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#Post#: 1429--------------------------------------------------
Cosmic Chaos
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 3:16 pm
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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, shit.”
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 cracked 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--
#Post#: 1430--------------------------------------------------
Re: Cosmic Chaos
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 3:20 pm
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The squeaky stammer that tumbled out of Cosmo had Rook’s grin
stretching ear to ear. God, he hadn’t expected this—the kid
blushing, scrambling, hands fluttering like panicked little
birds. It was better than any punchline he could’ve come up
with.
“Now that’s definitely not how you’re supposed to talk to your
patient,” Rook teased, voice low and smug, though there was a
warmth tucked in under the edges. He leaned in just enough to
watch Cosmo squirm harder. “But damn, you’re cute when you’re
flustered. Makes getting banged up almost worth it.”
He popped open the cookie tin, deliberately casual, and took a
bite like he wasn’t sitting here bleeding under the streetlight.
But his eyes never left Cosmo—sharp and playful, drinking in
every twitch, every blush like it was a show just for him.
“Mm. Sweet,” he mused around a mouthful, tapping the cookie
against his lip before smirking wider. “Almost as sweet as you.”
-fin-
Cosmo made a noise somewhere between a strangled groan and a
whimper, burying his face in both hands so fast he nearly
knocked the medkit off his lap.
“Rook!” His voice came muffled through his palms, every syllable
dripping with mortified despair. “You cannot just—just say
things like that while you’re chewing a cookie!”
He peeked out between his fingers anyway, because apparently
self-preservation had abandoned him. Big mistake. Rook was
watching him with that infuriatingly smug grin, crumbs at the
corner of his split lip, looking like trouble wrapped in bruises
and starlight.
Cosmo’s heart executed another Olympic-level backflip.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered, ears blazing, shoving the
medkit closed with a snap and trying to look Very Busy
organizing the bandages that were already organized. “Literally
impossible. Who flirts with their medic while they’re still
bleeding?”
His voice softened despite himself, traitorous, quiet: “...and
who calls me cute like it’s nothing?”
The words slipped out before he could catch them, and his eyes
went wide. He slapped a hand over his mouth again, horrified.
“Forget I said that!” he squeaked. “Delete it! Erase!”
But the redness creeping all the way to his hairline gave him
away.
--Fin--
Every fresh shade of red Cosmo turned just made Rook’s grin
sharper. The kid was practically combusting from a couple of
words, and it was the most fun Rook had had in weeks. He leaned
back on the bench, relaxed as if Cosmo wasn’t on the verge of
imploding right beside him.
“I’m only telling the truth,” he drawled, crumbs still clinging
to the corner of his lip. “When someone looks like you, it’s
easy. Comes natural.”
His smirk curved wicked as he added, low and teasing, “Bet you’d
kill it in a nurse costume.” He let out a snicker, clearly
enjoying the way Cosmo’s hands froze on the medkit again.
Rook leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, voice dropping
into a purr that was half-sincere, half-trouble. “And besides,
you’re stuck with me in detention all week. So you might as well
get used to it.” His gaze lingered, warm but mischievous. “Every
day, I’m just gonna keep reminding you how damn amazing you
are—till you start believing it.”
He popped another cookie into his mouth, chewing lazily, but his
eyes never left Cosmo’s face, drinking in every flustered twitch
and blush like it was the best show in town.
-fin-
Cosmo’s fingers stilled completely, the roll of gauze forgotten
halfway back into the tin.
A nurse costume. God help him. His ears went hot enough to power
the flickering streetlight overhead.
But it was the second half—the words that weren’t just
teasing—that stuck under his skin. Till you start believing it.
Cosmo swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. His gaze flicked
up, meeting Rook’s eyes for half a second before skittering away
again, nerves tangling with something softer.
“…That’s just detention, though,” he blurted, too fast. His
hands fidgeted with the medkit latch, clicking it open, shut,
open, shut. “What happens after? When the week’s up, and we’re
not… stuck together anymore?”
He risked another glance, his voice shrinking around the edges.
“You’re… you. Cool, fearless, skateboarding through fire or
whatever, and I’m just…” His mouth twisted, self-conscious.
“Dorky geek with chalk on my sleeves. Why would you wanna keep
hanging out with me after?”
The words tumbled out raw, half a question, half a confession,
his eyes finally settling on Rook’s bruised grin like he was
bracing for the punchline.
--Fin--
For once, Rook didn’t come back with a quick quip. Cosmo’s words
hit somewhere deeper, softening the sharp edge of his grin. He
shifted, leaning closer, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed
on Cosmo with a sincerity that didn’t show up often.
“Then I guess detention’s just the start,” he said simply, his
voice lighter but without the usual armor of cocky bravado.
“When the week’s up… I’ll just have to keep finding excuses to
see you.”
A beat passed, his smirk curling back—but this time gentler,
more fond than smug. “Would be a lot easier if you were my
boyfriend. Then when people ask, ‘Hey, Rook, where you been?’ I
can just shrug and say, ‘With my adorable boyfriend,’ and call
it a day.”
He tilted his head, watching Cosmo’s fluster with open
amusement, but there was warmth there too—a quiet promise
beneath the teasing.
-fin-
Cosmo blinked at him, mouth falling open before snapping shut
again. His brain tripped over the word boyfriend like a wire
stretched across the track.
“Wh—wha—” He made a helpless little gesture, hands flapping once
before he folded them tight in his lap. His face burned brighter
than the streetlight overhead. “Isn’t there, um, a step we
skipped over? Like… I dunno… actually going on a date? Maybe
more than one?”
He ducked his head, muttering into his collar, “Pretty sure
that’s how normal people do it.”
Then, softer, almost shy but with a stubborn edge: “Unless
detention counts as our first one, which—kind of unfair. I don’t
think chalk dust and Blaze’s bad cologne really set the mood.”
Cosmo risked a glance up, eyes wide and earnest despite the pink
flaming across his cheeks. “If you’re serious—about the
boyfriend thing—I… I’d like to try the date part first.”
--Fin--
Rook’s grin curved sharp at first—ready to pounce on Cosmo’s
stammering—but then eased into something softer, playful without
brushing off the weight in Cosmo’s words.
“A date, huh? Alright, fair point. Guess detention with Blaze’s
cologne assaulting us from two seats over doesn’t exactly scream
romance.” He leaned back on the bench, arms spreading wide like
he was already picturing it. “So we’ll do it proper. Fries at
that greasy diner on Main, or maybe I drag you to the arcade and
let you beat me at air hockey. Your call.”
He tipped his head, eyes catching Cosmo’s with just enough
sincerity behind the smirk to make it land. “Don’t think I was
joking, though. I don’t throw the boyfriend word around just to
see you blush—though, full disclosure, watching you
short-circuit is my new favorite hobby.”
Tilting forward again, he dropped his voice into a
mock-conspiratorial whisper. “So yeah. Date first. But just
know… I already called dibs.”
-fin-
Cosmo’s shoulders loosened in visible relief, the tension that
had been knotted up since Rook first said boyfriend finally
uncoiling. He ducked his head, but not before a crooked, shy
smile tugged at his mouth.
“I’m actually kind of sucky at air hockey,” he admitted, voice
soft but laced with a nervous laugh. His fingers toyed with the
latch of the medkit again, clicking it open-shut-open like a
nervous tic. “But I’m good at the other games. Just saying—don’t
cry when I annihilate you at Galaga.”
He risked a glance up, the pink still high on his cheeks but now
tempered with a glimmer of confidence. “And, uh… fries sound
pretty perfect too.”
His gaze darted away again, but his voice stayed gentle, certain
in its own awkward way. “So, yeah. A real date sounds… really
nice.”
He pressed his lips together like he was holding back a bigger
grin, then muttered just loud enough: “And maybe the whole dibs
thing doesn’t sound so bad either.”
Cosmo fumbled the last bandage back into the kit, snapping it
shut like that sealed away all the nervous fluttering in his
chest. He hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek before
blurting out, “Um… do you want me to walk you home?”
The words tumbled too fast, his ears instantly going red again.
“I mean—you look like you went a few rounds with a dumpster and,
uh, maybe it’d be good if someone made sure you didn’t… fall
into one on the way back.”
He winced at his own phrasing, groaning softly. “That sounded
way smoother in my head.”
Still, he lifted his chin stubbornly, eyes darting toward Rook’s
bruises and back. “But I’m serious. You shouldn’t go alone if
you’re beat up. And… I don’t really mind the walk.” His voice
dipped quieter at the end, honesty sneaking through his nerves.
--Fin--
The grin stretched wider across Rook’s face, that split lip
tugging but not dimming his amusement one bit. Watching Cosmo
fumble with the medkit and then trip over the offer to walk him
home—it was too good, too him. Adorable and earnest, like no one
else Rook had ever met.
“Cosmo,” he drawled, leaning back on the bench with that lazy,
lopsided smirk, “you make it sound like I’m about to collapse in
a gutter somewhere. Pretty sure I’ve survived worse than a
couple bruises.”
But his eyes softened, the edge of teasing giving way to
something quieter. “Still… kinda nice knowing you’d walk me if I
needed it.”
He leaned forward then, elbows on his knees, watching Cosmo
closely. “Truth is, I wasn’t planning on heading straight home.
Usually, after nights like this, I grab my board, burn off the
static in my head, and… do some art. Spray paint, chalk,
whatever I’ve got. Nathan tags along sometimes, but he’s in one
of his moods tonight.”
Rook shrugged, casual, but his voice dipped more deliberate.
“You could tag along instead. Won’t be detention. Won’t be
fights. Just me, a wall, some color, and you. Might even let you
spray something, if you don’t mind getting paint on those nerdy
sleeves of yours.”
The smirk returned, softer now. “Or, you know, we can call it
our first date. Up to you.”
-fin-
Cosmo’s heart stuttered at the words first date, his cheeks
going scarlet all over again. He fumbled his phone out of his
pocket, chewing his lip.
“I’d… like that,” he admitted, shy but steady. “But I should
text Bubbe first. Last she heard, you were hurt, and if I don’t
check in, she’s gonna assume you’re bleeding out in a ditch or
something.”
He shot Rook a sheepish look, thumbs flying over the screen. Hey
Bubbe, Rook’s okay—just bruises. He asked if I wanted to hang
out for a little bit, watch him paint. Is it alright if I stay
out longer?
It took less than a minute for the three dots to appear. Cosmo’s
shoulders tensed, waiting—then relaxed when her reply popped up:
If he’s well enough to paint, he’s well enough to eat cookies.
Tell him I said to take care of my Cosmele. And don’t be out too
late.
Cosmo huffed a laugh, showing the screen to Rook with a tiny
grin. “She says you owe her a cookie tax for every bruise on
your face.”
He slid the phone back into his pocket, gaze softening. “So…
yeah. I’m in. Just don’t let me mess up your wall too bad,
okay?”
--Fin--
#Post#: 1431--------------------------------------------------
Re: Cosmic Chaos
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 3:23 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
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--
#Post#: 1432--------------------------------------------------
Re: Cosmic Chaos
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 3:28 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
--Next day---
Lunch had been… something. Every little brush of Rook’s knee
under the table, every smirk tossed his way, every whispered jab
that felt more like flirting than teasing—it all left Cosmo’s
stomach flipping like he’d swallowed a whole rollercoaster.
The rest of the day was a blur. He nearly walked straight into
the wrong classroom, forgot his pencil case on top of a locker,
and almost dumped his tray of books right into the recycling bin
instead of his bag. His brain kept circling back to one thing:
Tonight. Their date.
By the time he slid into detention, cheeks pink, he was already
vibrating. Rook noticed—of course he did. The wolfish grin said
it all. When the teacher turned her back, a folded square of
notebook paper appeared on Cosmo’s desk.
Rook’s scrawl: U look like ur hiding fireworks under ur hoodie.
whats up, doc?
Cosmo’s ears burned as he scribbled back, trying to look
nonchalant.
Cosmo’s reply: Maybe I am. And don’t call me doc. That’s Bugs
Bunny’s line.
The notes went back and forth like sparks, trading jokes,
doodles, half-flirted lines until detention blurred by. When the
final bell rang, Cosmo was practically bouncing in his seat.
Still—hours to go before the arcade. He forced himself to sit at
his desk at home and actually tackle an assignment, but halfway
through he caught himself staring at the same line in his
textbook, imagining Rook’s smirk across the air hockey table.
That was it. He needed to get ready.
By the time Bubbe peeked in, his room looked like a storm had
hit: a mountain of discarded shirts, two pairs of jeans, and at
least one hoodie flung over his desk chair. Finally, he landed
on the Invader Zim shirt he’d swiped from his dad’s old stash,
his favorite dark blue hoodie, and his scuffed-but-reliable
jeans.
In the mirror, he tugged his hair back into a small ponytail,
grimacing at his reflection. “Cool kids do it,” he muttered,
tilting his head to test the look. “So… it should look okay…
right?”
The elastic pinged once, a strand of hair flopping loose to
brush his forehead. Cosmo huffed, trying to smooth it back, ears
burning again at the thought of Rook seeing him like this.
He grabbed his phone, snapped a quick test photo, then
immediately deleted it, groaning. “Why am I like this?”
Still—he couldn’t stop the grin creeping up as he grabbed the
cookie bag Bubbe had packed for “fuel” and slung his hoodie on.
Tonight couldn’t come fast enough.
--Fin--
Rook kills the last ten minutes of detention by sketching a tiny
8-bit spaceship in the margin of his worksheet and writing “DATE
#2” under it. In his head, the label’s already “boyfriend,” but
he’ll let Cosmo get there on his own timeline.
Home is… loud. His dad picks a fight over nothing, voice like a
bad radio station. Rook keeps his tone flat, eyes on the floor,
and backs out before it turns into something that’ll stain the
night. Board under his arm, hoodie up, he kicks off toward the
arcade, wind peeling the static out of his head.
He stops at a corner store for a roll of quarters and a pack of
wipes to clean the last galaxy-paint freckles off his hands. By
the time he pushes through the glass doors, the neon buzz and
carpet-that-looks-like-a-supernova hit him like a hug. The place
smells like fryer oil and soda syrup. Perfect.
He does a slow lap first—wolf-brain habit—clocking exits, which
machines are dead, which crowds are loudest. No Blaze goons.
Good. He flips his board up into a booth, drops into the cracked
vinyl, and texts:
> at nova arcade. early. no rush.
house rules: loser carries the winner’s bag.
(i already did forearm stretches so you’re doomed)
He pockets the phone, feeds quarters to Galaga, and lets his
body do what it knows. Two warm-up runs to knock the rust off,
then he posts a score that’s good-but-beatable—bait. When the
initials screen blinks, he grins and taps in LYR, a little nod
to the constellation Cosmo corrected him on. He snaps a pic of
the scoreboard and fires it off with:
> setting the bar. come knock it over, stargazer ✨
He hits the snack counter for two paper cups and a basket of
fries—salt heavy, still steaming. He claims a high-top with a
sightline to the door and the Galaga cabinet, then rolls a
quarter across his knuckles while he waits, knee bouncing with a
cocktail of nerves and excitement he’s not about to admit to
anyone.
Another text:
> also: cookie tax rate officially doubled. tell bubbe i accept
my fate.
He takes a fry, burns his tongue, laughs at himself, and props
his board against the table so the grip tape doesn’t scuff the
seat when Cosmo slides in. He palms the quarter roll, pockets
clinking softly, and checks the door again as the chime dings
and a gust of night air slips through.
Rook straightens, that shameless, can’t-help-it grin already
crawling across his face. Game face on. Fries ready. Quarters
stacked. Heart stupidly light.
Round one, Galaga. Round two, stargazer.
-fin
Cosmo was sprawled across his bed with a notebook open but
completely blank when the first text lit up his screen.
> at nova arcade. early. no rush.
house rules: loser carries the winner’s bag.
(i already did forearm stretches so you’re doomed)
His stomach flipped. He shot upright, hoodie halfway tangled
around his elbow as he scrambled to read it again. Bubbe peeked
in with her knitting bag, one brow arched. “Cosmele?”
“Rook’s there already,” Cosmo blurted, way too fast. His cheeks
heated instantly. “So, um—I’m heading out now. Just a little
early. Is that okay?”
Her eyes softened, and she just reached over to straighten the
hoodie string he’d mangled. “Go on. But text me when you get
there, or I’ll send the whole block to fetch you.”
Cosmo kissed her cheek, grabbed the cookie bag and his bike
helmet, and bolted.
The night air hit cool against his face as he pedaled, chain
clattering in rhythm with his pulse. His phone buzzed again in
the basket, and when he coasted at a stoplight, he snatched it
up.
> setting the bar. come knock it over, stargazer ✨
The photo of Rook’s high score—and the little “LYR” tag—had him
grinning so hard he nearly forgot the green light. He laughed
under his breath, thumb flying.
Cosmo: challenge accepted. prepare for humiliation 🚀
Another buzz, just as he rounded onto Main:
> also: cookie tax rate officially doubled. tell bubbe i accept
my fate.
Cosmo snorted so loud a passing couple gave him a look. He
thumbed back quick:
Cosmo: she’ll be thrilled. hope you brought a ledger.
By the time the neon glow of Nova Arcade spilled onto the
street, his nerves were rattling like soda fizz in his veins. He
locked up his bike, smoothed his hoodie, tugged his ponytail
once for luck, and pushed through the glass door.
The place hit him in a rush—buzzing lights, retro carpet, the
hum of machines stacked like galaxies. He scanned fast, heart
hammering. And then—there.
Rook at a high-top, fries steaming between them, board propped
against the table. Quarter roll in one hand, grin sharp enough
to cut through the neon.
Cosmo’s own smile broke bright and helpless before he even
realized it. He wove through the crowd, cheeks burning, and slid
into the seat across from him, cookie bag thunking onto the
table.
“Hey,” he managed, breathless from nerves and pedaling both. His
grin tugged wider. “You, uh… saved me fries, right?”
After they'd both talked, joked,flirted a bit and finished a few
rounds of fries it was time for Cosmo to attempt to beat Rook's
score, so off they headed to the games.
Cosmo slid into the Galaga seat, nerves buzzing in his stomach.
“I haven’t played in… a while,” he mumbled, fingers hovering
awkwardly over the controls.
The game started.
At first, his movements were stiff—hesitant, like he wasn’t sure
he remembered how. But after the first few waves, something
clicked. His hands moved on instinct, weaving the ship through
the firestorm, blasting down enemy formations in clean, sharp
rhythm.
Cosmo’s tongue caught between his teeth as he leaned closer to
the screen, shoulders loosening, focus narrowing. The score
counter climbed. Doubled. Tripled. His chest thrummed with
adrenaline, every click of the button syncing perfectly with the
neon chaos flashing on the screen.
By the time his ship finally exploded in a blaze of pixel fire,
he was grinning—flushed, breathless, but glowing. The score
blinked, so much higher than he ever expected, and he typed it
in with shaky fingers: COS.
Sitting back, he pushed his glasses up with an embarrassed
laugh. “Uh. Beginner’s luck?”
He risked a glance to the side, heart thudding, waiting for
Rook’s reaction.
--Fin--
Rook had thought he’d been ready for this. He’d hyped himself
up, practiced rounds of Galaga while waiting, tried to play it
cool with fries and a quarter roll stacked like trophies. But
then Cosmo walked in—cheeks flushed, ponytail bouncing, cookie
bag thunked on the table like it was some sacred offering—and
Rook knew he was done for.
He couldn’t stop watching him. The way Cosmo fidgeted before
starting, how his fingers hovered awkward and then slid into
perfect rhythm once he got going. The way his glasses slipped
down his nose only for him to push them back up, tongue caught
between his teeth like he was fighting the universe for focus.
Rook barely registered the fries cooling beside him. He leaned
on the machine like it was the only thing keeping him standing,
completely absorbed in the neon reflection lighting Cosmo’s
face.
Every ship dodge, every clean shot—Rook’s chest tightened like
hell, how is he this good? And when Cosmo finally crashed in a
blaze of pixel fire, laughing, flushed, glowing like he’d just
run a marathon, Rook swore the high score blinking wasn’t half
as impressive as the kid who’d earned it.
Cosmo’s embarrassed laugh snapped him out of it. “Beginner’s
luck?”
Rook huffed a laugh of his own, shaking his head as he slung an
arm across the back of the chair. “Luck? Nah, stargazer—that was
pure murder. You had that ship dancing like it owed you money. I
don’t even wanna admit how hot it is watching you wipe the board
like that.”
His grin softened at the edges, but his eyes didn’t leave
Cosmo’s face. “You think I care about some high score? I’d lose
every damn game in here if it meant getting to watch you like
that again.”
-fin-
Cosmo felt the words hit like a direct hit from one of those
neon pixel bombs. Hot? Watching me? His brain short-circuited
instantly, the rush of adrenaline from the game mixing with
something far more dangerous—Rook’s grin, his voice, the way his
arm stretched casual across the back of the chair like it
belonged there.
His face went nuclear. Not just pink—full-blown supernova red.
He shoved his glasses higher like they could hide it, muttering,
“Y-you can’t just say things like that!”
His hands fluttered uselessly over his lap before he grabbed for
the fries like they were a lifeline. He popped one in his mouth
too fast, nearly choking, his ears burning all the way down to
his collar.
“I—I was just playing a game,” he mumbled around the fry, still
too flustered to look directly at Rook. “Not… not trying to
look… hot.” The word barely made it out, muffled and shaky, like
his tongue didn’t quite believe he’d said it.
Finally, he risked a glance up, cheeks blazing, and blurted the
only defense he had: “You’re impossible.”
But the way his lips tugged into a shy smile at the corners—like
he couldn’t stop it, even if he tried—ruined the protest
entirely.
--Fin--
Rook tilted his head, eyebrows climbing as he watched Cosmo
combust into a full-blown blush. He nearly laughed out loud, but
instead, he leaned his chin on his hand, grinning slow and
wolfish.
“Why can’t I say it? Pretty sure I’m just pointing out the
obvious,” he drawled, eyes glinting. “And let’s be real,
stargazer—you trying not to be hot? That’s what kills me. You’re
over here choking on fries, hiding behind your glasses, and
somehow that makes you even worse for me.”
He popped a fry into his own mouth like it was punctuation,
still smirking. “Face it—I’m the luckiest screw-up in this whole
arcade, sitting here with you. A solid ten outta ten, and you
don’t even know it.”
He leaned back in his chair, stretching like a cat that knew it
had the upper hand, but his gaze never left Cosmo’s flushed
face. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might start thinking
I’m the one getting hustled tonight.”
-fin-
Cosmo’s blush lingered, but the corners of his mouth tugged into
a small, crooked grin. He picked at a fry, rolling it between
his fingers before blurting, “Most people just call me the mad
scientist. Or, y’know… the geek who blows stuff up in chem lab.
Not a ten out of ten.”
He hesitated, then glanced up through his lashes, voice quieter
but steadier. “So… thanks. For saying it. Even if you are a
menace.”
He stuffed the fry in his mouth, chewing fast like that would
hide the way his cheeks were burning. But after a beat, he
added, “So… do you, uh, wanna play a game you might actually
have a chance of winning?”
Cosmo’s grin turned a little cheeky, betraying his nerves. “Air
hockey’s over there. I’m not great, but it’s probably safer for
your pride than Galaga.”
He tugged self-consciously at the sleeve of his hoodie, but his
eyes were bright with anticipation, waiting to see if Rook would
take the bait.
--Fin--
Rook’s laugh rang out, low and cocky, head tipping back for a
second before his gaze snapped right back onto Cosmo like a
magnet.
“Clearly they all need their eyes checked, stargazer,” he said,
grin stretching wolfish. “Or maybe I just see better than most
people. Yeah… definitely that.”
He leaned forward on the table, elbows braced, watching the way
Cosmo tugged at his sleeve like it was some nervous tic Rook
couldn’t get enough of. “Air hockey, huh? What’s this—your way
of hustling me after embarrassing me at Galaga?” His smirk
turned sharper, playful heat flickering in his eyes.
“You know what…” He pushed up from his chair, tossing the last
fry into his mouth with a flick. “Because you’re cute, I’ll let
it happen. I’ll even let you win—once. But fair warning, I get
real competitive when it comes to slamming a puck around.”
He tilted his head toward the glowing air hockey table across
the arcade, smirk softening just a fraction. “C’mon, stargazer.
Show me what you’ve got.”
-fin-
Cosmo groaned softly, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re
impossible,” he muttered, though the twitch at the corner of his
mouth betrayed him. “And for the record—I’m not hustling. I’m
just trying to give you a fighting chance before you drown in
shame.”
He trailed after Rook toward the glowing table, rolling his
shoulders like he could shake off the nerves. When he picked up
the striker, though, it was obvious he wasn’t nearly as
confident here as he’d been with Galaga. His first serve bounced
weakly, the puck wobbling across the slick surface before Rook
sent it flying back like a cannon shot.
Cosmo yelped, fumbling the block, the puck smacking the edge of
the goal. He winced. “Okay—maybe I oversold my skills a little,”
he admitted, cheeks heating.
But just as he lined up for another serve, a couple of kids
rushed past their table, shoulders colliding hard into his back.
Cosmo staggered, nearly dropping the striker, the puck skidding
uselessly off the side.
“Hey—watch it!” he said, steadying himself.
One of the kids sneered over his shoulder. “Maybe don’t stand in
the way if you can’t keep up.”
The words sank sharp, dragging that old, familiar sting of being
the clumsy nerd who got blamed no matter what. Cosmo’s ears went
red for a whole different reason this time, his mouth opening
and closing without anything coming out. He gripped the striker
tighter, blinking down at the puck like he could will the heat
in his chest away.
“…Sorry,” he mumbled automatically, even though it wasn’t his
fault.
He tried for a shaky laugh, turning back to the game. “Guess I
should stick to Galaga after all, huh?”
--Fin--
The cra.ck of the puck against the side didn’t faze Rook half as
much as the look on Cosmo’s face after the kid’s jab. That
automatic sorry—like Cosmo was the one who’d screwed up—lit a
fuse in his chest.
Rook’s grin vanished. He turned his head, eyes locking on the
retreating kids with a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “Hey!”
His voice carried over the clamor of the arcade, loud and clear.
The kids froze mid-step. “Next time you wanna throw shade, try
it at someone who gives a damn. Otherwise, keep walking.”
The kids muttered something under their breath, but the way
Rook’s shoulders squared and his jaw tightened had them veering
off fast, swallowed by the crowd of machines.
Only then did Rook turn back to Cosmo, his grin sliding back
into place—softer this time, with a flicker of heat behind it.
He leaned on the edge of the table, cocking his head. “Don’t
apologize for idiots. Not to them, not to me. You didn’t do a
damn thing wrong, stargazer.”
He tapped his striker against Cosmo’s, a gentle little clink.
“And don’t even think about bailing on me now. You’re playing.
With me. Not them. Let me worry about the noise.”
Then, with a crooked smirk, he added, “Besides, you look ten
times hotter when you’re leaning over this table trying to win.
So yeah—stick to Galaga if you want. But I’m kinda invested in
watching you beat me here, too.”
He winked, sliding the puck across with deliberate care—an easy
shot Cosmo could block. “Your move, stargazer. Show me what
you’ve got.”
-fin-
#Post#: 1433--------------------------------------------------
Re: Cosmic Chaos
By: Minyaagar Date: February 16, 2026, 3:35 pm
---------------------------------------------------------
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 cracked 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 cracked 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
cracked, 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 cracked 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, cracked 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 cracked,
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-
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