and while we’re at it, fuck this idea that ONE ACCOUNT has to belong uniquely to ONE PERSON. This is the same thing these silicon valley fucks want; their vision of the future where everyone has a unique biometric ID code implanted in their body is the ultimate extension of Netflix’s “no password sharing” policy. You want to use your friend’s car? Sorry, you can’t, you need to be an authorized user. Your mother wants to let you look something up on her OED account? Too bad! That’s only for her! The concept of perfect market efficiency gives them greedy little money bag eyes.
If I pay money to have a newspaper sent to my house, they don’t charge me extra when I show it to my dad. This password sharing thing isn’t just a Netflix problem; don’t be surprised if it shows up elsewhere in other forms. Stamp this idea out now or we’ll be stuck with it.
This is by far the most popular post I have and I have to say: good, I’m right. Password sharing and ID verification are going to kill the internet. not oooh in 50 years. in like 5 more.
watching nysm2 from 10:13 pm my time so that ill hit midnight exactly when atlas says "yeah, man, you should feel pretty good about yourself, you predicted it correctly! the thames, stroke of midnight, new year's eve--happy new year" because what else would i do on new years eve
Fanfic writers don't make Stiles angry enough. He is a neurodivergent teenage boy caught in a quite literal revolving door of nightmares, AND his best friend never picks up his damn phone. Let him crash out I beg.
The first time you meet James Buchanan Barnes, you’re halfway through a lukewarm coffee and a penciled outline of the French Revolution. The tutoring center hums like a hive: printers coughing, chairs scraping, a freshman whisper-crying into her sleeve over a statistics worksheet. You’re scribbling a margin note—robust vs. robustly?—when the shadow falls across your table.
“Uh, hey,” a voice says, low and careful. “Are you the European history tutor?”
You look up and hockey walks in.
It’s him. Barnes. Captain of the university team, the one who broke the program record for points last season and smiles like a dare in every photo the athletic department posts. He’s taller in person, broader, with a gray beanie shoved over hair that looks like he lost a fight with a helmet twenty minutes ago. He’s in a battered hoodie, not team issue, and there’s a faint pink line across his cheekbone where a visor must have kissed him the wrong way. He looks out of place amid the pastel highlighters and anxious undergrads—like a glacier in a candy store—yet he stands there patiently, hands in pockets, waiting for you to say yes or no.
“I am,” you say, and hope your voice doesn’t betray the jolt in your chest. “European history. Professor Martin.”
His mouth tips, almost a smile. “Right professor. Wrong century. Feels like we’re still in the Dark Ages in there.” He glances at the empty chair across from you. “Can I?”
You gesture with your pen. He sits, and the chair complains. Up close, he smells like cold air and detergent and a ghost of eucalyptus; your brain files it under clean and alive. He sets his backpack between his sneakers and produces a notebook and the red-brick textbook that has murdered many a GPA. On the inside cover, written in neat block letters, is BARNES, J. He notices you notice and huffs. “Coach makes us label everything like we’re at summer camp.”
“Do you also have to write your phone number inside your glove so the lost-and-found can call your mom?” you ask, and his eyes slip to yours, amused.
“Nah,” he says. “My mom would tell them to keep me.”
That does it. The corner of your mouth betrays you. “Okay, Barnes. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
He’s later in the syllabus than he should be, earlier in comprehension than he wants to be, and more earnest than you expect. He doesn’t pretend he’s nailed the reading. He doesn’t perform a shrugging, charming incompetence. He listens. He frowns at a passage, traces a line with his finger, asks you to say that last part again. When he takes notes, his handwriting is patient, a careful soldier’s march. You ask him who Montesquieu is, and he doesn’t make it a joke.
“Separation of powers guy,” he says, like he’s tasting it to be sure.
“Good,” you say. “Keep going.”
“Checks and balances. Also… he was French?”
You nod. “Good. What do you think he’s pushing back against?”
He thinks. You wait. The hum of the center is a soft wall around your table. Finally: “Kings being able to do whatever the hell they want.”
“Exactly,” you say, and your chest warms at the spark in his eyes. That look—getting it, seeing it—never gets old. He glances up like he heard the click too, and for a split second the air between you is thin as ice.
You push the textbook closer, break the spell. “Alright,” you say. “Let’s talk about Rousseau.”
By the end of the hour, he looks less like a wolf in a tea party and more like a very large human who might not hate the Enlightenment. He thanks you. Not the dismissive athlete thanks you’ve collected from others—this one lands.
“Do I—” he starts, pauses, rubs the back of his neck. “Do I book with you, or like, the front desk?”
“Me,” you say. “Same time next week?”
He nods, shoulders relaxing. “Yeah. Thanks, uh—” He waits, and you give him your name. He repeats it under his breath like he’s testing the weight of it. You pretend that does not do a thing to your stomach.
After he goes, the girl at the next table leans closer, eyes the size of saucers. “Was that—?”
“Yes,” you say, and then you bury your face in your notes because your cheeks decide to go volcanic, and because you have a shift in twenty minutes and a quiz at eight a.m. and you do not have time to think about the way his eyes found yours every time you asked a question.
He shows up the next week two minutes early, beanieless, hair damp like he’d showered in a hurry. He brings coffee and slides one across the table without looking up as if coffee is just air you share. “I didn’t know how you take it,” he says. “So I got milk and sugar. Options.”
“You bribing me?” you ask.
“Absolutely,” he says, smiling now, and you’re in more trouble than you thought.
You make him argue with you—Devil’s advocate, what would Voltaire do, defend a thesis you don’t believe in—and he rises to it, stubborn in a way that isn’t about ego so much as wanting the shape of an idea to be sturdy in his hands. When his phone buzzes, he flips it face down. When a teammate drops in to heckle him (the jersey gives it away; so do the skating calves), Bucky doesn’t turn. He’s there. With you. In the bubble of a wooden table and a bad fluorescent light, as if the rink and the rankings and the entire student section disappear.
It becomes a rhythm. Tuesdays and Thursdays at 8:10, the table by the window if you can get it. He asks how your shift went; you ask how his practice went. He tells you his line tried a breakout seam Coach swears will win games in March; you tell him which paragraph Professor Martin will try to bleed on with a red pen. Sometimes he looks tired, clean-boned and quiet, like he left his body out on the ice and came straight here on the way back to it. Those days he sits a little hunched, hands wrapped around his coffee like it’s a campfire, and you make him talk through key terms out loud, his voice warming as the words come. Other days he’s loose, cheerful, bright with the kind of energy that makes the tutoring center smile back at him without meaning to. Those days you have to remind him to slow down, to write the quote and the citation not just the gist, to answer the question asked not the one he’d prefer.
“Do you go to games?” he asks one morning in October, somewhere between Locke and your second yawn.
“Sometimes,” you say. “I mean, not like front row or face-painted or… you know.” You gesture vaguely toward the flags lining the tutoring center ceiling. “I work a lot.”
“We have a home game Friday,” he says, like you don’t know the entire campus schedule by osmosis. He peels a corner off his coffee cup and looks as if the table’s surface is suddenly fascinating. “If you, uh, wanted to go, I could leave you a ticket.”
“That your way of saying I should audit your performance in both arenas?” you ask, trying to be light while your pulse does its own skating drill.
His eyes lift, steady. “That my way of saying I’d like you there.”
You say yes because you’ve never been good at pretending the things you want aren’t the things you want. Your roommate squeals and threatens to draw a heart on your cheek in glitter gel pen; you confiscate the pen and put on a navy sweater instead.
The rink is a cathedral. Not the quiet stained-glass kind—the thunder kind, the organ’s-thrum-in-your-bones kind. The student section is a living animal, a breathing thing of scarves and noise. The first inhale of cold air hits your lungs and you think, oh. Oh, this is why people call it a religion.
He sees you during warm-ups, you think. You can’t prove it—it’s a whole team of men in motion—but he’s at the far circle, chin tipped to shake his hair out of his face, and then he pauses, scans the glass, finds you, and grins. It’s quick, private. You are one person in a crowd of thousands and it feels like the lights flicked brighter.
You learn the way he moves by watching him, the geometry of his game. You learn the sound the boards make when he finishes a check, a clean low thunder. You learn how he calls for the puck—doesn’t bark, just calls—and how the crowd’s roar changes shape when the puck hits his stick. You learn how your heart rises when he leans into a shot from the top of the circle like there is no possible outcome but the net giving way.
He scores in the second, a glide-cut-snap that makes the goalie’s water bottle bounce, and the place goes feral. You scream too, and you are not the screaming type, but your voice is suddenly this strange wild thing in your throat and you let it be wild because he’s doing a fist pump by the glass and then he points—just once, quick—toward the row where you are, and you have to physically hold onto the railing because your knees simply forget how to exist.
They win 4–1. You wait by the tunnel because he told you to wait by the tunnel, and then he is there, skate-walk in his socks, hair damp and jawline blooming pale with a shaving cut, and he looks… happy. Not his public grin—this one sits right in the center of him.
“You were there,” he says, like a fact that satisfies an equation.
“I was there,” you say.
“Thank you for coming,” he says, earnest, simple.
“You’re welcome,” you say, and then you are both quiet because the air between you is suddenly not student-tutor or hockey star-fan; it is just two people standing under a fluorescent light in a hallway that smells like rubber mats and cold, looking at each other as if seeing just got invented.
“Do you want,” he says, and gestures back toward the locker room. “I mean, I’m starving, and if you haven’t eaten—”
“Starving,” you blurt, as if you didn’t eat two bites of a concession stand pretzel three hours ago and nothing since. “But isn’t there… press, or…?”
“I did it,” he says, making a face. “They always ask what we did right tonight as if it’s not literally on the scoreboard.” His eyes flicker. “Let me feed you. Please.”
He takes you to a diner where the waitress calls him honey and slides you an extra cup of coffee “for the road.” He orders a burger large enough to require structural supports; you order fries and then steal his pickles. He tells you about his best friend back home who taught him to skate on a pond with terrible ice and how they fell so many times they came home with bruises shaped like states. You tell him about your little sister, about how she thinks your campus is a movie set, about the time you tried to make pancakes in your dorm and set off the fire alarm and two RA’s nearly cried. He laughs, head tipping back, and you realize you want to be within reach of that sound again.
He walks you home in the kind of cold that pulls the color up out of your skin. You’re shivering by your stoop, and he takes off his jacket without a word and settles it around your shoulders like he’s done it for you every winter. It smells like him—winter and laundry and something clean—and your hands are suddenly very aware of their own emptiness.
“Thanks for the ticket,” you say, too soft.
“Thanks for the Rousseau,” he says, just as soft, and then you both look ridiculous because you are smiling at each other over the collar of a jacket like you’re the only two dumb people who ever discovered the existence of crushes.
He doesn’t kiss you. He doesn’t ask. He only squeezes your shoulder gently through the jacket and says, “See you Tuesday?”
“Tuesday,” you say, and carry his jacket up your stairs like it’s both heavier and lighter than a normal jacket should be.
You try to be professional, and you mostly are. You keep your tutor’s face on, your serious pencil, your document with Roman numerals and quotes. You make him read parts out loud. You ask him what the author’s bias is, what the intended audience is, what the limits of this argument might be. He meets you exactly where you ask him to, and he meets you somewhere else too—a just-below-the-surface place where his knee touches yours under the table and stays there, warm and steady, until you reach for your coffee and your hand brushes his and the tiny spark travels all the way up your arm.
He texts you things like: is this what Smith means by division of labor? and we doing library or tutoring center tomorrow? But also: the rink looks like a lake tonight and coach made us skate lines until my soul left my body and I found it under the bleachers. You send him a photo of the highlighter rainbow in your notes and tell him your professor called Locke “a decent roommate, philosophically speaking,” and you said “define decent” out loud. He replies with fourteen crying-laugh emojis and a heart you pretend you don’t see.
Midterms hit like a snowplow. Your schedule narrows to four points on a compass—work, class, the tutoring center, your bed—and you live on coffee and the inside jokes he leaves at the end of his messages like breadcrumbs. He shows up on the morning of his exam with a nervous energy you recognize from the game you watched: that buzzing coil that means he will either explode or fly. You talk him through the big ideas one last time. You write three names in your neatest block letters across the top of his notes—Voltaire, Rousseau, Montesquieu—and underline them like sigils. His hand closes over yours as you slide the paper across the table, briefly, a press of warmth and strength. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
He texts you later: think I got it. Not just passed. Got it. If I did, it’s your fault. You tell him you accept full responsibility.
The campus cools into November. The trees go bare; the wind learns how to find your bones. He starts wearing a beanie to sessions and peels it off as he sits, leaving his hair an obedient disaster. You want to touch it. You do not touch it. You imagine touching it and then give yourself a stern lecture about boundaries while he uses the word teleology with a straight face and you black out for a second from pride.
The first almost-kiss happens the night his team gets back from an away series you half-watched on your phone while shelving books during your shift. They split the series; he’s annoyed—not at you, at the math of it—and you’re walking back toward your apartment because it’s late and you said, “You can debrief if you buy me a very late slice.” He bought you two.
Your breath fogs in the air. His gloved hand swings close to yours and misses by millimeters. At your stoop, he stops where he always stops. You turn with the jacket he always drapes around your shoulders (it’s sheer stubbornness; you own several coats; somehow his is warmer). He’s standing one step below you, which puts you nearly eye to eye. The night is very quiet. He looks at your mouth. You look at his. The world tilts toward the obvious.
Then a kid on a skateboard blasts past, a comet of noise and flannel, and the spell breaks like a bubble. You both laugh, ridiculous, relieved and wildly disappointed. He touches the side of your face through the knit of your hat, thumb a warm brand on your cheekbone.
“Night,” he says.
“Night,” you echo, and carry the tension up the stairs, where you press it under a pillow and pretend you can sleep with it humming like a neon sign.
Rumor happens like weather. One day the campus group chat you never admit you read is quiet; the next, it spits out a grainy photo of Bucky at a party you didn’t go to, a girl’s arm looped around his neck. There’s no context, just pixels. The caption is the smirking kind. Your stomach lurches in that stupid way stomachs do when they forget you are a rational adult. You tell yourself you do not care, that you are his tutor, that he is allowed to be photographed with anyone he wants. You tell yourself a lot of things as you walk into the tutoring center and sit at your table and stack your books and wait.
He’s late. He’s never late.
Ten minutes stretch. Then fifteen. Then he bursts through the door, hair damp, cheeks wind-flushed, breathing like he jogged here. He stops when he sees your face, steps softening.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Coach kept me. I should’ve texted.”
“It’s okay,” you say, which is almost true.
He sits, slower than usual. You open your notes; he opens his. Your voice does a crisp professional thing and you hold onto it like a leash.
Halfway through Locke, he says, very quietly, “There was a photo.”
You keep your eyes on the page. “So I heard.”
“It looks like something that it wasn’t.”
“A photo usually does.”
“She asked for a picture.” His voice roughens, like skate blades on imperfect ice. “I said sure. She put her arm around me. I should’ve stepped back.” He swallows. “I didn’t because it felt rude. And I thought… I thought you’d know better.”
“Know what?” you ask, finally meeting his eyes.
“That if something was real, I wouldn’t let it be a rumor,” he says, like he’s walking out to the center line and dropping his gloves. “That if something was real, I’d want to say it. To you.”
Your heartbeat is in your mouth. “Is it?”
“Yes,” he says, and the word is bone-deep. “But I’m not asking you for more until you say it back. And I won’t push. You’re my tutor. You have rules. I’m not gonna be the guy who messes with the only stable scaffolding you’ve got right now.”
It’s not the sentence you expected. Not the words, not the tenderness. The scaffolding of your life—jobs, classes, notes, a tight grid you maintain so nothing slips—sways visibly around you.
“Okay,” you say, and your throat is thick. “Here’s my rule. We finish this paper. We get you through finals. And then—” You inhale. You step. “—we find out if the thing we’re not talking about is real.”
He lets out a breath you didn’t know he was holding. He nods, slow. His knee finds yours under the table with a steadiness that feels like a vow.
You get him through the paper. He gets himself through the exams. You hand him a marked-up draft on a Monday and he returns on Thursday with a tighter thesis and transitions you want to frame. He sits for three hours in the library on the last day before the final and emerges blinking into the light like a man who survived something. You sit across from him and say, “You did it,” and he looks at you like you’re the scoreboard and the clock hitting zero and the dogpile on the ice.
He leaves his last exam and texts you a single word: done. He adds a second: free?
You’re free in three hours, after a closing shift that leaves your hands smelling like paper and ink. He says, meet me at the rink.
The doors are propped and the inside is warm in the way ice rinks are warm—a paradox, a pocket of effort and sound in an air that wants to freeze. The overhead lights are down; a few corner lamps glow. The ice is a clean slate. He’s on it in sweats and a T-shirt and skates, hair pushed back, a boy in his church after hours. He looks up as you come down the bleachers. You sit alone in the middle row and he skates toward you, slow, easy glides. He doesn’t try to show off. He doesn’t need to. He stops by the boards and leans his forearms on the top, face tilted up toward you.
“How’d it go?” you ask, even though you’ve read the answer in the way he moves.
“I knew it,” he says. “I actually knew it.” He grins helplessly, beautifully. “Because you made me. Because you didn’t let me off easy.”
You don’t remember climbing down. You must, because you’re suddenly at the edge of the boards and his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, gentle, and he says your name like it explains everything he’s done as a person up to this moment. “Remember the rule?” he asks, very quiet.
“That we finish the paper,” you say, “and the exams, and then—”
“And then we find out,” he says, a whisper.
“Find out,” you echo.
You lean across the boards and kiss him first, because you decide you will not be someone who learns carefulness so thoroughly that she forgets to learn courage. His mouth is warm and sure and surprised, as if he thought he’d imagined this part, and his hand comes up to cradle your jaw with the kind of care that makes your chest ache. He kisses you back like you’re a puzzle he solved and a cliff he jumped and the surface of a lake under moonlight. When you break for air, his laugh is quiet and disbelieving. “Okay,” he says, throat tight. “Okay, yeah. Real.”
“Real,” you agree, dizzy.
He skates to the door, steps out clumsily onto the mat in a way that would be ungainly on anyone else but on him is just endearing, and he takes your face in both hands and kisses you again, deeper now, the kiss widening into something that feels like stepping through a doorway you’ve both been standing outside for months. He tastes like winter and sugar and something you don’t have a word for yet. Your fingers curl into his T-shirt and you feel his heartbeat under your palms, strong and fast.
He breaks away to lean his forehead against yours. “Come home with me?” he asks, so gentle. “We can do nothing but breathe on the same couch if you want. I just—” His mouth twists. “I want to be with you now that I can be.”
You go to his apartment, the small off-campus one you’ve seen in flash frames of memory—this couch, that shelf—but never like this. The night is stitched with quiet, the kind of winter dark that makes rooms feel like ships. He drops his skates in the corner and his keys in a bowl and then stops, turns to you, his hands hovering over your hips like he’s waiting for permission to exist in this new grammar.
“Hey,” he says softly, like you spooked. “We go as slow as you want, okay? We can put on a movie and I’ll probably pass out on your shoulder because Coach skated us like dogs today and you can make fun of me in the morning.”
“I like your shoulder,” you say, trying for light, missing and hitting honesty instead. You step into him. “And I want to go slow. But I also want—” You look up at him so he can see you mean it. “—you.”
Something in him loosens, not lust so much as relief braided with want. He touches your cheek, your hairline. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say, because you are. “I’m over eighteen, you’re over eighteen, and I am sure.”
He kisses you with that yes between you like a steady light. You shed layers slowly, careful hands and laughter when you both get trapped in his hoodie, a rush of air when your skin finds the heat of his. He is broad and strong and unbelievably gentle, like he’s been practicing gentleness his whole life for this. Every time his hand maps a new piece of you, he looks into your face as if he’s reading a book he doesn’t want to finish too fast. You do the same, tracing the lines of muscle earned in a world you’ve watched from the stands, feeling the way he shivers when you kiss the hollow at his throat.
“Wait,” he murmurs, breathless, and disappears for a second to retrieve a foil packet. He sets it on the nightstand like a declaration. He grins down at you, nervous and adoring, and you make a sound you’ve never made before when he slides his palm slowly up the inside of your thigh. “Tell me if anything isn’t good,” he says, so serious. “Tell me what is.”
You do. You tell him with your voice and your hands and the arch of your back when he learns the rhythm of you, the way you come apart sweeter when he murmurs your name against your mouth. He listens like he listens in the tutoring center, attentive and tuned to you, and when he finally presses into you with a low “oh, God,” he pauses, jaw tight, letting you adjust, letting you pull him closer. You curl your ankles around his hips and pull. The world narrows to the place where you meet, to the look on his face when you whisper please like a prayer. He buries his face in your neck when he comes and you breathe him in—ice and eucalyptus and the shape of winter—and afterward, he holds you like he has been trying not to hold you for months.
You fall asleep with his hand curved over your rib cage and wake with your forehead tucked into his throat. Morning finds the edges of the blinds and your bodies find a new way to fit; you kiss lazily, whispering nothing words, and he laughs when your stomach growls so loudly it startles you both. “I can make eggs,” he says.
“You can?” you ask, suspicious. “Like, edible?”
“Hey,” he protests, rolling out of bed and finding sweats, hair a happy disaster. “I am a man of many talents. And one of them is scrambling.”
He is. The eggs are good, and the coffee is better because he makes it the way you take it without asking. You perch on the counter while he moves around his tiny kitchen, and you think: this, this is the thing—simple and quiet and after.
“Grades come out next week,” you say, picking at a crumb with your thumbnail.
“You’re going to pass,” he says, dead certain. “More than pass.”
“You, Captain, are going to pass,” you say.
He smiles a little. “Thanks to my terrifying tutor.”
“Terrifying?”
“You have a face you make when I’m skating around an argument,” he says, stirring his eggs. “It makes me fix it.”
You can’t help your laugh. “Show me.”
He attempts the face. It’s mostly eyebrows. It’s terrible. You wipe tears from your eyes and he stands there with a spatula, mock-affronted, looking like something you could get used to seeing with a spatula forever.
Later you both sit on the floor with your backs against the couch and the plates on the coffee table and talk about everything you didn’t talk about when you were pretending the scaffolding mattered more than the thing the scaffolding held. He tells you about the noise in his head sometimes when he lies down—the schedule, the game tape, the next thing, the next thing—and you tell him about the weight you carry from always being the responsible one, the kid who turned in forms and paid bills on time and left very little room for chaos. He nods when you talk, like the shape of your pressure clicks into a place next to his. He nudges his knee against yours. “We can be each other’s quiet,” he says simply, and the word settles somewhere deep.
They do pass, the grades and the days. His paper comes back with a B+ and a “sustained argument, good use of sources” scrawled in Professor Martin’s unmistakable hand. His exam grade is higher than he hoped, and he stands in your doorway with the printout and the stunned grin of a man who believed he wasn’t built for this kind of win and now has proof he is. You cover his grin with your mouth and he lifts you, laughing, and you forget to worry about your neighbors.
Winter break creeps up, carrying the smell of snow and the ache of travel. He’s got a week home in Brooklyn and then a holiday tournament in Minneapolis; you’ve got extra shifts and a trip home to see your family. You lie on his bed the night before he leaves, both of you on your sides facing each other, a lamp on, the room a pool of amber.
“I don’t want to go a week without this,” he admits, thumb skimming your cheekbone.
“You’ll be fine,” you say, pretending you aren’t already counting how many hours are in seven days. “Text me the weird stat your coach swears by. Send me a photo of the pond you used to skate on. Send me a photo of your terrible handwriting so I can roast you.”
“You love my terrible handwriting,” he says.
“I do,” you say, and the words are out before you can catch them, and you mean them in a thousand ways that are not the three you are not ready to say yet. He hears the thrum in them. His eyes go soft.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” he promises.
He calls you from his mother’s kitchen with a clatter of dishes in the background and tells you he lost three straight games of Scrabble to a seventy-year-old aunt. You send him a photo of your sister wearing your sweater, a text that reads: thief. He replies with a picture of his pond at dusk, bluish and wide, the kind of photo that makes you understand a person’s center. He adds: wish you were here. You type and erase wish I was too three times and then send it, because carefulness got you through exams but courage kissed him across the boards.
Back on campus in January, the world resets to clean cold. Your schedules turn. You don’t have him as a tutee anymore; he doesn’t need you in that way. You find each other in new ways—late lunches between his lift and your seminar, library corners where you actually read while his ankle bounces under the table and his hand finds your thigh, quiet nights at his apartment where the game plays low and the couch is an excuse to be a single breathing creature.
Sometimes he skates to the glass after practice and taps his stick and you look up from your book and feel the arrow of it. Sometimes you sit in the stands while they run drills and you learn the code of the whistles. Sometimes he shows up at your shift right before closing with a paper bag of soup and says, “Eat. Then I’ll mop,” and he mops while you eat on a stool and argue about whether the Enlightenment or the Industrial Revolution did more damage disguised as progress, and he pretends to be offended when you demolish his point.
There is a night he loses a game on a bad bounce and barely looks at you in the tunnel, jaw set. You give him space because you understand that sometimes what you’re mad at is physics and destiny and your own footwork, not the person you love. (You haven’t said love out loud. Not yet. But the feeling sits in your chest like a sleeping animal you don’t want to wake too soon.) When he turns up at your door two hours later, hair still wet from the shower, shoulders tight, you hand him a glass of water and pull him to the couch. He rests his head in your lap and stares at the ceiling. “It was right there,” he says, and you stroke his hair until his breath slows and the sharp edges of the loss soften into something he can set down.
There is a morning you wake to snow and the kind of light that makes the world hush. He pulls you into his chest and mumbles something about five more minutes, and you stay because you can, because the scaffolding is strong and the thing it holds is stronger.
Later, when the campus is a white map, you lace your boots and he takes your hand like it’s the last step in a complicated play. You walk to the pond on the edge of campus and watch him step onto the ice. He’s in sweats and a hoodie and a hat pulled down over his ears, and he moves like he was built before gravity was invented. He skates backward, tips his chin, beckons. “C’mon.”
“I don’t have skates,” you protest, pointing at your boots.
“So?” he says, gliding to the edge. He steps off and takes both your hands. “We can just… go slow.”
You know he means the ice, but you hear everything else in it and nod. He leads you onto the glassy surface, careful, steady. Your feet wobble and he laughs quietly, delighted and not at you, with you. “I got you,” he says, and he does. Your hands are inside his, warm. Your boots slide, the sound a soft whisper. You move, together, a little and then a little more. You look up and he’s already looking down, and the whole campus could vanish and you would not notice.
“We never made it to the Enlightenment’s influence on modern democracies,” you say, just to make him grin in this light.
“We’ll do it later,” he says. “I’m busy rewriting history.”
You snort. “Bold of you.”
He sobers slightly, a gentle gravity. “Bold of you to help me rewrite mine.”
You swallow, breath visible between you, heart widening against your ribs. You lean in on instinct and kiss him cold-mouthed and happy; his hands tighten around yours without letting you wobble.
On the way back, he tells you his coach wants him to talk to a scout after the tournament, that it’s just a conversation, that he doesn’t know what he’ll want in a year or two, that right now everything he wants is on this campus and wearing a blue hat and telling him about Voltaire.
“Voltaire would think you’re hilarious,” you say.
“Voltaire would chirp me until I cried,” he counters, and his grin undoes the last knot in your chest.
When your birthday sneaks up on a Wednesday and you pretend you don’t care, he shows up at the library with a cupcake in a coffee cup and sings quietly and off-key until the girl two tables over slaps her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. When he leans across the table with the candle glow on his face to kiss you silly, it occurs to you that this is what home feels like—ridiculous, tender, sure.
You get accepted for a departmental scholarship and stand in his hallway with the email open on your phone and cry, ugly grateful tears. He kisses the tears off your cheeks and says, “You did it,” and you say, “We did it,” and he says, “Nope. You.” Later he tells his mother about you on the phone and pretends he didn’t when you tease him and he blushes, which you didn’t know he could do.
When the holiday tournament arrives, you watch the games you can’t travel to on your laptop, perched cross-legged on his bed, wearing the beanie he left in your room when you accidentally stole his jacket one too many times. He calls you from the bus and you talk until his teammate throws a rolled-up towel at his head and tells him to get off the phone with his wife. You don’t correct the boy. You let the word drop into your body and ring there like a note you might someday hit.
Spring edges onto campus. The snow recedes into dirty piles; the bare trees test their first buds. His team clinches a spot in the postseason. Your semester stacks toward its last crescendo. There’s a night where you’re both at his place with your laptops obviously open and your hands obviously under each other’s shirts and you knock your knee on the coffee table trying to reach the remote and he kisses the spot like an apology and you forget what you were apologizing for.
You still go to the rink when you can. He still taps the glass and you still look up and you still both grin like you invented it. You still use words like teleology to make him roll his eyes and he still tells you about a seam he saw in a neutral zone trap that makes you say “English” and he explains it to you in a way that makes sense, because that’s what you do for each other. When he has a bad day, you sit with him in the quiet until it isn’t as sharp. When you have a bad day, he shows up with juice and a bag of those gummy candies you pretend you don’t like and a look that says I am here, I am not leaving.
One night in April, the team hosts a senior appreciation thing and parents come and cameras click. You stand with his mom by the boards, both of you embarrassed by the publicness of it and both of you unwilling to miss a second. His mom is small and fierce and tells you he was a menace in kindergarten and a saint when his best friend broke his wrist. She looks at you with a gaze you recognize—weighing, but kind—and says, “He looks… safe around you.”
You swallow. “I feel safe around him,” you say, and her mouth softens into the kind of smile that makes you understand where his came from.
When the photos are done and the speeches are over and the players trickle back to the ice to mess around, he skates over to where you and his mother stand, and he kisses his mother’s cheek and then—eyes on yours, a question you answer with a nod—leans down and kisses you quick in front of everybody. It isn’t a claim. It’s an agreement. The world does not end. It opens.
After, back at his place, his hands on your waist, your forehead against his collarbone, you realize the thing you’ve been circling is not waiting to be ready to say the three words. It’s realizing you’ve been living them for months, in coffee cups and late nights and the way he passes you the pen when you need it without you asking. You think, it’s already true. You think, so say it.
“I love you,” you say into his shirt, voice small and enormous.
He freezes, breath stuttering, and then he holds you harder, like your words went through him and pulled everything tight in the best possible way. He fumbles for your face, for your eyes. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” you say, steady.
He smiles with all his teeth, the grin you saw after the overtime goal on a screen last year, only now it’s six inches away and for you. “I love you,” he says back, fierce and simple. “I’ve been trying not to scare you with it.”
“You won’t,” you say. “You don’t.”
He kisses you, and it tastes like the rest of your life.
The season ends the way seasons end: a last game and a locker room that smells like endings and tape and a bus ride that is half silence, half stories. He holds your hand over the console of his car the whole way back from the rink and says, “Next season,” like a promise and not a delay. You squeeze his fingers. “Next season,” you echo.
Finals come again, a softer kind. You study side by side, bumping ankles, sharing the circle of a desk lamp. When he falls asleep with his head on your lap and his mouth slightly open, you press a kiss into his hair and think, this is my life, this ridiculous tender thing.
On the first warm day of May, campus erupts onto lawns. You and he throw a blanket under a tree and you bring a book you do not read. He lies on his back with his arm flung over his eyes and listens to you ramble about a paper topic that isn’t due for weeks. When you pause for breath, he peeks at you from under his arm and says, “You’re beautiful when you argue with imaginary people,” and you, very mature, throw a blade of grass at his nose. He catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it with a ridiculous smacking sound and you yelp and then you are both laughing until your stomachs hurt.
Later that night, when the windows are open and the world smells like cut grass and possibility, you are both quiet with a kind of happiness that doesn’t need loud. He says, “I start summer conditioning in two weeks. Stay?” You say, “I’m applying for the campus archives job. Stay.” You look at each other and understand that staying is the point.
He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and tucks you in against his chest and says, “We started with Rousseau,” like it’s a punchline.
“And Voltaire,” you add, voice sleep-blurry.
“And a beanie,” he says.
“And your terrible handwriting,” you say, affectionate.
“And you,” he says, reverent, final.
You fall asleep before you can answer. In the morning, you do, with your mouth and your body and the coffee he makes exactly the way you like it, and the day outside is bright enough to make promises you believe.
There will be other games. Other exams. There will be injuries and interviews and papers you hate and kids on skateboards ruining your dramatic moments. There will be winters and springs and summers that feel like long afternoons on a rink that belongs only to the two of you at sunrise. There will be empty coffee cups and heavy textbooks and laughter in the middle of aisles you’re supposed to keep quiet. There will be your hand in his as you cross campus and his palm on the small of your back when you step onto ice you do not quite trust and the words I love you tossed between you like a puck you both know how to handle.
For now, there is this: a bed that smells like him and a sky that says yes and the sound of skates you can still hear in your bones when you close your eyes. There is the thought that you started as a list of Enlightenment thinkers and ended as the thing they were all trying to write toward—a way of living that makes sense, that feels right, that lets a person be better with another person standing next to them, holding their hand, calling them by their name and meaning it.
There is Bucky, bruised and gentle and sure, brushing his thumb across your lower lip, smiling like winter ice catching morning sun. There is you, no longer pretending you don’t know what you want, tipping your chin up to meet him. There is the kiss that begins and begins and keeps beginning, and the future which, for once, looks beautifully, devastatingly simple: more.
pathetic isn’t really a word I‘d use for colin bridgerton. simon rather dying than marrying daphne was pathetic. anthony going through with marrying edwina until SHE mustered the courage to call everything off was pathetic.
colin contemplating his feelings, calling out his male acquaintances for their chauvinism, seeking advice from his mother and then immediately taking action and putting himself out there without even knowing if his feelings are reciprocated is the complete opposite of pathetic. that requires a whole lot of bravery.
