Beastars - Snowy Days [Beastars X M.Reader]

Chapter 16 - Reality or a Dream [2½/3]

A/N: Let me know how you guys feel about this writing style, imo I feel like this is far better in comparison to my older works and I had fun writing it.

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By the time you made it to the south quad part of Cherryton, the morning wind caused the tree leaves to rustle restlessly in the wind. The campus hum—distant club practice, a whistle from the track, the clatter of a vending machine choking out cans—settled around you like a familiar coat.

Sheila’s already there on the main fountain, one leg crossed over the other, tail draped like a sleek question mark. The cheetah has her phone in one hand and a paper bag in the other, and she’s pretending not to look for you. Her ear flicks as your steps hit in the concrete.

“Three minutes late,” She says without looking up, mouth curving. “You planning on making that a habit, snowcat?”

You slow, guilty and a little breathless. “Got detoured. Heroics. Long story.....”

She looked up, spotting the scuff on your sleeve, and one of her brows arched. “Hah. You and your long stories.” A beat. Her nose twitched, picking up something in the air but chose not to bring it up. “You okay?”

You nodded, throwing a dismissive wave in her direction. “I’m fine.”

Her shoulders let go of a breath. She taps the space beside her. “Good. Sit. Or loom, if you must. I brought peace offerings.”

You take the seat over the fountain ledge. The stone is warm from the day. Your tail curls neatly around your ankles. Sheila rustles the bag open with a flourish.

“Two egg sandwiches from the drama club’s favorite hen,” She announces, as if presenting contraband. “And—because I’m a saint—peach soda.”

Your stomach answers with an undignified twist of gratitude. You take the soda, the can cool against your palm, condensation making your pads tacky. “Bribery works indeed,” You admit.

“Please, it’s called courtship.” She grins around a bite of sandwich, crumbs catching at the corner of her maw. When she sees you looking, she swipes them away with a knuckle and winks. Your face falls, showy as usual.

For a while you just eat together, quiet. The water surface ripple lazily, the soft fall of more water cascading a soothing background noise. A gust carries the cafeteria’s curry-sweet steam across the lawn, and somewhere a saxophone trips through scales and finds a note that holds. The day’s sharpness lifts out of your shoulders.

“Tell me the long story,” Sheila says finally, voice low enough that the fountain won’t hear. Her tail flicks, slow, drawing lines in the air.

You give her the outline, leaving the teeth and heat in the spaces between words. Juno’s name, the shove, the near-slip at the stairs. The way the hallway felt small and mean for a minute, and then how it didn’t.

Sheila listens with her whole face—ears angling, pupils soft, jaw setting at the right moments. When you finish, she exhales through her nose, a ribbon of air that ruffles her whiskers. “That explains her smell on you... You’ve got a serious hero complex,” she says lightly, then adds, not light at all, “Good.”

You blinked for a solid minute before letting out a scoff at her approval, knowing damn well it isn't that

“Felt more like an impulse control problem.”