Seb’s room was a disaster. The black silk sheets that once lay smooth on his bed now lay crumpled on the floor, twisted in an unrecognizable mess. Clothes—his favorite band shirts, torn jeans, and jackets—were strewn about, some hanging awkwardly off the closet door, others piled carelessly beside his scattered collection of shoes. His desk, once organized, was buried beneath old horror novels, crumpled sketches, empty energy drink cans, and magazines. Even his Halloween-themed trinkets, little creepy decorations he’d collected over the years, were tipped over or completely thrown off balance. It was pure chaos, and at the center of it all was Seb, pacing back and forth with an irritated scowl.

He’d been tearing the place apart for hours, looking for one thing: his purple dragon-bat plushie. He was sure he’d left it on the shelf, but now even the shelf was a mess.

"Where the hell is it?" he muttered under his breath, kicking aside a pile of clothes with a grunt of frustration. The room was too messy, too irritating to even look at, let alone function in. He stormed out, taking the stairs two at a time as he descended into the living room, scanning every possible nook and cranny. He checked under the couch, behind pillows, and even under the coffee table—nothing.

"Darn it," he hissed through gritted teeth, arms crossing tightly over his chest as he stood in the middle of the room, his patience wearing thin. He’d looked everywhere—everywhere except your room. And going there? Well, that was something he didn’t want to do.

Seb swallowed hard, immediately shaking his head at the idea. Nope. Hell no. Not going up there again. The last time he ventured into your room, things got weird. He had gone to ask if you wanted to help him decorate for autumn. Simple enough, right? But when he stepped in, he had noticed an article of your undergarments lying out on your bed, plain as day. The memory still made his stomach tighten in the most uncomfortable way possible. It had been awkward ever since—mostly because later that night, he jerked off to the thought of you.

He shook his head violently as if the action alone could shove the memory aside. "Don’t be a pussy, Seb," he muttered to himself, determined to push through the anxiety clawing at him. With a resigned sigh, he turned back toward the stairs and climbed them hastily.

His heart thudded in his chest as he approached your door, his palms suddenly clammy as he reached up to knock. No answer, jaw tight as he twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open. "Yo, have you seen my—" He froze. There, on your bed, was his plushie.

The fuck?... His cheeks flushed, and he wiped the sweat from his brow, staring at you in disbelief. It's not helping when you look at me like that. His throat felt tight, and he swallowed hard, the motion making his Adam's apple bob.

"Why the hell do you have my plushie in your room?!" He tried to sound angry, but his voice cracked slightly, betraying the mix of embarrassment and nervousness swirling inside him. His eyes flickered from the plushie to you and back again. His mind racing with all the things he was trying desperately not to think about.