2— He turned and pressed a quick, warm kiss to Cosmo’s cheek just as the flash went off, then snapped back forward, biting his grin and failing miserably.

1 — final light blinked. Rook wheezed a laugh, shoulders shaking, one hand covering his mouth as he pointed at the empty air where the camera had just captured it.

When the strip spat out, he snatched it, fanning it like a winning hand. He tapped the third panel with an utterly unrepentant sparkle in his eyes. He slid one copy into his wallet—front slot, no hesitation—then hooked a thumb toward the fry counter. “C’mon, stargazer. Victory fries. And, uh… cookie tax still applies. I don’t make the rules—I just handsomely enforce them.”

-fin-

Cosmo was already red by the time Rook laced their fingers for those three steps, but the kiss in the booth—with the camera flash catching it—was nuclear. He froze mid-frame, eyes wide, ears burning so hot he was certain they could power the arcade’s neon.

When Rook fanned the photo strip like a prize, Cosmo buried his face in both hands with a strangled groan. “Rook!” His voice ****, muffled through his palms. “You said no camera kisses!”

He peeked between his fingers anyway—big mistake. The third panel was right there. His blush went critical, racing from his cheeks all the way down his neck.

“You’re impossible,” he mumbled, half into his hoodie sleeve, trying and failing to smother the grin breaking through. “Absolutely, infuriatingly impossible.”

He tugged his glasses up with shaky fingers, then snatched the second copy of the strip like it was contraband, stuffing it into his pocket with a muttered, “Mine.” His ears glowed crimson.

As Rook gestured toward the fry counter, Cosmo shook his head, still flustered beyond repair. “Victory fries, cookie taxes, photo evidence of my imminent death by embarrassment—” He huffed a laugh, cheeks burning. “You’re gonna kill me before our second date at this rate.”

But the way his eyes shone—bright and nervous and happy all at once—gave him away completely.

They claimed a booth with a view of the arcade floor, fries steaming between them. Rook lounged back like he owned the place, legs stretched out under the table, plucking one fry at a time with lazy precision.

Cosmo was still crimson from the photo booth fiasco, the strip of pictures hidden deep in his pocket like smuggled treasure. He tried to focus on his soda, on the hum of the games, on anything but the way Rook looked when he tipped his head back and laughed. But then Rook dangled a fry between two fingers, smirk sharp as ever and Cosmo couldn't seem to help himself. He leaned across the table, heartbeat rattling, and closed his lips around the fry before Rook could even blink.

The moment his lips brushed the fry, Cosmo’s stomach flipped like he’d just cannonballed off a diving board. He sat back down so fast his chair squeaked against the tile, ears blazing.

He tried to focus on chewing, on swallowing, on literally anything that wasn’t the fact he’d just leaned across the table and—basically kissed Rook’s fingers.

His hoodie sleeve was halfway over his knuckles by the time he dared to speak, voice cracking in the middle. “Th-there. Tax paid.”

The words tumbled out quick, like a defense. He tugged harder at the sleeve, shrinking into the fabric, but the tiniest grin broke through anyway—nervous and crooked, but real.

“Still… still want your cookie?” he muttered, eyes darting to the fries like they might save him from combusting.

And just like that, the blush that had started in the photo booth went full nova all over again, leaving Cosmo grinning helplessly into his soda.
--Fin--

Rook actually froze—just a hitch, a blink—then color climbed his cheekbones. The grin that followed was slow and feral.

He lifted the two fingers Cosmo’s mouth had brushed and, with maddening calm, tasted the salt off them. “Bold,” he murmured, eyes never leaving Cosmo’s. “I like bold, stargazer.”

The fry basket slid across the table toward Cosmo with a knuckle-nudge. Under the table, Rook’s boot found Cosmo’s ankle—light pressure, a steady touch that said he wasn’t playing it off. “Tax paid,” he conceded, voice dipping, “but interest is a thing.”

Cosmo’s question hung there and Rook’s smile sharpened. “Do I still want my cookie?” He leaned in, elbows on the table, those freshly kissed fingers tapping once between them. “Always. But I’m patient.” A beat. “I’ll collect—one bite at a time.”

He sat back, legs stretched, gaze warm and reckless. “Your move, professor.”

-fin-

Cosmo swore the ground might as well open up and swallow him whole. The second Rook’s tongue brushed those fingers, heat shot straight through his veins and landed squarely in his face.

His jaw dropped. Did he just—?

Cosmo yanked his hoodie sleeve up over his mouth, muffling a half-groan, half-squeak. “You—you can’t just—!” His words came out strangled, tripping over themselves as he tried not to combust on the spot.

The steady press of Rook’s boot against his ankle only made it worse— grounding and dizzying all at once. Cosmo curled his toes in his sneaker, unable to stop the nervous little flutter in his stomach.

He peeked over the edge of his sleeve, cheeks crimson, eyes wide. “You’re seriously gonna kill me before dessert at this rate.”

Then, softer, shy but honest: “…And you know it.”

He shoved a fry in his mouth too fast, glaring down at the basket like it had betrayed him, but the crooked, helpless smile tugging at his lips gave him away completely.

Cosmo nursed the last of his soda, trying to will the blush out of his cheeks. It didn’t work—especially not with Rook’s boot still pressed to his ankle like a casual claim.

The fries had dwindled to crumbs, the arcade buzz dimming as the night wore on. Cosmo flicked his phone awake just to check the time—and winced.

“Uh…” He tugged at his hoodie sleeve, reluctant. “I should probably… head home soon. Bubbe’ll kill me if I roll in after ten. She’s patient, but not that patient.”

He tried to play it casual, but the weight in his chest said otherwise. He didn’t want the night to end—the neon glow, the laughter, the way Rook’s eyes never seemed to leave him.

Cosmo pushed his glasses up, giving Rook a crooked, sheepish grin. “This was… really good. Like… ridiculously good. Fries, Galaga, photo evidence of my total humiliation, all of it.”

His cheeks heated again, but he pushed through it, voice dropping softer. “I don’t really… want it to end. But if I don’t go, Bubbe’s liable to come storm the arcade herself.”

He slid the cookie bag across the table, smirking faintly despite the blush. “Peace offering. For the triple tax.”
----

Rook’s grin sharpened when Cosmo went pink again; he let the boot at Cosmo’s ankle press once—warm, reassuring—then eased off and sat back like a cat who’d just knocked something off a shelf on purpose.

He accepted the bag with mock ceremony. “Tribute for the triple tax? Accepted,” he said, tucking it into his jacket like contraband. “For the record, that fry move was lethal. Consider me critically wounded… in a very survivable way.”

At the curfew talk, he lifted both hands, palms out. “No casualties before dessert, promise. And I plan on living long enough for date three.”

He stood, swept the empty basket into the trash with one hand, then leaned on the table to snag his tokens and receipt. “I’ll walk you home. Hands where Bubbe can see ’em,” he added, winking. “I’ll even carry the cookies so I don’t get arrested for intent to snack.”

He slung his jacket over his shoulder, then offered a hand to help him up—steady, not pushy. “Tomorrow: date three. Stargazing for my stargazer. Blanket, thermos, terrible constellation puns. I’ll ask before any… upgrades.”

On the way out, he paused by the photo booth and tapped his pocket with a little, smug tilt of his mouth. “I’m framing shot three. That smile? Criminal.”

At the door, he pulled it open with a small bow. “C’mon, Professor. Let’s get you home before Bubbe declares a statewide manhunt. Then you text me you’re in safe, and I’ll send you a star playlist to pregame tomorrow.”

-fin-

Cosmo buried his face in his hoodie sleeve when Rook called the fry move lethal, muttering, “You’re the worst,” though the smile tugging at his mouth ruined the attempt at indignation.

“Date three, huh?” His voice **** halfway, sending his ears scarlet again. He shoved his glasses up, glancing at Rook sidelong. “…You just like making me blush, admit it.”

Still, he let Rook tug him up, his hand lingering longer than he meant to before he grabbed his bike from the rack. They fell into step together—Cosmo walking it slow instead of riding, so he didn’t have to split the moment too fast. Rook’s board wheels rattled softly along the pavement, the sound weirdly comforting in the quiet night.

Cosmo kept sneaking glances at him, cheeks pink, hoodie string twisted between nervous fingers. “You know… Bubbe’s gonna have my head if I come home looking like this,” he mumbled. “She’ll take one look and know I—” He broke off, ears burning hotter. “—that we had fun.”

The porch light of his house glowed at the end of the street. Cosmo’s pulse spiked. He stopped by the curb, fiddling with his handlebars like they were suddenly the most interesting thing in the universe.

“Thanks for walking me back,” he said, soft but sincere. “And… for tonight.” His cheeks flamed darker as he shifted, heart hammering. “I—uh—”

Before he could lose his nerve, he leaned quick across the bike and pressed the fastest kiss to Rook’s cheek—barely a brush, hot and clumsy. Then he was back, fumbling for his garage keys with ears blazing crimson.

“Okaybye!” he blurted in one word, shoving the bike toward the garage. The door rattled open, and he all but rushed inside, hoodie pulled tight, face on fire.

But under it all, he was grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.
--Fin--

Rook didn’t move for a heartbeat—just stood on the sidewalk, fingers touching the spot Cosmo’s lips had landed like he’d been stamped. Then the grin hit, full force, and he blew out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

“Night, stargazer,” he murmured to the closed garage, not loud enough to get Bubbe’s attention.

He kicked off on his board, cookie bag tucked into his hoodie pocket, and let the downhill carry him. The city felt different—edges softer, neon warmer. He veered toward his usual hideout: the abandoned rooftop with the clean skyline and the busted-up HVAC that doubled as a seat. He dropped onto the metal, **** the cookie bag, and studied the view like he was scouting a stage.

Yeah. Date three. Up here. Blanket, thermos, constellations he still half-remembered. He could already hear Cosmo’s laugh in the dark.

On the way down he left a quick throw—small star cluster, a sly R tucked in the tail—then pushed home. Dad was waiting, not mad about curfew, just chores. Rook didn’t argue. He scrubbed, folded, took the trash out, all on autopilot with one hand drifting to his cheek every few minutes like a reflex.

By the time he collapsed at two, the photo-booth strip was tucked in his wallet and the rooftop plan was a lock.

Morning found him at school with shadows under his eyes and that same stupid smile he couldn’t shake. He bumped his locker shut with a hip, thumb brushing the edge of the kiss-mark memory, and thought: worth it.

-fin-


Cosmo barely got his sneakers off before he was ambushed in the kitchen.

His mom sat at the table, glasses perched low on her nose as she sorted through bills. Bubbe stood at the stove, humming some old Polish tune while stirring a pot that smelled like heaven. Both pairs of eyes snapped to him the second he walked in, and Cosmo froze like a deer in headlights.

“Well?” his mom prompted, folding her arms. “You were out late.”

Bubbe’s smile was softer but just as sharp. “How was your date, moy złoty?” my golden one.

Heat rushed up Cosmo’s neck so fast he nearly tripped over his own words. “I—uh—it was good. Really good.” His voice ****, and he cleared his throat, fumbling with the strap of his bag. “We just… talked, and, um, hung out. That’s all.”

Bubbe’s knowing hum said she didn’t believe him for a second.

“And this boy,” his mom asked, one brow arched, “is he being respectful? Kind?”

“Yes! Totally,” Cosmo blurted, waving both hands like a defense attorney. “He’s—uh—he’s great. Really. We’re gonna go stargazing next time. Nothing crazy, promise.”

That earned him a tiny, approving smile from Bubbe and a slow nod from his mom. “Alright,” she said finally, going back to her bills. “Just be careful. We trust you.”

Cosmo’s ears still burned, but a relieved breath slipped out as he slung his bag down by the table.

---

Later that night, Cosmo packed quietly, humming under his breath while his Bubbe’s soap opera murmured in the background. He checked his notebook twice, slid goggles and gloves into the side pocket of his backpack, then tucked a carefully labeled sample kit beside them. His experiment supplies were ready.

When he finally crawled into bed, his phone sat charging on the nightstand. He couldn’t stop smiling at the thought of Rook on that rooftop, blanket and thermos and constellations. Date three, he thought, pulse quickening, before sleep pulled him under.

Morning came too fast.

Cosmo scrambled into jeans and a hoodie, nearly tripping over his own feet as he shoved books into his pack. He skidded into the kitchen, hair sticking up like static, just as Bubbe was sealing his lunch in a neat brown paper bag.

“Tell Rook,” she said with a sly glint in her eye, “if he wants more cookies, he must help bake the next batch.”

Cosmo froze mid-reach, face igniting scarlet. “B-Bubbe!” he squeaked, mortified. Then, quieter, “I’ll… I’ll tell him.”

She chuckled, pressing the bag into his hands. “There’s extra food inside. Share with him,” she added warmly.

Cosmo swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, leaning in for a rushed hug. “Thanks, Bubbe.”

“Go, go,” she shooed, patting his cheek. “Don’t miss your bus!”

-------

The roll to school was quiet; Nathan’s wheels hummed beside his and said more than either of them felt like saying. Inside, the noise sharpened—gossip like broken glass. Rook heard Nathan’s name first, then Alastor’s, then his own and Asher’s floating on the edges, and something mean in him went very, very still.

He planted himself near Nathan’s locker anyway—just a shadow with a board and a don’t-try-it stare—until a different kind of brightness cut through the hall.

Cosmo.

Bubbe, cookies, brisket, baking invitations—Cosmo tumbled all of it out like confetti, and Rook felt his jaw unclench without permission.

He tipped his chin, grin sliding in. “Tell Bubbe I can wield a whisk and a wooden spoon like a pro. I’m in.”

Then, lower—just for Cosmo—“And yeah, date three’s already set. Tonight, if you’re up for it.” A quick, conspiratorial flick of his eyes toward the roofline outside. “Bring that stargazer brain. I’ll bring the view.”

He let his knuckles brush Cosmo’s backpack in passing—quick, secret—and then shot a look back down the hall, gaze hardening as another ugly whisper rippled past.

“Lunch is ours,” he added, voice easy again but edged with intent. “Brisket diplomacy at noon. After school, we bounce.”

The grin came back for Cosmo alone. “Try not to make me fall in love with your grandmother’s cooking in one day.”

And then he settled again at Nathan’s six, casual as a lamppost, the kind that happens to light up trouble before it gets too close.

-fin-