Only for you {Yandere boys x Female reader}

Jets and Sharks

"Alright class, please settle down! I have one final announcement before you can leave."

The class audibly groaned, including Y/N. It was the middle of the week, and she was exhausted, wanting nothing more than to crash into her bed. Y/N nervously looked at her 7th period teacher, who was waiting for the rest of the class to quiet down.

'Hurry up,' Y/N thought impatiently. 'I wanted to catch the earlier bus today.'

Chris comfortably touched her shoulder, grounding her back to the classroom. "Remember to breathe; she's just announcing the school play. It's not that big of a deal." He said, completely misinterpreting her anxiety.

The teacher eventually clasped her hands together and exclaimed, ""After much consideration and deliberation, we've decided that our musical this year will be none other than the iconic West Side Story!"

A wave of gasps and excited chatter erupted through the classroom. A few students exchanged delighted looks while others whispered in excitement. Y/N offered Chris a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, Chris, I know you wanted Heathers, but maybe this-"

To her surprise, Chris trapped her in a hug, laughing with excitement. "Are you kidding? I love this musical!"

"Oh, good then." Y/N replied, her voice muffled by his plaid topcoat.

"Have you seen it before?"

Y/N shook her head, causing Chris's face to heat up at the feeling of her nuzzling into his chest, whether intentional or not.

"Hey, something's-"

He threw her out of his arms and zipped up his jacket. "Well, umm," his face still burning, "would you like to come over and watch it sometime?"

"Like today?"

"If you'd like, I guess."

The girl looked over her calendar, finding it empty. "Okay!" she decided, not having anything else to do.

Chris's eyes lit up like green fireworks. "Okay! Do you want a ride over to my place?"

"If you don't mind," she replied.

"Not at all," he smiled, "let's go!"

..........

The door dinged as they walked into the shop, the smell of oil immediately hitting Y/N's lungs.

"Sorry, Y/N," Chris apologized. "My car's been getting it's emissions checked, but he sent me a text saying that it's done now."

Y/N looked around the auto shop, surprised at how close it was to school. Connected to the garage, in the office, a receptionist sat at a desk cluttered with invoices and parts catalogs. Her fingers tapped absently on the keyboard, but she mostly stared out the window, listening to the radio in the corner crackle softly, playing an old rock ballad that mixed with the steady hum of a fan pushing stale air across the grease-stained floor. A calendar hung behind her, showing a sleek, glossy photo of a '69 Mustang, its vivid blue a sharp contrast to the shop's worn tones of gray and rust.

Chris walked up to her, confirming his appointment and information. After a few minutes of paperwork, she led them to the car garage. The large rolling doors were open, letting in a warm breeze that rustled a few loose papers. One of the lifts held up a rust-red sedan, its wheels dangling like it was caught mid-step. Underneath it, a single mechanic worked at a relaxed pace, not noticing the guests. On the workbench beside him, a forgotten coffee cup sat cold, a ring of dried residue tracing the edge.

On the opposite end of the garage, a young man polished smooth circles over the paint of a silver convertible. The muscles in his arms defined from hours spent lifting and repairing. His thick and unruly black hair fell into his eyes as he worked, hiding the sweat dabbed on his brow, before he impatiently pushed it back with his wrist.