Not Cool, Bro~Soul x Reader!

Resonance Team

Monday dawns unusually cold for a fall morning. You curl further into the deep recesses of your blanket, trying to hold on to whatever warmth is left in your bed. By the time your alarm clock rings, its red numbers flashing 5:30 against a pitch-black background, the warmth has shrunk to almost nothing.
A bird begins to sing a shrill greeting at your window. You groan and slap the glass frame, scaring it off. You wrap your blanket around your shoulders and lumber into the hall, scraping slumber's glue from the corners of your eyes.
While you wait for the water in the shower to heat up, you examine your face in the bathroom mirror. The dreams about your mother have been more abundant lately, although they tend to play in jumbled clips. Sometimes you witness the whole thing play out, like a gruesome horror movie; other times you can see nothing but the river of blood pouring out onto your shirt. Evidence of the dreams' effects linger beneath your (e/c) eyes, in the form of sunken bags of sleep depravity. You groan and undress, leaving your blanket to absorb the cold of the bathroom floor next to your pajamas.
After a quick shower and a lazy scavenger hunt through the bathroom to find a clean towel- 'I could've sworn I washed them'- you trudge quietly back to your room to change. You dig through your closet to uncover a plain (f/c) sweater and some black jeans, slipping into them just as Caleb knocks on your door.
"Yeah?" you call, smoothing down your jacket in front of the closet mirror. He opens the door tentatively, his blond bedhead poking through the crevice like a golden tumbleweed.
"Morning. You're making breakfast, okay?" You nod, running a brush through your (h/c) locks. He makes to shut the door again, but hesitates and sits down on your unmade bed. You glance at him through the mirror.
"What's up?" you ask. He looks at you.
"You know, I think we need to start looking for a resonance team," he answers. You nod and pull a wad of hair from the brush.
"Yeah. How many days do we have left for that, anyway?" Caleb scratches his head and implores the ceiling for help.
"Uh... fourteen days, I think."
You almost drop the hairbrush. Fourteen?
The number seems to hiss at your brain, echoing like a megaphone. The night your magic tracker erased itself from your arm plays back in your memory; the demonic pentagram fizzling into a double-digit number, and then into nothingness. Part of you wants to believe it's a coincidence. The other part isn't so sure.
I'll think about it later. For now, we should worry about the resonance team assignment.
"Two weeks, huh? In that case, I think I might know someone who wants to team up," you suggest, pulling on your shoes. Caleb glances at you.
"Who?"
"Some kid I met a while back. His name's Aaron; he's a pretty chill guy. I can talk to him today, if you want." Your meister nods and brushes off his sweats, attempting to smooth down his bedhead.
"Alright, you do that. I'm gonna shower."
"It's about time," you toss over your shoulder with a smirk. He grunts.
"Shut up, dork."
When he leaves, you make to fix your bed. You pull the beadspreads taut and smooth put your (f/c) blanket, eliminating the wrinkles. Your pillow is fine where it is. As you reach over to pull the blinds down on your window, something stays your hand. It's Mrs. Boyd, and she's staring at you. Her eyes are bloodshot, her hair a mess, and her face looks pale and aged. She holds up a piece of paper to the kitchen window.
Why are you still here?
You step back from the window, confused. You find a notebook and scrawl a question mark into the first blank page with a Sharpie.
?
Mrs. Boyd flips the paper around, her hands pressed against the window.
You're supposed to be finding our daughter. Have you forgotten already?
You shake your head rapidly. Of course you haven't forgotten! How could you forget?! Medusa is all that people talk about at DWMA: it'd be hard to forget the witch's abduction of Rachel. You write a message to Mrs. Boyd and press the notebook to the glass.
I'm gathering a team to go after her as we speak. We leave in three days, and we WILL bring Rachel back. I promise. She seems satisfied with that answer and disappears into the dark shadows of her house. You groan and smack your forehead.
"Ugh, three days?" you mutter. "Why'd I say three?" You tug at your hair as you exit the room, silently cursing yourself for promising such a short deadline.