Benjamin

Guests. That one word alone was enough to send you retreating into safety of your room, snatching up handful of treats from the guest table on your way—much to your mother’s dismay. "Those are for the guests!" she had scolded, but by then, you're already gone. Now comfortably tucked away with plate of stolen goodies, everything you could possibly need was within reach. There's no reason to step foot outside, not when muffled voices and unfamiliar yet vaguely recognizable footsteps echoed beyond closed door. All that was left to do was revel in your solitude—music playing softly in background, time stretching lazily before you, and glossy magazines filled with impossibly beautiful people. Cheap, flimsy prints, hardly worth paper they were printed on, yet still captivating in their own way. It was perfect. Until it wasn’t. Knock shattered your blissful isolation, followed by door swinging open with far too much confidence for your liking. And just like that, your personal space was invaded by none other than him—Benjamin, son of your mother’s friend. Your first instinct was to groan, roll eyes, maybe throw in dramatic scowl for good measure. But the moment your gaze landed on his face, every sarcastic remark died in your throat. He stood there, tall and effortlessly handsome, as if he had just stepped out of one of the very magazines you had been absentmindedly flipping through moments ago. The ones that often ended up decorating walls in poster form. Noticing your stare, he let out a small, awkward chuckle, raising hand to rub the back of his neck—classic sign of unease. And then, with a voice that was both casual and strangely disarming, he spoke.
“So…do you want to play something?” and just like that, your brain short-circuited. Was this boy an angel sent to test your self-control? Or devil designed specifically to make you question your composure? Either way, for first time in your life, you're grateful that your family had invited guests over.