My life was going smooth — no drama, no mess, no idiots orbiting me. Then this happened. A random pizza delivery.
A random loser.
Unfortunately for me, the loser had a face I would actually consider "my type," and, even worse, he decided from the very first second that his existence revolved around me.
It was a normal holiday. I was sprawled on my couch, finally free from the soul-sucking vortex called "the office," halfway through a bad movie marathon, when disaster struck: my snack stash ran out.
I lazily ordered pizza from a friend's shop, expecting nothing but greasy comfort food at my door.
Instead, I got Lavrick Ember. A man built like a runway model — tall, broad, about 6'3 — yet somehow with the tragic, pathetic face of a street puppy that's been rained on for three days straight. His curly blond hair stuck out from under a cap in a way that should have been illegal. Definitely a loser. An unfairly attractive loser.
Through my home camera, I saw him waiting outside. He was normal then — shifting his weight, glancing at his watch, adjusting his cap like an actual functioning human.
But the moment I opened the door, It was like someone had pressed slow motion. His eyes met mine and—poof—every shred of composure vanished. The delivery bag tilted at an alarming angle. His jaw went slack, like gravity had decided to work overtime just for him.
He looked at me like someone had smacked him in the chest with Cupid's baseball bat.
No filter, no attempt to play it cool. Just pure, helpless adoration splattered all over his face.
His expression screamed: Wow. I'm in love. Please take my soul. Keep the pizza. Keep me, too please.
What a loser. A shameless, glitter-eyed loser, with an unfairly good face.
Honestly, how did he not even try to hide the literal sparkles in his eyes?
It was as if he wanted to speak but couldn't quite force his lips apart — like he'd just discovered the stars were real and standing in front of him.
I wasn't interested. I quietly took the box from his hands, signed the receipt, and was halfway through closing the door when his voice suddenly rang out, loud and clumsy.
"Wait! you're, you're Mayhem Knightglen, right?" His eyes were so absurdly hopeful that I almost thought if I said "yes," he'd leap off the balcony in celebration.
I gave him a slight nod. "Yeah, I am. So?"
My eyebrow arched, tone flat enough to scrape the paint off the walls.
He didn't answer — just broke into a wide, stupid smile. The kind of smile that made me feel like I'd accidentally invited trouble into my life.
I ignored it, shut the door in his face, and went back inside. But curiosity got the better of me, so I glanced at the hallway camera feed.
There he was — turning in a slow circle, hands covering his mouth like he'd just witnessed a miracle. Then he shook his head violently, stumbled as if he'd forgotten how to walk, glanced back at my door one last time, and proceeded to leave dancing. Actually dancing. Like he'd just won the lottery.
What was with this guy?
I had no idea that day would be the start of my life being haunted by an unwanted puppy — one who just happened to be a total, shameless loser.
This pizza delivery guy with curly yellow hair — built like a damn lamppost but somehow thinking he was model material — started showing up at my apartment from time to time. Always with an excuse.
"Oh, sorry, wrong address."
Or, "Hey, your order's here," when I very much had not ordered anything.
And every time, he stood there grinning like an idiot, eyes fixed on me with this, sparkle. The kind of look people get when they see the first sunrise after a lifetime in the dark — except, apparently, I was the sunrise and he was the creep staring at it. So damn cringe.
One time, without me asking, he decided to self-introduce.
"Name: Lavrick Ember," he said like he was reading straight off his birth certificate. "Age 25. Six-foot-three, eighty-one kilos. Work at XX Pizza Shop. Live alone. Single child. No family. Blah blah blah—" Door. Shut on his face.
Sometimes I'd ignore him entirely.
Sometimes I'd shut the door mid-sentence. But strangely enough, even for a loser and borderline creep, he had… rules.
He never rang the bell more than three times, and if he sensed I was too mad, he'd leave quietly — tail tucked, but still stupidly smiling.
This little "show up, annoy, leave" technique lasted for a week.
And then, nothing. No knocks. No excuses. No stupid grins. I was relieved. Thought it was over.
Spoiler: it wasn't.
It was just the permanent start. A new week rolled in and I was on the phone with my assistant, arguing over a business graph, when I slammed the brakes hard—almost hitting a small pizza delivery bike. Heart still thudding, I jumped out of the car.
"Hey, you alright?!" I asked, bending slightly to check.
"Yeah, fine, it was my fault too, I wasn't watching..." the man mumbled, head down as he picked up his cap. He finally looked up—And my soul left my body.
It was him.
The same curly yellow-haired loser. My personal pizza stalker. His face shifted instantly—eyes widening like he just spotted a celebrity in a deserted alley. I could practically hear his brain short-circuiting. Then, with zero shame, he grabbed his knee dramatically.
"Ah—ah! I'm not fine! My feet hurt!" he announced.
I stared. "Feet?" He was clutching on his knee while saying feet.
He noticed, "I mean my knee hurts! Feet and knees are the same, you know! Anyway, you should drive more carefully—look what you did, my leg's ruined. I can't do deliveries anymore. What a loss." He pouted like a kid who dropped his ice cream.
Didn't he just say he was fine?
"Are you literally faking?" I crossed my arms. He shook his head, eyes sparkling in the most untrustworthy way possible.
"Nooo. Trust me, you won't ever find a more truthful person than me."
I sighed, because arguing with this kind of stupid felt like trying to fight the wind. "Fine. Get up. I'll take you to the hospital for a check-up."
"Oh my god—you're so kind!" he practically jumped in joy before remembering he was supposed to be injured, wobbling like a bad theater actor.
I could see right through him—his little scheme to get closer to me—but instead of shutting it down, I found myself.. curious.
Maybe I'd see what exactly this guy was aiming for. He called a co-worker to pick up his bike, then slid into my passenger seat like he'd just won a lifetime achievement award. Still clutching his 'injured' knee, he beamed politely and said, "Drive to the hospital, please. The pain is unbearable."
I just gave him a long stare before starting the engine. The entire drive, he didn't move an inch. Eyes locked on me like I was some unsolved cosmic mystery he needed to study—or hoard for himself. He didn't even blink. Didn't bother hiding that he was staring, politely drooling, respectfully, somehow.
"If you stare for one more second, I'm kicking you out," I muttered, trying to keep my patience.
Instead of fear, he suddenly dropped his gaze to my legs.
"I'll respectfully allow that," he said, still staring.
I froze, pressing my legs together instinctively. "Allow what?"
"You kicking me with those damn long legs, so beautiful." He covered his eyes like he'd just discovered a hidden treasure, like my not-so-unique black jeans legs were some kind of diamond. I know I have long legs, but why did he seem this obsessed?
"What the hell!" I exclaimed, slamming the brakes metaphorically in my mind.
"Who said you could talk about my legs like that? To me?"
"I didn't lie," he muttered, eyes sparkling.
"Eyes on my face, mister," I scoffed, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter.
"Absolutely. Respectful. Sure."
And just like that, his gaze shot back to my face, happily and shamelessly, ignoring the self-control of any sane human.
I couldn't help it — a tiny part of me realized I was digging myself into a very, very deep hole. One that, if I wasn't careful, I might not ever want to get out of.
Meanwhile, Lavrick? Still staring, still drooling (politely, of course tho I don't know how, the entire ride, completely consumed by me.
By the time we pulled up to the hospital, I was vaguely aware that I had successfully ignited this idiot's obsession, and somehow, I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to stop it.
It was one of my close friend's hospitals — Caleb Frostart. His silver hair gleamed perfectly under the sterile lights, as usual, and he gave a long, assessing look at Lavrick, who was still staring at me like a child possessed by a sugar rush.
"Whose this?" Caleb asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Just treat him," I said tiredly, not bothering to explain.
The so-called treatment ended, and I couldn't help but glare at the huge plaster on Lavrick's foot.
Was he faking it? Or was Caleb taking this idiot's side?
Caleb chuckled. "Dude, I'm a respected doctor. You really think I'd fake a checkup on a good person? He did have a slight fracture in his foot. Not deep. And honestly, he barely noticed — seems he was far too interested in staring at you."
I followed his finger and saw Lavrick perched on the bed, peeking at us like a kid waiting for cookies.
I rubbed my forehead. Caleb patted my shoulder. "I feel like you're in for a fun ride soon," he said with a grin before walking off to his boyfriend, Stanley.
I glared at Lavrick, who returned the look with an expression that was simultaneously innocent and devilishly not.
"See? I'm hurt," he said, pointing at his plaster like he'd just scored a victory.
"Good. Now what do you want me to do?" I asked, tone flat but my chest tightening slightly.
"You were the one who did it," he replied, eyes fixed on mine, blinking slow and deliberate — not calm, but memorizing every inch of me. The thought sent chills down my spine.
"Yes, so, you need money?" I raised an eyebrow.
"No," he shook his head. Then, dramatically, he fidgeted with his finger.
"See, I have no one to take care of me. And with this leg, I can't work either. So, tell me, what can I do?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Then stay here as long as you want. It's my friend's hospital. I'll handle it."
"Ah, no," he said, pouting. "The smell of medicine makes me feel like puking."
I raised a sharper eyebrow, silently asking what he really wanted.
His smile answered everything.
I sighed, staring at the ceiling, knowing full well that whatever this idiot wanted, it was about to be the start of a very long, very ridiculous ride.
Entering my apartment was like stepping into my own universe — huge, gleaming with sparkling marble floors, glass accents catching the light just right, every corner immaculately designed. Plenty of space. Beauty. All mine. And all built around one thing: loneliness. It had been ages since anyone had crossed this threshold, and now, of course, it was him.
Lavrick paused for a moment, taking it all in, before turning that ridiculous, happy stare back onto me.
"As expected, the great Mayhem Ember," he murmured, voice low but full of awe. "You built your empire entirely by yourself. That's, so impressive. Motivating."
The words sounded stupid coming from him, but there was something pure, crystal-clear in his admiration. For a moment, I felt, something. Not that many people genuinely praised me. Most were too busy jealous of what I'd done.
I cleared my throat. "Whatever. The room upstairs is Empty — stay there as long as you want. It's only me here anyway. Also, don't bother stealing anything. Just ask me the amount you want," I added casually.
"No need," he said, smiling in a way that seemed to hide a hundred things I didn't want to think about. "I just, want to stay under the same roof as you."
I didn't bother responding. "Fine. I don't stay home much, either, so you'll have to manage yourself. Can you cook? Or just order food?" I asked. He gave a polite nod. I stared at him, eyes traveling from his messy curls over his forehead to the baggy jeans and checkered t-shirt — so old-fashioned, so loser. And yet, underneath all that, the face was absurdly good looking. Straight nose, full lips, and those impossibly bright, shameless eyes.
I looked away, trying to steady myself, then asked quietly, carefully, remembering him mentioning that he didn't have parents: "You sure you can stay here without causing trouble like no one would worry or anything?"
He nodded slowly, almost shyly. "I don't have anyone else to care for me. I've only ever had one reason to live, till now. And for as long as I breathe." He didn't finish. He didn't need to. Every unspoken word was etched into his gaze, raw and unhidden, locked on me. The depth in those eyes, it sent a chill straight through me. Because those eyes seem to answer me to know exactly who that reason was.
I looked away, forcing my thoughts elsewhere. "Whatever. Stay in then. I'm leaving for work." I turned toward the door, voice clipped, tone icy.
"When are you coming back?" His words rushed out, betraying a little impatience.
I stopped, letting the doorframe frame my expressionless face. "Listen. I felt pity, so I allowed you to stay here as long as you want. Eat, do whatever. But do not pry into my personal matters or try to get close to me. Understood?"
He tilted his head, slightly taken aback, but nodded. "Okay. Just, be careful driving."
"Sure. I don't want more visitors like you."
"No, I'm worried something might happen to you next time." His eyes locked on mine, earnest and sharp, and I found myself gulping. I looked away immediately, left without another word, and left him behind — still smiling, still impossibly devoted, still completely infuriating.