Saw this on twt and I couldnât agree more. I donât understand ot6
It has been 22 days, and still no answers. Only more questions, piling up one after another.
First, the core issue. Why couldnât Heeseung continue as a member of ENHYPEN while also pursuing solo activities? These paths are not mutually exclusive, and many artists manage both with proper scheduling and support.
If scheduling was the concern, why were adjustments or a temporary hiatus not considered? Why was the most extreme outcome chosen instead?
Second, the claim that this was planned after extensive deliberation.
If that were true, why was he still actively involved in promotions and content? Why were preparations clearly structured for seven members rather than six?
From March 10 until now, all visible indicators pointed to his continued participation in future activities. The hints, teasers, and spoilers that were released all included him, clearly showing that he was part of what was being built. This does not align with something that was carefully planned in advance. It points to the opposite.
This suggests that the outcome was not part of a long-established plan.
Third, the timing and execution.
Why did this occur at such a critical moment?
There was also no proper closure. No send-off. No acknowledgement of his contributions. This reflects a lack of respect not only toward him, but also toward the members and ENGENEs.
Finally, the aftermath.
Why are the members unable to publicly mention or support him? Why does it appear as though his presence is being erased despite nearly six years of shared history?
If BELIFT truly cares about him, shouldnât they allow the members to support and promote him as well? Wouldnât that naturally contribute to a stronger and more successful debut?
Why is his nearly six years of hard work being erased this easily, when it could have been acknowledged and carried forward instead?
And beyond that, why is the situation being handled in a way that allows both him and the members to be framed negatively?
Pairings: Autistic! Jake x Caretaker! fem! reader
Wordcount:32k
Summary:Hired to help a brilliant, autistic young man navigate a world that is far too loud, you, a newly graduated social worker learns to speak his unique language of logic, LEGOs, and quiet routines. As you become the one permanent variable that makes the static in his mind finally stop, the strict boundaries of your job description slowly blur into a profound, life-changing connection.
Warnings:Caretaker/Client Relationship (Blurring of Professional Boundaries), Autism Spectrum Representation, Sensory Overload & Severe Meltdowns, Ableism & Public Bullying, Mild Self-Harm (Frustration Stimming/Hitting Head - quickly stopped by Yn), Panic Attacks/Hyperventilating, Emotional Angst (Self-Doubt/Feeling "Broken"), Hurt/Comfort, Protective Reader, Extreme Fluff, Touch-Starved Jake, Slow Burn, First Time/Virginity Loss (Jake), Smut (M/F)(FULL CONSENT Iâm not a weirdo đ), Sensory-Focused Intimacy, Emotional Overstimulation (Happy Tears).get those tissues ready for the absolute softest boy.
A/N: can you tell I love writing for jake because I can. I did a lot of watching videos with people that have autism and this fic came to mind, how we all should treat people even if theyâre different from us the same because theyâre trying too! But Iâm such a sappy girl.Anyways Like always Please Like, Reblog and Comment! They are very appreciated.
[Masterlist]
The diploma on your wall was still crooked. It had been hanging there for three weeks, a piece of expensive cardstock in a cheap black frame that declared you were now a Bachelor of Social Work. It was supposed to feel like a victory lap. Instead, it felt like the starting gun of a race you weren't sure you were qualified to run.
You were twenty-two years old. You had a head full of theoryâsystems theory, behavioral psychology, crisis intervention modelsâand absolutely zero real-world experience. The imposter syndrome wasn't just a whisper in the back of your mind; it was a scream.You sat at your small kitchen table, staring at the file folder the agency, New Horizons Support Services, had couriered over that morning.
Client Name: Jake Sim.
Age: 23.
Diagnosis: Autism Spectrum Disorder (Level 1/High Support Needs during sensory events). Notes: History of high caregiver turnover. Client experiences acute sensory overload. Rigid adherence to routine is required. Previous workers reported difficulty establishing rapport."High caregiver turnover." That was the phrase that stuck. In the social work world, that usually meant the client was "difficult"âaggressive, non-verbal, or physically demanding.But looking at the photo clipped to the inside of the file, you didn't see "difficult." You saw a boyâno, a young manâlooking away from the camera. He wasn't smiling. His hair was a fluffy, dark brown mop that seemed to be trying to swallow his head. He was wearing a hoodie that looked three sizes too big. He didn't look aggressive. He looked⊠retreating. Like he was trying to fold himself into a shape that the world wouldn't notice.You closed the file. You drank your lukewarm coffee. You adjusted your blazer, which felt too stiff and too "adult," and grabbed your keys. "Okay," you whispered to the empty apartment. "Don't mess this up." The house was in a quiet suburb, the kind with manicured lawns and basketball hoops in every other driveway. It was a beige two-story with a wrap-around porch.
You parked your beat-up sedan on the street, checking your watch. 8:55 AM. Five minutes early. "On time is late, early is on time," your practicum supervisor used to say. You walked up the path, your heels clicking loudly on the pavement. You made a mental note to wear sneakers next time if you got the job. Click-clack sounds could be a sensory trigger. Think, Y/N. Think.
You rang the doorbell.It opened almost immediately, revealing a woman who looked like she hadn't slept a full eight hours in a decade. She was beautiful, with the same dark eyes as the boy in the photo, but there were deep lines etched around her mouth."You must be Y/N," she said. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were scanning you, assessing you. It was the look of a mother bear who was tired of fighting off wolves but was ready to do it again if she had to. "Hi. Yes, I am," you said, extending a hand. "Itâs so nice to meet you, Mrs. Sim."
"Sarah, please," she shook your hand firmly. "Come in. Take your shoes off at the door, if you don't mind. We try to keep the outside noise⊠outside."
You stepped into the foyer. It was cool and smelled faintly of lemon pledge and lavender. It was aggressively tidy. Not a speck of dust, not a stray shoe.
"So," Sarah said, leading you toward the kitchen. "You've read the file?"
"I have."
"Forget half of it," she said bluntly. She leaned against the granite island, crossing her arms. "The agency writes those reports to cover their liability. They make him sound like a list of symptoms. 'Sensory processing disorder.' 'Social deficits.' It makes him sound broken." She looked at you, her expression fierce. "Jake isn't broken. Heâs just⊠on a different frequency. Heâs brilliant. Heâs funny, in his own way. But he feels everything. Imagine if you couldn't turn down the volume on the world. Thatâs Jakeâs life. Every light is a spotlight. Every sound is a siren." You nodded, listening intently. "I understand. My goal isn't to 'fix' him, Sarah. Itâs to help him navigate the volume."
Sarah softened. She let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping. "The last girl⊠she treated him like a toddler. She used that high-pitched 'baby voice.' Jake hated it. Heâs twenty-three. Heâs a grown man. He just needs help with the logistics of being a grown man."
"I promise," you said seriously. "No baby voice."
Sarah smiled, a real one this time. "Okay. Heâs in the living room. Itâs his⊠sanctuary. Heâs having a good morning, so heâs building. Just⊠go in slow. Let him come to you. If you push, heâll shut down."
"Got it."
"Good luck," she whispered. You walked down the hallway. The floorboards were carpeted here, muffling your footsteps. The house was unnaturally quiet. No TV, no radio, no hum of appliances. You reached the archway of the living room and stopped.The room was large, with heavy blackout curtains drawn halfway, filtering the morning sun into a soft, hazy glow. The furniture was pushed to the perimeter of the room.The center of the floor was occupied by a city.There were thousandsâliterally thousandsâof LEGO bricks. But they weren't scattered. They were organized into plastic trays by color, size, and function. Grey plates. Blue pins. Technic beams.
And sitting in the middle of it all was Jake.
He looked exactly like the photo, but realer. Vivid. He was sitting cross-legged, hunched over a massive, half-built grey structure. He was wearing a faded brown hoodie with fraying cuffs, the hood down, revealing that fluffy hair that curled slightly at the nape of his neck.He was muttering. A low, rapid-fire stream of words.
"...clutch power on the 2x4 is insufficient for the torque... need to reinforce the sub-frame... bag twelve, bag twelve, where is the axle connector..."
You took a breath. You stepped into the room.
"Hi, Jake," you said softly. He didn't flinch. He didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge you existed. His long, elegant fingers continued to snap pieces together with a rhythmic click-click-click. You remembered your training. Parallel play. Don't force interaction. Join the space. You walked over to the sofa, which was a safe ten feet away from his construction zone. You sat down slowly. You placed your bag on the floor. You didn't pull out your phone. You just sat there, hands in your lap, watching him. Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. Most people would have been awkward. They would have cleared their throat or tried to start small talk about the weather. But you found yourself strangely captivated. There was something hypnotic about the way he worked. He wasn't playing. He was engineering. He would pick up a piece, rotate it, inspect it for flaws, and then place it with the precision of a surgeon.
He was beautiful. That was the unprofessional thought that popped into your head. He had a strong jawline, soft lips that were currently pursed in concentration, and eyelashes that were unfairly long. Fifteen minutes in, he paused. He held a long, grey Technic beam in his hand. He frowned. He looked at the instruction bookletâwhich was thick enough to be a phone bookâthen back at the beam. "The inventory is incorrect," he said. He didn't look at you. He spoke to the air. But it was an opening.
"Is a piece missing?" you asked, keeping your voice low and level.Jake stiffened slightly. He turned his head slowly, like a wary deer. For the first time, you saw his eyes. They were big. That was the only word for them. Big, dark, liquid brown eyes that held a depth of innocence that hit you right in the chest. They were "puppy eyes" in the truest senseâguileless, open, and slightly fearful.He looked at you. He blinked. He looked at your feet. He looked at your hands. Then, finally, he looked at your face.
"Itâs not missing," he corrected you. His voice was smooth, deep, and sounded very matter-of-fact. "Itâs the wrong molding variant. This is a 32523, but the instructions call for a 32524. The friction ridges are different. If I use this, the stabilizer fin will wobble." He held the piece out, not to you, but in your general direction.
"That sounds frustrating," you said. "A wobble would ruin the structural integrity."
Jakeâs eyes widened a fraction. He pulled his hand back. "Yes. Structural integrity is the primary variable. Most people don't care about the wobble."
"Well, if you're building the UCS Millennium Falcon," you said, gesturing to the box you recognized in the corner, "you want it to be perfect. Itâs a collector's item."
He froze. He turned his body fully toward you now, abandoning the LEGOs for a second. "You know the model number?" he asked. It was a test. "75192," you said. "Released in 2017. Itâs the biggest set they ever made, right?"
You thanked your lucky stars for your younger brother, who had begged for this set for three Christmases in a row.Jake stared at you. He was processing this data. New girl. Not loud. Not baby voice. Knows the Falcon.
"It was the biggest," he corrected gently. "Until the Art World Map. But the World Map is just tiles. Itâs 2D. The Falcon is 3D engineering. Itâs superior."
"I agree," you smiled. "Maps are boring compared to spaceships."
The corner of his mouth twitched. A micro-smile. It was there and gone in a second, but you saw it. "I'm Jake," he said. He looked at your name tag, which you had clipped to your blazer. "You are Y/N."
"I am."
"Are you going to tell me to clean this up?" He gestured vaguely to the chaos on the floor. "The last one... Jenny. She said it was a tripping hazard. She made me put it in bins before I was done." The distress in his voice was subtle, but clear. He remembered the disruption of his routine. "No," you said firmly. "I am not going to make you clean it up. Itâs not a mess, Jake. Itâs a system. I can see you have the plates sorted by size." Jake let out a breath he seemed to have been holding since you walked in. His shoulders slumped, the tension draining out of him.
"It is a system," he whispered, relieved. "Sorted by function, then color."
He picked up the grey beam again. He looked at it, then at you.
"Do you want to... inspect the sub-frame?" he asked. "Itâs very dense."
It was an invitation into his world.You stood up and walked over. You didn't rush. You sat down on the floor, crossing your legs, keeping a respectful distance.
"Show me," you said.For the next two hours, Jake Sim taught you about the physics of plastic bricks. He showed you how the internal technic frame supported the weight of the outer shell. He explained the concept of "SNOT" (Studs Not On Top) building techniques.
He didn't make eye contact often. mostly he looked at his hands or the model. But every now and then, when he was explaining a particularly clever bit of engineering, he would look up at you to see if you were following. And when he saw that you were listeningâreally listening, not just nodding politelyâhis face would light up.It wasn't a loud happiness. It was a quiet, glowing satisfaction."You're a good listener," he said abruptly, around 11:30 AM. "Thank you, Jake."
"Most people stop listening after the first sentence about gear ratios."
"I like gear ratios," you lied. Well, a half-lie. You liked him talking about gear ratios.
"Okay," he said. He turned back to the pile. "I'm hungry now. It is Tuesday. Tuesday is grilled cheese."
"Do you want me to make it?"
He paused. He looked anxious. "Do you know the cut?"
"Diagonal?" you guessed. He nodded vigorously. "Diagonal. It tastes better. The surface area of the crust is distributed more evenly."
"I can do diagonal." You went to the kitchen. Sarah was sitting at the table, pretending to read a magazine, but she was clearly listening to the silence in the living room. She looked up as you entered. "Heâs... talking," she said, sounding stunned. "I heard him talking."
"He was telling me about the Falcon," you smiled, grabbing the bread. "Heâs brilliant, Sarah. He knows more about engineering than I know about anything."
Sarahâs eyes welled up. She blinked them back quickly. "He likes you. He usually ignores them for the first week. Or hides in his room."
"I think we're going to get along just fine."You made the grilled cheese. You cut it diagonally. You placed it on a plate (blue, his favorite color, according to the file).
You brought it to him. He ate it sitting on the floor, wiping his hands meticulously on a napkin between bites so he wouldn't get grease on the LEGOs.
When the shift ended at 3 PM, you felt exhausted but exhilarated. You gathered your bag."I have to go now, Jake," you said.He didn't look up from bag thirteen. "Okay."
"I'll be back tomorrow."He paused. He placed a brick. Then, without looking up, he spoke."Bring sneakers," he said.
"Sneakers?"
"Your shoes," he pointed to your heels you put back on without looking. "They go click-clack. It echoes. Sneakers are quieter. Stealth mode."
You smiled. "Stealth mode. Got it. Sneakers tomorrow."
The morning sun was hitting the pavement differently today. Yesterday, it had felt like a spotlight of judgment; today, it felt like a gentle invitation.You parked your sedan in the same spot, checking the time. 8:50 AM. You were establishing your own routine: ten minutes early, park, breathe, enter. Consistency was the currency of trust, and you intended to be rich in it. You looked down at your feet. Gone were the stiff, "professional" black heels that pinched your toes and echoed like gunshots in a quiet hallway. In their place were a pair of white Converseâclean, soft-soled, and silent. You had spent twenty minutes the night before scrubbing a scuff mark off the toe, irrationally worried that a smudge might disrupt the visual harmony of Jakeâs morning. "Stealth mode," you whispered to yourself, grabbing your bag. You walked up the path. You made a conscious effort to step lightly, rolling from heel to toe. The silence was noticeable. You felt less like an intruder and more like a ghost, slipping into the ecosystem without disturbing the wildlife. Sarah opened the door before you could ring the bell. She was holding a mug of coffee with two hands, looking slightly more awake than yesterday, though the tired lines were still etched deep around her eyes. She wore a soft grey cardigan wrapped tight around her frame. She looked down immediately. She saw the sneakers. A small, genuine smile touched her lipsânot the polite, strained smile of yesterday, but something softer. A crack in the armor.
"You listened," she said, opening the door wider. "He asked for sneakers," you said simply, stepping into the cool, lemon-scented foyer. "I figure he knows his ears better than I do."
"Youâd be surprised how many people argue with him on that," Sarah murmured, closing the door with a soft click. "They say, 'Oh, you'll get used to the noise.' As if he can just will his neurology to change."
"I'm not here to argue with him, Sarah. I'm here to work with him."
"I'm starting to believe you." She gestured toward the kitchen. "Heâs eating. Itâs a... process. Keep your voice low. Morning transitions are hard. His brain is still booting up." You followed her down the hallway, your rubber soles making no sound against the hardwood. The house was still unnaturally quiet, a sanctuary of stillness against the chaotic world outside. When you entered the kitchen, the scene was almost tableau-like in its precision. The kitchen was bathed in natural light, but the blinds were tilted just so to prevent any glare. At the round wooden table sat Jake.
He was wearing a different hoodie todayâa navy blue one, equally oversized, the sleeves pulled down over his knuckles. He was hunched slightly over his plate, his focus absolute. On the plate were two scrambled eggs and three strips of bacon. But "scrambled eggs and bacon" didn't quite do justice to what you were seeing. The eggs were a uniform yellowâno brown spots, no runny bits. They were separated perfectly from the bacon. The bacon itself had been cut into precise, one-inch squares.Jake held his fork in his right hand. He didn't shovel the food. He speared one square of bacon, lifted it, inspected it for a brief second, and then ate it. He chewed rhythmically. He swallowed. He took a sip of water from a clear glass (no ice, you notedâice clinks). Then, and only then, did he spear a forkful of eggs.
It was a ritual. A sequence.
"Hi, Jake," you said, pitching your voice to a soft murmur, staying near the doorway.
He paused mid-chew. He didn't look up immediately. He finished chewing, swallowed, and took his sip of water. Then, slowly, he turned his head. His hair was messy from sleep, sticking up in tufts in the back, giving him a disarmingly boyish look. His eyes were heavy, blinking slowly as they found you. He looked at your face. Then, immediately, his gaze dropped to the floor. He stared at your white Converse for a long, intense five seconds. You stood perfectly still, letting him inspect the data.
"White," he said. His voice was raspy with sleep, deeper than it had been yesterday.
"White," you agreed. "And rubber soles. No clicking."
He nodded onceâa sharp, decisive chin dip. "Stealth mode active."
"Active," you smiled. He turned back to his eggs. "Acceptable." Sarah let out a silent breath beside you. She touched your elbow gently and tilted her head toward the sunroom adjacent to the kitchen. It was close enough to see him, but far enough to talk without hovering over his plate. You followed her, sitting on a wicker chair while she perched on the edge of a loveseat. She watched her son eat with a mixture of fierce love and terrified vigilance. "Okay," Sarah whispered, turning to you. "Lesson number one: The morning sets the algorithm."
You pulled a small notebook out of your bag. "I'm listening."
"Jakeâs energy is a battery," Sarah explained, keeping one eye on the navy-hooded figure at the table. "Most of us start the day at 100%. We spend energy, we get tired, we sleep. Jake starts the day at maybe... 60%. Just existing costs him energy. The lights, the texture of his sheets, the smell of the coffee Iâm drinkingâit all costs him."
You wrote down: Baseline energy lower. High sensory tax.
"If breakfast goes wrong," Sarah continued, her voice tight, "if the eggs are slimy, or the bacon is burnt, or the spoon is the wrong weight... he loses 20% right there. Then he starts the day in a deficit. And a deficit means a meltdown is almost guaranteed by noon."
"So the routine isn't just about being picky," you said, realizing. "Itâs about conservation."
"Exactly," Sarah nodded, looking grateful that you got it. "Heâs controlling the variables he can control, because the rest of the world is completely out of control for him. That plate?" She pointed to his breakfast. "Thatâs safety. He knows exactly what the bacon will taste like. He knows the texture of the eggs. Itâs predictable. Predictability is safety." You watched Jake spear another square of bacon. The deliberate nature of it made sense now. He wasn't just eating; he was grounding himself for the day ahead. "Tell me about the food," you asked. "I noticed he cut the bacon before he started." "Texture and size," Sarah said. "He has trouble with proprioceptionâknowing where his body is in space, and sometimes, manipulating utensils while chewing is too much multitasking. If the food is big, he worries about choking. Or getting grease on his face. He hates having a dirty face. It feels like burning to him."
"So we keep it bite-sized," you noted. "Clean face, no unexpected textures."
"And no mixing," Sarah added quickly. "The eggs cannot touch the bacon. If the syrup from a waffle touches the sausage? The whole meal is ruined. Itâs contaminated."
"Separation is key."
"Yes." Sarah took a sip of her coffee, her eyes darkening slightly. "The last aide... she thought it was 'silly.' She tried to mix his corn and mashed potatoes to 'save space' on the plate. He flipped the table." You looked at the calm, quiet boy eating his squares of bacon. It was hard to imagine him flipping a table. "He felt bad about it for weeks," Sarah whispered, seeing your expression. "He cried for two days. He kept saying, 'I broke the plate, Mom. Iâm bad.' Heâs not violent, Y/N. Heâs never hurt a fly on purpose. But when the sensory overload hits... itâs like a power surge. His body just explodes to get the feeling out."
"I read about the meltdowns in the file," you said gently. "But the file called them 'behavioral outbursts.'"
Sarah scoffed. "Behavioral implies heâs doing it to get something. To manipulate. Heâs not. Itâs a system crash. Itâs pain. Imagine someone blasts an airhorn in your ear while flashing a strobe light in your eyes and scratching a chalkboard. Thatâs what a disrupted routine feels like to him. The screaming, the rocking? Thatâs him trying to survive the input." You looked at Jake again. He had finished his food. He was now wiping his mouth with a napkin. Once. Twice. Fold. Wipe again. "What do I do if he crashes?" you asked. "You don't talk much," Sarah said firmly. "Thatâs the biggest mistake people make. They try to talk him down. 'Calm down, Jake. Use your words, Jake.' He can't use his words. His language center shuts off. Talking just adds more noise."
"So... silence?"
"Presence," Sarah corrected. "Quiet, heavy presence. He responds to deep pressure. You saw the weighted blanket yesterday? He lives under that thing when heâs stressed. If heâs spiraling, don't touch him lightlyâlight touch feels like bugs crawling on him. But a firm squeeze? A hand on his shoulder, pressing down? That tells his brain where his body is. It anchors him." You wrote down: No light touch. Deep pressure. Silence > Words. "Heâs an empath, you know," Sarah said suddenly, her voice softening. You looked up. "The file said he has 'social deficits.'"
"The file is garbage," Sarah waved a hand dismissively. "He struggles with social cues. He doesn't understand sarcasm or hidden agendas. But emotions? He absorbs them like a sponge. If you are stressed, he will be stressed. If you are sad, he will be devastated. He can't filter out other people's feelings. Thatâs why he withdraws. Itâs too loud emotionally." She looked at you pointedly. "So, you have to be calm. Even if youâre panicking inside, you have to be a rock on the outside. If you bring chaos into this house, he will shatter." It was a heavy responsibility. You were twenty-two. You were barely an adult yourself. But looking at Sarahâs exhausted face, and Jakeâs solitary figure at the table, you felt a steel rod of determination form in your spine.
"I can be calm," you promised. "I can be a rock." Just then, the chair scraped against the floor in the kitchen. Jake stood up. He picked up his plate and glass. He walked to the sink, rinsed them both, and placed them in the dishwasher. Then, he turned and walked toward the sunroom. He stopped in the doorway, his hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie. He looked at his mom, then at you. "Breakfast is complete," he announced. "Good job, honey," Sarah said.
Jake looked at you. His eyes were clearer now, the sleepiness gone, replaced by that keen, observant intelligence you had seen yesterday. "Are we going to the living room?" he asked you.
"We can," you said, standing up. "Or we can do something else. Whatâs the plan for Wednesday?"
Jake frowned slightly. "Wednesday is... mid-week. The energy is medium." He tapped his fingers against his thigh. "I want to disassemble the sub-frame of the Falcon. I dreamed about a better anchor point for the hyperdrive."
"Disassembly," you nodded. "Sounds like a plan."
He turned to leave, then paused. He looked at your feet again.
"They really are quiet," he murmured, almost to himself. "Like a ninja." Then he disappeared down the hallway. Sarah let out a laugh, a short, breathy sound. "A ninja. Thatâs high praise. He likes ninjas. They have discipline."
"I'll take it," you smiled.
"Go on," Sarah shooed you gently. "I'm going to actually take a shower without worrying the house is burning down. You have the conn."
"I have the conn," you repeated. You walked down the hallway, your sneakers silent on the carpet. You found Jake in the living room, exactly where you left him yesterday. He was kneeling beside the massive LEGO structure. He didn't look up when you entered, but his shoulders didn't tense up either. He knew you were there. He accepted you were there.You walked over to your spot on the sofa and sat down.
"So," you said softly. "The hyperdrive anchor. What was wrong with the old one?"
Jake picked up a section of the ship. He rotated it, his eyes narrowing in concentration. "It was too rigid," he said. "If the ship moves, the stress fractures the connector. It needs flex. The universe has flex. Ships should too."
"Thatâs a good philosophy," you noted. "Flexibility prevents breaking."
He looked up at you then. A long, steady look. "Yes," he said. "
People break because they don't flex. They are rigid about the wrong things."
You felt a chill go down your spine. For someone who supposedly struggled with social concepts, he had just nailed the human condition in two sentences.
"I'll try to be flexible, Jake," you said. "Good," he said. He handed you a small bucket of grey pins. "You can sort these. By length. The short ones go on the left."
It was an order, but it was also an inclusion. He wasn't just letting you watch; he was letting you help. You took the bucket. You slid off the sofa and sat on the floorâkeeping a respectful three feet of distance.
"Short ones on the left," you repeated. You worked in silence for twenty minutes. It was a comfortable silence. The only sounds were the click-click of his building and the soft rattle of your sorting.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jake?"
He didn't look up. He was fitting a gear into place.
"Thank you for the shoes," he said. His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the room. "The clicking... it hurts my teeth. It makes my spine feel itchy."
"I didn't know," you said. "I'm sorry about yesterday."
"You didn't know the variable," he said simply. "Now you have the data. You updated your software."
"I did."
"That is efficient." He paused, then added, "Jenny never updated her software. She just wore the loud shoes every day." Your heart broke a little for him. You could imagine him sitting here, day after day, his spine "itching" from the sound, unable to articulate why he was so agitated, while a well-meaning but oblivious support worker clattered around him. "I will always try to update my software, Jake," you vowed. "If something hurts, you tell me. Iâll fix it."
He looked at you. He studied your face, your eyes, your posture. He was looking for the lie. He was looking for the condescension. He didn't find it. "Okay," he said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single, red 2x4 brick. He held it out to you. "This doesn't belong in the Falcon," he said. "The Falcon is grey and beige. This is red. Itâs an anomaly." You reached out and took the brick. It was warm from his pocket. "What should I do with it?"
"Keep it," he said, turning back to his work. "Itâs a good color. High saturation. But it needs to be somewhere else. You can hold it."
You closed your hand around the red brick. It felt like a token. A peace offering. A key. "I'll keep it safe," you said.You spent the rest of the morning sorting pins and listening to him explain the difference between torque and horsepower. You watched the way his hands moved, so sure and graceful. You watched the way the sun caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes.You thought about Sarahâs warning: He feels everything.You looked at the boy who was building a spaceship to escape to a galaxy far, far away, and you thought, I will make sure this room is safe enough that you don't have to leave.By lunchtime (grilled cheese, diagonal cut, blue plate), you had learned more about thermal exhaust ports than you ever thought possible.
But more importantly, when you put the plate down in front of him, he didn't just stare at the food.He looked up. He gave you a micro-smileâa tiny quirk of the lip.
And as he took his first bite, you realized that the crooked diploma on your wall didn't matter. The textbooks didn't matter. This mattered. The quiet boy, the blue plate, the silent shoes, and the fragile, beautiful bridge you were starting to build, brick by brick.
The warm, soapy water in the kitchen sink was turning a pale, creamy orangeâthe remnants of the roasted tomato bisque you had served for lunch. You moved the sponge in slow, rhythmic circles against the bottom of the ceramic bowl, the motion meditative. Three months. It had been ninety days since you first walked into this house with your squeaky dress shoes and your imposter syndrome. Ninety days of learning that "on time" meant ten minutes early, that "quiet" meant silent, and that the world was a cacophony that Jake Sim fought to tune out every single minute of his life. Sarah had left an hour ago. It was a milestone, really. For the first two months, she had hovered. She was a ghost in the peripheryâfolding laundry in the next room, "checking emails" at the dining table while you and Jake were in the living room, watering plants that were already drowned. You didn't blame her. The stories she had told you about previous support workers were horror shows of incompetence and impatience. But last week, she had looked at you, then looked at Jake, who was calmly explaining the aerodynamics of a LEGO helicopter to you, and she had exhaled. A long, heavy breath that released years of tension.
"I'm going to the grocery store," she had said today, pulling on her coat. "Alone. And then... I might go to the library. I might be gone for three hours."
"Go," you had smiled, handing her keys. "We have the conn."
"You have the conn," sheâd repeated, a small, terrified smile on her face.
And she had left. Now, it was just you, the soup bowls, and the faint sounds of explosions coming from the living room. You rinsed the bowl, placing it in the drying rack. You wiped your hands on the towel, taking a moment to scan the kitchen. It was spotless. Jake liked spotless. Clutter was "visual noise." If a spoon was left on the counter, he wouldn't say anything, but he would stare at it, his brow furrowed, his internal processor snagging on the anomaly until you moved it.You thought about the lunch you had just shared. Tomato soup. Pureed. No chunks. You had learned the hard way about Jakeâs dietary landscape. It was a map filled with landmines.
No surprises. That was the golden rule. A piece of onion in a smooth sauce was a betrayal. A crunch in a soft food was a systemic failure. And the colors... that was a fascinating chapter in your education. Jake hated white foods. You remembered the "Cauliflower Incident" of Month Two. Sarah had been sick, so you tried to make dinner. You mashed cauliflower, thinking it was a healthy alternative to potatoes. You put a scoop on his blue plate. Jake had looked at it like it was radioactive waste. He had pushed his chair back, his breathing hitching.
"Itâs a ghost," he had whispered, his eyes wide with genuine distress. "It has no data. Itâs blank."
"It's cauliflower, Jake," youâd said gently.
"Itâs deceptive," heâd countered, his voice trembling. "It looks like nothing, but it tastes like wet earth. Itâs lying to my eyes." He hadn't eaten it. He hadn't eaten anything that night until you brought him a glass of milk. Milk was the exception. You had asked him why, fascinated by the logic. "Milk is structural," he had explained, drinking it down in three large gulps. "It builds bone density. Calcium is a metal. Itâs not food; itâs construction material. Therefore, the color is irrelevant."
Logic. It was always about logic. You smiled to yourself, folding the dish towel. You checked the clock. 1:15 PM. Transition time. You walked out of the kitchen, your worn-in Converse making zero sound on the hardwood. You moved like a shadow, a skill you had perfected to avoid startling him.You stopped in the archway of the living room.The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a twilight effect that Jake preferred. The only light came from the massive 65-inch TV screen, which was currently exploding with red and blue light. Spider-Man: No Way Home. Again. Jake was sitting on the floor. He never sat on the couch when he was watching Spider-Man. He needed to be grounded, literally. He sat on the plush rug, his legs crossed, his posture rigid with focus. And he was wearing the pajamas. It was 1:15 PM on a Tuesday, but Jake was wearing a matching set of flannel pajamas covered in little Miles Morales masks. He had three sets. One with the classic logo, one with the Venom symbiote (which he only wore when he was moody), and this one.
He loved them because they were "high-tensile cotton," soft but durable, with no tags. He loved them because Peter Parker was his hero. You leaned against the doorframe, crossing your arms, just watching him.It was... cute. There was no other word for it. He wasn't just watching the movie; he was participating in it. He held a small LEGO minifigure of Spider-Man in his left hand. Every time Tom Holland shot a web on screen, Jakeâs left hand would twitch, mimicking the thwip motion. It was a subtle stim, a way of processing the action. You knew why he loved Spider-Man. He had told you, in bits and pieces, over the last three months. "He has to wear the suit," Jake had said once, tracing the logo on his pajama shirt. "Because the world is too loud. The suit dampens the input. It holds him together."
"And the Spidey Sense?" you had asked. "Overload," Jake had replied, his voice serious. "When the air changes pressure. When he hears everything at once. He has to learn to dial it down. That is... relatable." Peter Parker was a boy who was overwhelmed by his own senses, who had to hide his true self to survive, who was awkward and nerdy but deeply good. Of course Jake loved him. Jake was him, just without the radioactive spider bite. On the screen, Spider-Man was swinging through New York, the camera panning dizzyingly. Jake rocked slightly back and forth, syncing his vestibular system with the movement on screen.You waited for a quiet moment in the dialogue before speaking. You never interrupted an action sequence. That was a rule. The scene changed to Peter and MJ talking on a roof. "Does the mask fit today?" you asked softly. Jake didn't jump. He knew you were there. He had probably heard your breathing change when you entered the room.
He turned his head slowly. His hair was a chaotic, fluffy halo around his headâhe had shampooed it this morning, and it always got extra floofy on wash days. His big brown eyes blinked at you behind his glasses. "The mask is theoretical," he said. His voice was that familiar, soothing baritone. "But the pajamas are optimal. The flannel is at peak softness."
"They look very comfortable," you said, walking over and sitting on the sofa behind him. You didn't sit on the floor with him unless invited. "Is that the bridge scene?"
"It is the preamble to the bridge scene," Jake corrected gently. He turned back to the TV, but he leaned back slightly, resting his shoulders against the front of the sofa, right between your knees. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world. It meant you are safe. You are part of the furniture. I can rest on you. You resisted the urge to reach out and run your fingers through his hair. You knew he liked head scratches, but only when he initiated. Unexpected touch was "bugs." Initiated touch was "grounding."
"I made a discovery today," Jake said, his eyes still glued to the screen.
"Oh?"
"The soup," he said. "The viscosity was different."
Your heart skipped a beat. "Different bad or different good?"
He paused. He tapped the LEGO minifigure against his knee three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Different... efficient," he decided. "You roasted the tomatoes longer. The caramelization added depth. It reduced the acidity. It was... surprisingly pleasant."
You let out a breath. "I'm glad. I tried a new recipe."
"It is approved," Jake said. "You may add it to the rotation."
"Noted. Roasted tomato bisque: Approved." He went quiet for a moment, watching Peter Parker awkwardly try to explain his feelings to MJ. "Peter is bad at talking," Jake observed. "He is," you agreed. "He gets nervous."
"He has too many variables in his head," Jake said, twisting the LEGO figure. "He wants to say 'I like you,' but his brain is saying 'villains, aunt may, geometry, web fluid.' The output gets jammed."
"Does your output get jammed, Jake?" you asked softly.
He went still. The rocking stopped. He turned his head around to look up at you, craning his neck. His face was upside down from your perspective. His eyes were wide, searching yours. "Sometimes," he whispered. "With you."
Your breath caught. "With me?"
"Yes." He blinked. "Usually, with people, the output is jammed because I don't have the script. I don't know what they want me to say. Itâs... static."
He paused, thinking hard, his brow furrowing.
"But with you," he continued, "the output jams because... there is too much data. I want to tell you about the soup. And the LEGOs. And the way your shoes don't make noise. And the way you smell like vanilla and oats. It all tries to come out at once. And I get... stuck."
He looked so earnest, so frustrated by his own inability to verbalize the torrent of thoughts in his head.
"Thatâs okay," you said, your voice thick with emotion. "You don't have to say it all at once. You can just give me one piece of data at a time."
He seemed to consider this. He righted his head and turned back to the TV.
He reached into the pocket of his Spider-Man pajama pants. He pulled something out.
He held his hand up over his shoulder, blindly offering it to you.
"Data point one," he said.
You reached out and opened your hand. He dropped a small, plastic object into your palm. It was a LEGO piece. A translucent blue "power blast" piece that came with the Spider-Man sets. It was meant to look like energy or webbing.
"Itâs a web," he explained, staring at the screen. "It connects things. It holds things together when they are falling." You closed your fingers around the small, sharp plastic. It was better than a diamond ring."Thank you, Jake," you whispered. "I love it."
"Itâs polycarbonite," he added practically. "It won't break."
"Neither will we." He hummedâthat happy, vibrating sound that meant he was content. He leaned harder against your legs. "Do you want a snack?" you asked after a few minutes of comfortable silence. "Itâs 1:30." Jake stiffened. The snack question. It was always a gamble. "No sweets," he said immediately. "Sugar makes my teeth feel fuzzy sometimes. It makes my brain go bzzzzzt." He made a chaotic hand gesture. "No sweets," you promised. "I was thinking... pretzels? Or cheese cubes?"
"Cheese cubes," he said decisively. "Cheddar. Sharp. Cut into 1x1 centimeter blocks."
"I can do that."
"And... maybe milk?"
"Milk is structural," you recited his rule back to him.
"Correct," he said. "Milk is structural."
You stood up to go to the kitchen. Jake turned to watch you go.
"Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jakey?"
He looked at you, really looked at you, with that puppy-dog innocence that masked a profound, deep-feeling soul.
"Sarah is gone," he stated.
"She is."
"And the house is not on fire."
"Nope. No fire."
"And I am not screaming."
"You are definitely not screaming."
He nodded, a slow, satisfied movement. "This is a successful variable test."
"I think so too."
"Okay. Cheese cubes now."
He turned back to the movie, lifting his LEGO Spider-Man in the air to help Peter Parker swing across the screen. You walked to the kitchen, clutching the translucent blue LEGO piece in your pocket like a talisman. You opened the fridge and pulled out the block of sharp cheddar. You got the knife. You cut the cheese into precise, measured cubes. You thought about the last three months. You thought about the crooked diploma on your wall that you used to feel unworthy of. You didn't feel unworthy anymore. You didn't feel like a social worker "managing a case."
You felt like a web. You were holding him, and he was holding you, and together, you were swinging through the chaos of the world, one quiet, comfortable afternoon at a time. You put the cheese on the blue plateâmaking sure none of the cubes were touchingâand poured the milk. "Coming through," you whispered to the empty kitchen. "Stealth mode active." You walked back into the living room, where the boy in the Spider-Man pajamas was waiting for you, safe in the sanctuary you had built together.
The six-month mark didn't arrive with fireworks. It arrived with a quiet, steady hum of competence. You were no longer the nervous grad with the squeaky shoes. You were Y/N, the keeper of the routine, the translator of the static, the one who knew that if the humidity was above 80%, Jakeâs hair would frizz and the sensation would make him irritable unless he wore his hood up. You knew him. You knew the specific cadence of his breathing when he was happy (slow, deep) versus when he was anxious (shallow, catching in his throat). You knew that he categorized people by color auras he imagined for themâSarah was a soft yellow, you were a "protective blue." Sarah trusted you completely now. She had started taking yoga classes on Tuesday mornings. She had gone to lunch with a friend. She was reclaiming pieces of her life because she knew that when she left the house, you had the conn. "We need apples," Jake announced one Tuesday morning. He was standing in the kitchen, staring at the fruit bowl. It contained three bananas (too ripe, brown spotsâhe wouldn't touch them) and one orange. Zero apples. "We do," you agreed, closing the dishwasher. "Honeycrisp. No bruises."
"The Gala ones are mealy," Jake said, a shudder running through his shoulders. "Mealy is... bad texture. It feels like wet sand."
"Honeycrisp it is." He looked at you then. He was wearing his "going out" clothes: dark jeans that were soft and worn-in, and a grey hoodie that didn't have logos. He looked calm. His hands were steady at his sides. "I can assist," he said. You paused. "You want to come to the store?"
"Yes." He nodded once, firmly. "I have calculated the variables. It is Tuesday. The store is statistically less crowded at 10:00 AM. I can select the apples myself. To ensure quality control."
It was a big step. You hadn't taken him to the grocery store in two months. The last time had been... okay, but tense. He had gripped the cart handle so hard his knuckles turned white."Are you sure?" you asked gently.
"I am operating at 90% battery," he stated confidently. "I have my hoodie. I am prepared."
"Okay," you smiled, grabbing your keys. "Letâs go on a mission."
The drive was easy. You played his favorite playlistâlo-fi hip hop beats with no lyrics. He tapped his fingers against his thigh in time with the rhythm, looking out the window at the passing trees. "The leaves are changing," he noted. "Entropy."
"Itâs pretty though."
"It is acceptable decay," he conceded. You pulled into the parking lot of the massive supermarket. It wasn't too full, just as he predicted. Tuesday mornings were for retirees and stay-at-home parents. You turned off the engine.
"Okay," you said, unbuckling. "Game plan. In, apples, maybe some of that specific cheddar you like, and out. Fifteen minutes max."
"Stealth mission," Jake whispered. You got out of the car. Jake got out.
He reached into his hoodie pocket. And froze. He patted his left pocket. Then his right. Then his jeans. He turned to look at the backseat of your car. "Y/N," he said. His voice wasn't calm anymore. It had a sudden, sharp edge to it.
"What is it?" You walked around the car to him.
"My headphones," he said, staring at the empty backseat. "I... I put them on the table. By the door. I didn't pick them up."
Your stomach dropped. The headphones. The Sony noise-canceling over-ear ones. His shield. His buffer against the world. He never left the house without them.
"Oh, Jake," you said, scanning the car quickly, hoping they had just fallen. But you knew. You had seen them on the console table when you grabbed your keys. You had been so focused on making sure you had your wallet that you hadn't done the equipment check. "I forgot them," he whispered. He looked at the looming sliding glass doors of the supermarket. Suddenly, the building didn't look like a store. It looked like a monster's mouth.
"We can go back," you said immediately. "Itâs a ten-minute drive. Weâll go get them."
Jake shook his head. He was clenching his fists at his sides. "No," he said. He looked at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading. He wanted to be brave. He wanted to show you he could do it. "No. Itâs Tuesday. 10:00 AM. Low crowd density. I can do it. I have to flex."
"Jake, you don't have to flex on this. The store is loud."
"I can do it," he insisted, his voice rising slightly. "If we go back, we lose the window. The crowd density increases after 11:00. We are here. I am capable."
He looked so determined. He pulled his hood up over his head, tightening the strings until only his nose and eyes were visible.
"Hood up," he muttered. "Muffled." You hesitated. Every instinct in your social worker brain said abort mission. But every instinct in your heart wanted to support his autonomy. He was an adult. He was telling you he could handle it. "Okay," you said, your voice low. "But the secondâthe secondâyou feel the static getting too loud, you squeeze my hand three times. And we leave. We leave the apples, we leave the cart, we just go. Deal?" "Deal," he said. "Three squeezes. Emergency exit." He took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks. "Letâs execute." The mistake became apparent the moment the automatic doors whooshed open. You had forgotten how aggressive a grocery store is. You filtered it outâyour brain ignored the hum of the freezers, the beep of the scanners, the squeak of cart wheels, the generic pop music playing over the PA system. But for Jake, without his headphones, there was no filter.
He flinched as we stepped onto the linoleum. The air conditioning blasted him, a physical wall of cold air.
"Okay?" you checked, moving close to his side.
"Buzzy," he muttered, keeping his head down. "Lights are... flickering. 60 hertz cycle."
"We'll be fast," you promised. "Produce is right here."
You steered him toward the apples. He kept his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched up to his ears. He was making himself small.
"Honeycrisp," you said, grabbing a plastic bag. "Help me pick three good ones."
He focused on the task. The task was a lifeline. He inspected the apples with intense scrutiny, turning them over in his hands.
"Bruise," he whispered, rejecting one. "Soft spot."
He found three perfect apples. He placed them in the bag gently.
"Good," he said. "Done."
"Okay. Cheese next? Aisle four."
"Aisle four," he repeated. "Dairy. Cold."
You started walking. The store was indeed mostly empty, but 'mostly' isn't 'completely'.
A cart rattled past us. One of the wheels was stuck, making a rhythmic thud-squeak-thud-squeak sound.
Jake winced. He pressed his shoulder against yours. You leaned back into him, offering your solidity.
"Almost there," you murmured.
We turned into Aisle Four. And thatâs when the variables shifted. An employee was restocking the yogurt. He was tossing the plastic containers onto the shelf. Clack. Clack. Clack. At the other end of the aisle, a price scanner beeped loudly. BEEP. And then, the intercom crackled to life. "Price check on register three. Clean up in aisle nine." The voice was distorted, loud, and metallic. It echoed off the high industrial ceilings. Jake stopped walking. "Jake?" you whispered.He didn't answer. He was staring at the yogurt cups. His breathing had gone shallow. In-in-out. In-in-out. "Too many," he whispered. "Too many layers."
"Okay," you said instantly. "We're done. Letâs go."
You reached for his hand.But then, the final variable dropped. A woman turned the corner into the aisle. She was pushing a stroller. Inside the stroller was a baby.
The baby wasn't just crying. It was shrieking. It was that high-pitched, piercing wail that evolution designed to be impossible to ignore. It cut through the air like a jagged knife.Jake gasped. It sounded like he had been punched in the stomach.
His hands flew out of his pockets and slapped over his ears, pressing the fabric of his hood tight against his head. "No," he whimpered. "No no no."
"Jake," you said, stepping in front of him. "Look at me. Eyes on me." But the baby screamed again. A sharp, fluctuating cry. Jakeâs knees buckled.
He didn't fall; he crumbled. He dropped straight down to the cold linoleum floor, curling into a tight ball. He tucked his head between his knees, his hands clamped over his ears so hard his knuckles were white. "Make it stop," he keened. It was a high, thin sound of pure distress. "Itâs needles. Itâs needles in my ears."
The woman with the stroller stopped. She looked at the grown man curled on the floor. She looked at you.
"Is he okay?" she asked, her voice loud, concerned but intrusive.
"He's fine," you said, your voice sharp, protective. "Please, just keep moving. The noise." She looked offended, but she pushed the stroller away. The crying faded, but the damage was done. Jake was rocking now. Fast. Forward and back. Forward and back. Thump. His head hit his knees. Thump. "Jake," you said, dropping to your knees beside him. You abandoned the cart. You didn't care about the apples. "Jake, I'm here. I'm right here." He couldn't hear you. The static had swallowed him. He was in the red zone. System failure. You saw the panic in his posture. He was hyperventilating, gasping for air that felt too thick to breathe. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a relentless strobe to his overloaded brain.You knew what you had to do.You moved in. You sat on the floor behind him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling his back against your chest.
You wrapped your arms around his chest, over his arms, locking your hands together.
And you squeezed. "Deep pressure," you whispered into his hood. "I've got you. I am the shield." You squeezed him with everything you had. You compressed his ribcage, grounding him. He fought it for a second, his body rigid and trembling, radiating heat. He let out a sobâa broken, terrified sound. "Hurts," he choked out. "Everything hurts."
"I know," you murmured, resting your chin on top of his hooded head. "I know, baby. Transfer it to me. Give me the noise." You started to rock with him. You synchronized your movement with his. Forward. Back. Forward. Back.People were staring. A manager was walking over, looking concerned.You held up one hand, palm out. Stop.
The manager paused. He saw the way you were holding him. He nodded once and backed off, diverting traffic away from the aisle. Thank god for small mercies.
"Breathe with me," you commanded softly, pressing your sternum against his spine. You took a deep, exaggerated breath. In. You held it. Out. Jake struggled. His breath was catching in jagged hiccups. "Focus on my arms," you said. "Feel how heavy they are. Feel the floor. The floor is hard. You are here. You are Jake. I am Y/N."
"Y/N," he gasped. It was a lifeline.
"Thatâs right. I'm right here. I forgot the headphones, Jake. Iâm so sorry. I messed up. But Iâve got you now." He was shaking violently, the adrenaline crash hitting him.
We sat there on the floor of Aisle Four for what felt like an eternity. It was probably ten minutes. Slowly, the rocking slowed. His hands, still clamped over his ears, loosened their grip slightly.
"Static," he whispered. "Itâs... lowering."
"Good. Keep breathing."
"The baby?"
"Gone. The baby is gone."
He slumped back against you, his weight fully supported by your chest. He was exhausted. A meltdown burned energy like a marathon. "I fell down," he whispered, shame creeping into his voice. "You sat down," you corrected firmly. "You did what you needed to do to survive the input. That is valid."
"People are looking."
"Let them look. Theyâre just jealous of how good I am at hugging."
He let out a weak, watery huff of laughter. It was a tiny sound, but it broke the tension. "Okay," you said, loosening your grip just a fraction. "Can we move? Or do we need more time?"
"Car," he said immediately. "I want the car. The bubble."
"Okay. We're going to the car. Do you want to walk, or do you want me to help you?"
"Help," he whispered. "My legs are... jelly. The signal is weak."
"I've got you."
Standing up was an ordeal. You had to hoist him up, his arm draped heavy over your shoulders. He kept his head down, eyes squeezed shut, hiding inside his hood.
You left the cart with the apples and the cheese. You didn't look back.
The walk to the exit was a gauntlet, but you moved fast. You glared at anyone who lingered too long with their gaze. Move along, your eyes said. This is my person.
When the automatic doors whooshed open, the humid, real air hit you. It was better than the recycled freeze of the store.
You got him to the passenger side. You opened the door. He practically collapsed into the seat. You ran around to the driver's side and got in. You locked the doors. You didn't start the car. You just sat in the sudden, blessed silence of the sedan.
Jake pulled his knees up to his chest, curling into a ball on the seat. He pulled his hood down further. "I failed," he said. His voice was muffled and thick with tears.
"No," you said, turning to him. "No, you didn't."
"I did," he insisted, a sob breaking through. "I said I could do it. I said I could flex. But I broke. The baby cried and I broke." He turned his head to look at you, and your heart shattered. His face was wet with tears, his eyes red and swollen, looking at you with such profound disappointment in himself. "I wanted to be good for you," he whispered. "I wanted to show you I could be normal." You unbuckled your seatbelt. You reached across the console. You couldn't hug him fully, so you put your hand on his knee and squeezed hard. "Jake," you said fiercely. "You are good. You are so good. You don't have to be 'normal.' Normal is boring. Normal is overrated."
"But I ruined the mission. No apples."
"Screw the apples," you said. "Jake, look at me."
He blinked at you. "This was my fault," you said. "I forgot the headphones. I am the support worker. It is my job to check the equipment. I sent you into a construction zone without a hard hat. Of course it hurt. Thatâs not you failing. Thatâs physics."
"Physics?"
"Yes. If you pour too much water into a cup, it spills. The store poured too much noise into your ears. You spilled. Thatâs just cause and effect."
He sniffled, processing this logic. "So... I didn't malfunction?"
"No. Your sensors were just overwhelmed. And you know what? You signaled. You didn't scream at the lady. You didn't throw the yogurt. You sat down. That was control."
He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "It felt like dying."
"I know," you softened. "I know it did. And I am so, so sorry I let that happen to you."
He looked at your hand on his knee. He reached out and covered it with his own. His hand was cold and clammy. "You squeezed me," he said softly.
"Always."
"You blocked the noise. You felt like... a wall."
"I will always be your wall, Jake." He looked up at you then, and the look in his eyes was so open, so raw, it took your breath away. It wasn't the look of a client looking at a worker. It was the look of a man looking at his safe harbor. "I don't like it when you're sad," he whispered, reaching up to touch your cheek. You hadn't realized you were crying until he brushed a tear away with his thumb. "I'm not sad," you lied, your voice wavering. "I just... I hate seeing you hurt."
"I'm okay now," he said. "The static is gone. You're here."
He leaned his head across the center console, resting it awkwardly on your shoulder. It wasn't comfortable, the gear shift was digging into his side, but he needed the contact.
"Can we go home?" he asked. "To the blanket?"
"Yes," you sniffed, resting your cheek on his head. "Home. Blanket. And Iâm ordering pizza. No cooking tonight."
"Pizza," he agreed. "Pepperoni. Symmetrical distribution."
"Symmetrical distribution," you promised.
You started the car. The engine purred to life. As you drove out of the parking lot, He reached over and took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. He squeezed three times.
Thank you
It was the signal you had established for "emergency exit," but in the quiet of the car, with the sun filtering through the trees, it felt like it meant something else entirely.
You squeezed back three times.
You're WelcomeÂ
You drove home in silence, hand in hand, the apples forgotten, but the trust between you stronger than any reinforced concrete. You had weathered the storm. You had survived the spill. And you knew, with absolute certainty, that as long as you had the conn, he would always be safe.
The plan for New Yearâs Eve was simple, safe, and delightfully boring. You were going to wear your ugliest, most comfortable sweatpants, order an obscene amount of pad thai, and binge-watch the new drama that had dropped on Netflix. You had bought a bottle of cheap sparkling cider (because champagne gave you a headache) and planned to be asleep by 12:05 AM. You were looking forward to the silence. After 9 months of working as a support specialistâa job that required hyper-vigilance, constant emotional regulation, and a lot of noise managementâsilence was a luxury.
Then, at 9:45 PM, your phone buzzed.
Caller ID: Sarah Sim.
Your stomach did a little flip. Sarah never called after hours unless something was wrong. You answered immediately, pausing the drama where the lead actors were staring longingly at each other in the rain. "Sarah? Is everything okay?"
"Y/N, I am so sorry," Sarahâs voice was breathless, pitched high with stress. In the background, you could hear the distinct panic motion. "I hate to do this to you on a holiday. I really, really hate it."
"Sarah, breathe. Whatâs going on?"
"Itâs my sister. Linda. She slipped on some ice in her driveway and... well, it looks like she broke her hip. Sheâs at the ER, and her husband is out of town on business, and the kids are..." She trailed off, a jagged sound of frustration escaping her. "I have to go. Iâm preparing to go there now. But I can't take Jake. The ER waiting room on New Year's Eve? It would be a nightmare. The sirens, the people, the smell of antiseptic... heâd spiral before we even checked in."
"Say no more," you said, already standing up and reaching for your keys. "Iâm coming over."
"Are you sure? Itâs New Yearâs. You must have plans. Youâre twenty-three, you should be out at a party."
You laughed, grabbing your coat. "My plans involved noodles and pajamas, Sarah. Iâm not missing anything. Iâll be there in twenty minutes."
"Thank you," she sobbed, a sound of pure relief. "Thank you. Heâs... heâs anxious. The fireworks have started early in the neighborhood. Heâs got his headphones on, but heâs pacing."
"Iâve got him," you promised. The drive to the Sims' house was a gauntlet of festive chaos. Even though it wasn't even 8:00 PM yet, the suburbs were alive. You saw teenagers running on lawns with sparklers, and every few minutes, a distant pop-pop-pop of firecrackers echoed off the houses.
You gripped the steering wheel tighter. You knew exactly what those sounds were doing to Jake. To him, a firecracker wasn't a celebration. It was a sonic assault. It was unpredictable, sharp, and threatening. It was a breach of the peace he worked so hard to maintain. When you pulled into the driveway, Sarah was already standing on the porch. The front door was open behind her, spilling warm yellow light onto the snow-dusted concrete. She had her purse over one shoulder and her car keys clutched in her hand like a weapon. She looked exhausted, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a coat over what looked like lounge clothes.
"You made good time," she said as you walked up the path, your sneakers silent on the pavement.
"Traffic was light," you said. "Go. Go take care of your sister. Don't worry about anything here."
"Heâs in the living room," Sarah said, glancing back at the house. "He ate dinnerâchicken nuggets, oven-baked, no sauce. Heâs... rigid tonight. The noise is getting to him. He keeps checking the windows."
"I'll handle it," you assured her. "We'll build a fort if we need to. We'll turn up the white noise."
She squeezed your arm, her eyes wet. "You're a lifesaver, Y/N. Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year, Sarah."
She hurried to her car, and you watched her back out before you turned to the house. You took a deep breath, shaking off the cold and the residual stress of the drive, and stepped inside.The transition was instant. The outside world was a cacophony of wind and distant explosions. Inside, it was a sanctuary. The air smelled of lemon and old books. It was warm.You locked the door behind you, turning the deadbolt with a soft click. "Stealth mode active," you whispered to yourself, toeing off your shoes and leaving them on the mat.You walked down the hallway. The house felt different at night. The shadows were longer, the silence heavier. You could feel the tension in the air, a static charge that radiated from the living room. You reached the archway.
The blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the room against the flashing lights outside. The only illumination came from the TV screen. Jake was sitting on the couch.Usually, he sat on the floor with his LEGOs, or in his recliner. But tonight, he was curled up in the corner of the sofa, knees pulled to his chest.
He was wearing a blue hoodie you hadn't seen before. It looked incredibly soft, a velvet-touch fabric that caught the light of the TV. His pajama pants were a dark plaid flannel. He had his big Sony headphones on, but they were slightly askew, as if he had been adjusting them frequently.He was watching Big Hero 6. The scene where Baymax and Hiro are flying over San Fransokyo at sunset. It was a quiet, visually stunning scene.
He didn't hear you come in.
You stood there for a moment, just watching him. He looked small. He was a grown man, broad-shouldered and tall, but curled up like that, protecting his vital organs from the invisible threat of the noise, he looked like the boy in the file photo from six months ago.You stepped into his line of sight, moving slowly so you wouldn't startle him.Jakeâs head snapped up. For a second, there was fear in his eyesâa deer-in-headlights look. Then, recognition flooded in. His face transformed. The tension in his jaw released. His shoulders dropped three inches.
His eyesâthose big, expressive, puppy-dog eyes that had hooked you from day oneâlit up. It wasn't a dramatic smile; it was a softening. A light turning on in a dark room. He pulled his headphones down around his neck.
"Y/N," he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn't spoken in hours.
"Hi, Jake," you said softly, walking over to the couch. "Your mom had to go help her sister. So you're stuck with me tonight."
"I am not stuck," he corrected immediately, uncurling his legs. "This is an upgrade. Mom is stressed. Her aura is jagged yellow. You are blue. Blue is calm."
You smiled, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch, giving him space but close enough to be an anchor. "I'm glad I'm blue. How are you holding up? Itâs loud out there." Jake frowned, looking toward the curtained window.
"The explosions are irregular," he murmured. "There is no pattern. Pop. Then silence. Then boom. My brain tries to predict the next one, but it can't. Itâs a broken algorithm."
He picked at the fuzz on his blue hoodie. "I hate the sound. It vibrates in my teeth."
"I know," you said sympathetically. "Itâs the worst kind of noise."
"But..." He hesitated. He looked at the TV screen, where colorful lights were dancing. "I like the data. I like the chemistry."
"The chemistry?"
"Strontium carbonate," he said, listing it like a fact from a textbook. "That makes red fireworks. Barium chloride makes green. Copper chloride makes blue. Itâs just burning metal. It should be beautiful. Physics is beautiful."
He looked at you, his expression wistful and sad. "I want to see the chemistry. But I can't handle the physics of the sound wave."
Your heart gave a little tug.You thought about the parking lot downtown. The one on the hill that overlooked the river. It was a popular spot, but if you stayed in the car...
An idea formed."Jake," you said slowly. "What if I told you there was a way to see the chemistry without feeling the sound wave?" He tilted his head. "That is impossible. Light and sound travel together. Well, light is faster, but the sound always arrives."
"Not if we're in a bubble," you said. "My car. Itâs insulated. If we drive to the lookout, park, roll the windows up tight, turn on the heater, and put your headphones on... youâd see them through the windshield. But you wouldn't hear the boom. Or at least, it would be a tiny thud. Not a bang."
He stared at you. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He was calculating the risk. "The car is a Faraday cage," he whispered. "For sound."
"Exactly. A shield." He looked at the window, then back at you. He trusted you. You had established that over six months of grilled cheese sandwiches and LEGO builds. You were the one who saved him in the grocery store. You were the one who brought the frozen peas for his headache.
"Can I bring my blanket?" he asked.
"Yes."
"And the headphones?"
"Non-negotiable."
He took a deep breath. He stood up. He smoothed down the front of his soft blue hoodie.
"Okay," he said. "Letâs go to the bubble."
The preparation for the expedition was precise.
Jake put on his shoes (velcro, no laces to trip on). He grabbed his grey weighted blanket. He put his headphones on, checking the battery life (84%âacceptable). He grabbed a small bag of pretzels, just in case he needed to chew to regulate his jaw tension.
You walked him to your car. The cold air bit at your cheeks. Somewhere down the street, a firecracker went offâa sharp CRACK. Jake flinched violently, stopping in the middle of the driveway. His hands flew to his ears over the headphones.
"Hey," you said, stepping in front of him, blocking his view of the street. "Eyes on me. Look at my coat. Look at the buttons." He focused on your coat. He breathed in. He breathed out.
"Car," he gasped.
"Car," you agreed.
You got him inside and slammed the door. You ran to the driver's side and got in. You immediately cranked the heater and turned on the radio to a classical stationâlow, steady cello music. "Status?" you asked, looking at him. He was adjusting his headphones. He pushed the noise-canceling button. The world outside muted.
"Status green," he said, though his voice sounded far away to himself. "The seal is tight."
"Okay. We're moving."
The drive to the lookout took twenty minutes. The traffic was light; most people were already at their parties. You drove carefully, avoiding potholes, keeping the ride as smooth as possible. Jake sat in the passenger seat, clutching his weighted blanket to his chest. He watched the streetlights pass by, counting them under his breath.
"You look nice," he said suddenly. You glanced at him, surprised. You were wearing sweatpants and a puffy coat. You had zero makeup on. "I look like a marshmallow, Jake."
"No," he said seriously. "Your face is... nice. And you look calm. You always look calm. It makes the inside of the car feel slow."
"Slow is good?"
"Fast is scary. Slow is safe. You feel safe."
You felt a flush rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the heater. "Thank you, Jake. You look nice too. That hoodie looks very soft."
He looked down at his chest. He rubbed the fabric. "It is velvet-fleece blend. Sarah bought it. I usually only wear hoodies with zippers, but this one... the texture is superior. It feels like a cat."
"A cat hoodie. I like it." You reached the lookout. It was a large paved lot on a bluff overlooking the River. Across the water, the city skyline was lit up. There were other cars parked there, facing the river, their engines idling, mist rising from their tailpipes.
You found a spot near the edge, away from a truck that was blasting bass-heavy music. You put the car in park. "We have arrived," you announced.
Jake leaned forward, peering through the windshield. The view was panoramic. The dark water reflected the city lights, creating a shimmering mirror.
"The vantage point is optimal," he noted.
"We have about fifteen minutes until midnight," you said, checking the dashboard clock. 11:45 PM.
"Fifteen minutes," Jake repeated. "900 seconds."
He leaned back, relaxing slightly. He pulled the weighted blanket up so it covered his chin, leaving only his eyes and nose visible. He looked like a cozy, anxious turtle. "Y/N?"
"Yeah, Jake?"
"Why are you here?"
The question caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"
"Itâs New Year's Eve," he said. "The social convention is to be at a gathering. Drinking ethanol. Counting down with many people. You are twenty-three. The data suggests you should be partying." He turned his head to look at you. His eyes were searching yours in the dim light of the dashboard.
"I didn't want to be at a party," you said honestly. "Parties are loud. And the floor is usually sticky. And you have to talk to people you don't know."
"You don't like loud?" Jake looked surprised.
"Not really. I do it for work, but... I like quiet. I like slow."
"Like the car."
"Like the car." You turned in your seat to face him fully. "And besides... Iâd rather be here. With you." Jake went still. He stared at you. You could see him processing the statement, turning it over in his mind, looking for the hidden meaning.
"With me?" he whispered. "But I am... work."
"No," you shook your head gently. "You stopped being just work a long time ago, Jake. We're friends. Right?"
He blinked. "Friends."
"Yes. And I like hanging out with my friend. Especially when he teaches me about strontium carbonate." A slow, shy smile spread across his face. It started at the corners of his mouth and reached his eyes, crinkling them. He snuggled deeper into his blanket. "Friends," he tested the word. "That is... acceptable. Highly acceptable."
He looked back out the windshield. "Sarah says friends don't get paid to hang out."
"Well, tonight I'm not getting paid," you lied (technically the agency would bill for this, but the sentiment was real). "Tonight Iâm just Y/N."
"Just Y/N," he echoed. "And just Jake."
"Just Jake."
The dashboard clock clicked to 11:59 PM.
"One minute," you said. "Sixty seconds."
Jake tensed up. He pressed his hands over his headphones, ensuring the seal was perfect. "The bubble holds," he whispered to himself.
"The bubble holds," you confirmed.
Across the river, in the city center, a single flare shot up into the sky. A white streak against the black. Thenâbloom. A massive golden sphere exploded in the air. It was huge, glittering, and silent. Inside the car, you heard nothing. Just the cello music and the heater. Jake flinched visually when the light exploded, his shoulders jerking up. He waited. He braced himself for the boom.
One second. Two seconds. No boom. Just a soft, dull thud that vibrated vaguely in the floorboards, barely noticeable. Jake let out a breath. His shoulders dropped.
Another one went up. Red this time. Strontium carbonate. It burst into a heart shape.
Jake leaned forward. He pressed his hands against the dashboard. His eyes went wide. "Red," he breathed. Then came the finale. The sky erupted. Greens, blues, purples, golds. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of chemistry and light. The river below caught the reflections, doubling the show.
You weren't watching the sky.
You were watching Jake.
The colored light from the fireworks washed over his face in wavesâblue, then red, then gold. His glasses reflected the explosions, making his eyes look like they held galaxies.
His mouth was slightly open in awe. The fear was completely gone, replaced by a childlike wonder that was so pure it made your chest ache. He wasn't the anxious young man in the grocery store aisle. He wasn't the client with the file. He was just a boy loving the lights.
He looked beautiful.
The soft slope of his nose, the messy hair falling over his forehead, the way his eyelashes caught the light. You felt a swell of emotion so strong it almost knocked the wind out of you. It wasn't just affection. It wasn't just protectiveness.
It was love. You had known it for a while, but here, in the quiet bubble of the car, with the new year raining down in sparks of fire, it felt undeniable.
Suddenly, Jake turned his head.
He caught you staring. Usually, when you were caught staring, you would look away. You would check your phone. You would pretend you were looking past him.
But tonight, you didn't. You held his gaze. The fireworks were still exploding behind him, framing his silhouette in halos of light.Jake looked at you. He saw the way you were looking at him. He didn't flinch. He didn't look down at his shoes.
He smiled.It wasn't his polite smile. It wasn't his nervous smile. It was an innocent, soft, intimate smile that said I see you seeing me, and I am okay with it.
He reached up and pulled one side of his headphones back, just an inch, breaking the seal.
"Happy New Year, Y/N," he said softly.
The cello music swelled. The heater hummed.
"Happy New Year, Jake," you whispered.
He didn't put the headphone back. He kept looking at you. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up to your eyes. It was a fleeting glance, one he probably didn't even realize he made, but you saw it.
"The chemistry is beautiful," he said.
"Yeah," you breathed, looking right into his brown eyes. "It really is."
He held your gaze for another long second, the air between you thick and warm and incredibly soft. It felt like the start of something. Not a frantic race, but a slow, steady walk.Then, he turned back to the windshield as a massive blue weeping willow firework drifted down toward the water. "Copper chloride," he noted, sliding his headphone back into place. But he reached out his hand, the one not holding the blanket, and placed it palm-up on the center console.
It was an invitation. You reached out and placed your hand in his.
His fingers closed around yours. His hand was warm. He squeezed three times.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You squeezed back three times.
The fireworks ended. The smoke drifted over the river. The year turned over.
But in the quiet car, holding Jakeâs hand while he hummed a happy little tune under his breath, you knew the best part of the year had already begun. The new year didn't come in with a bang. It came in with a soft, steady warmth, wearing a blue hoodie and holding your hand.
March arrived with a slow, hesitant thaw, washing away the stubborn winter snow and leaving behind a world that felt raw, muddy, and ready to wake up.
It had been months since you first walked up the driveway of that quiet suburban home, a fresh-faced social work graduate clutching a file folder that tried to summarize a human being into a list of clinical symptoms. Back then, you had been terrified of making a mistake, of wearing the wrong shoes or breathing too loudly. Now, as the first hints of spring began to show through the living room windows, you navigated the complex, beautiful landscape of Jake Simâs life with a quiet, practiced confidence.
You were officially his support worker. But unofficially, you had become his translator, his anchor, and his closest confidante. The boundaries of your job description had blurred into a deep, unwavering affection. You weren't his girlfriendâyou strictly maintained your professional role, aware of the ethics and the fragile nature of his trustâbut the feelings you harbored for the twenty-four-year-old were a warm, heavy reality in your chest that you could no longer deny.
Over the winter, the walls Jake had built to protect himself from a world that was too loud, too bright, and too unpredictable had slowly begun to lower. He was more trusting now. The rigid, closed-off young man from the file was gone, replaced by someone who sought out your presence.
You knew him completely. You knew his dietary map so well you didn't even need to consult the notes Sarah had left you on your first day. You knew he despised the texture of anything "mealy," like certain types of apples or boiled potatoes. You knew he had a strict rule against white-colored foods because they felt "deceptive" to his brain, with the sole exception of milk, which he categorized as "structural calcium" rather than a beverage. You had even managed to successfully introduce new variables into his routine. It had happened on a quiet Tuesday in early March. You had taken a massive gamble and driven him to a small, dimly lit Mexican restaurant on the edge of town for a late lunch. Jake had been rigid in the passenger seat, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his gray hoodie.
"Spicy is a pain signal," he had informed you, his brow furrowed anxiously behind his glasses. "Capsaicin tricks the brain into thinking the tissue is burning. I do not wish to be tricked. My baseline for sensory input is already at capacity."
"I promise we won't get anything spicy," you had assured him, parking the car in the empty lot. "But they have chips. Corn chips. And I think youâll like the texture. They're uniform and crunchy." He had agreed to the mission, trusting you enough to step inside. The restaurant was practically deserted, which kept his anxiety at bay. When the basket of warm tortilla chips arrived, Jake had inspected one like a scientist examining a new element. He noted the uniform triangle shape. He took a tiny bite.
The loud, satisfying crunch made his eyes widen. He hummed, a low vibration of approval in his chest.
Then, you introduced the mild salsa. You explained that it was blended completely smoothâno hidden chunks of onion or tomato to surprise his palate. He had dipped the microscopic corner of a chip into the red sauce. He ate it. He blinked, processed the flavor profile, and dipped again, a little deeper this time.
"The acidity of the tomato cuts through the oil of the corn chip," he had observed, looking at you with a profound sense of realization. "It is mathematically balanced. It is... highly acceptable."Chips and smooth salsa had instantly become a staple. You started keeping jars of it in the pantry, and he would happily eat it as a snack while watching his shows.That same evening, the shift in his trust had become distinctly physical. You were sitting on the couch in the living room, the blackout curtains drawn, watching an animated movie.Usually, when you watched movies, Jake would either sit on the floor, grounded on the rug, or he would sit on the far end of the sofa, leaving a careful, deliberate two-foot gap between you. He wasn't big on physical proximity unless he was in the middle of a meltdown and needed deep pressure to ground himself.But that night, he had sat down on the sofa and looked at the gap. He looked at you. And then, he scooted over.He didn't press flush against you, but the gap shrank to a mere inch. You could feel the warmth radiating from his arm. When he leaned forward to watch a visually intense scene, his shoulder brushed against yours, and he didn't pull away.You had frozen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering tap-dance against your ribs. You didn't pull away, but you didn't push closer, either. You just sat there, hyper-aware of his presence, feeling incredibly honored that he felt safe enough to let his guard down and share your personal space.
A few days later, a new sensory challenge presented itself.
It was a rainy Thursday afternoon. The house was quiet, but Jake was not. He was pacing the length of the living room, his steps heavy and agitated. He kept reaching up to swat at the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders, and grimacing as if something invisible was attacking him. "Jake?" you asked softly from the kitchen counter, where you were organizing his schedule for the week. "Is your shirt tag bothering you? I can cut it out."
He stopped pacing. He looked at you, his brown eyes clouded with severe distress. He reached up and grabbed a handful of his dark, fluffy hair at the nape of his neck. It had gotten long over the winterâcurling over the tops of his ears and brushing against the collar of his hoodie. "Itâs not the shirt," he said, his voice tight and breathless. "Itâs my hair. Itâs touching me. Every time I turn my head, it feels like cobwebs. Constant, heavy cobwebs. It is distracting my processor. The input is overwhelming."
"Do you want me to ask your mom to make an appointment at the barber?" you suggested gently. The look of sheer, visceral terror that crossed his face made you instantly regret the question. The barber was a sensory nightmare for him. It meant the loud buzzing of electric clippers vibrating against his skull, the strong smell of chemical barbicide, the bright fluorescent lights, and the unpredictable, light touch of a strangerâs hands on his sensitive scalp."No," he breathed, taking a step back, his hands flapping slightly at his sides as he tried to regulate his rising panic. "No barber. The buzzing hurts my teeth. The cape is too tight on my throat. I can't. I can't go."
"Okay," you said instantly, keeping your voice low and soothing. "No barber. I promise, Jake. We won't go." You thought for a second, watching him scratch frantically at the back of his neck.
"What if... what if I did it?" you offered.
He blinked, his hands freezing. "You?"
"Me. Right here in the kitchen. No buzzing clippers, just regular scissors. We can take breaks whenever you need to. I won't tie a cape around your neck; we'll just use your favorite soft towel."
He considered this. His logical brain weighed the risk of a bad haircut against the immediate relief of getting the "cobwebs" off his neck. He looked at your hands. He trusted your hands."Do you have the data?" he asked skeptically. "Are you trained in cosmetology?"
"I don't have the data yet," you admitted with a reassuring smile. "But I have YouTube. Give me ten minutes to study the algorithm."
He let out a long breath, his shoulders dropping a fraction. "Okay. Ten minutes."
You set up a wooden dining chair in the middle of the kitchen linoleum. You found a pair of sharp styling shears Sarah kept in the bathroom vanity. You propped your phone up against the sugar bowl and watched a video titled How to Trim Men's Medium Length Hair - Scissors Only.When you were ready, Jake walked into the kitchen. He had changed into an old, faded t-shirt. He sat down in the chair, his posture rigid as a board. You draped his favorite plush bath towel over his shoulders, securing it loosely with a binder clip so nothing constricted his throat."Okay," you murmured, standing behind him. "I'm going to touch your hair now. Deep pressure, just like we always do."
"Deep pressure," he echoed, closing his eyes tightly.
You placed your hands firmly on his scalp, letting him feel the solid weight of your touch before you ran a comb through his dark waves. He shivered slightly, but he didn't pull away."I'm going to start at the back," you narrated, knowing that unexpected sensory input was his biggest trigger. "You're going to hear the scissors. They make a sharp snip sound."
Snip. Snip.
"It sounds like a metronome," Jake observed softly, his hands gripping the edges of the wooden chair seat. "A fast metronome."
"Just focus on the rhythm," you soothed, working meticulously.
You weren't a professional, but you were infinitely careful. You trimmed the heavy curls away from his collar. You cleared the bulk from the sides. Every time you had to fold his ear down to cut around it, you warned him first.
It took forty-five minutes. A barber would have been done in ten. But this wasn't about efficiency; it was about safety. He sat perfectly still for you, enduring the falling hair and the metallic snip of the blades because he knew you were on the other end of them."Alright," you said finally, stepping back and carefully brushing the loose trimmings off the towel. "I think we're done, Jake. The cobwebs are gone."
He opened his eyes. He reached a hesitant hand up to the back of his neck. He felt the smooth skin, the clean line of hair that no longer brushed his collar. He felt around his ears, marveling at the empty air.
A slow, brilliant smile broke across his face. He stood up, shaking off the towel, and turned to look at you."It is optimal," he breathed, running his long fingers through the top of his hair, which you had left perfectly fluffy. "The static is reduced. My head feels... lighter. The processing speed is back to normal."
"You look very handsome," you smiled, reaching out to brush a stray clipping from his shoulder."Thank you, Y/N," he said softly, holding your gaze for a long moment. "I trust your scissors."
The trust they shared spilled over into the following week.
It was a chilly afternoon, the kind that made the house feel like a cozy, insulated bubble. It was the perfect afternoon for baking. "Cookies," Jake had announced around 2:00 PM, pulling his favorite glass mixing bowl from the cabinet. "The barometric pressure is low. We need to introduce a superior olfactory variable. Vanilla and butter."
"Sugar cookies?" you asked, rolling up your sleeves and washing your hands.
"Cutouts," he specified, retrieving his plastic container of cookie cutters.
Baking with Jake was a science experiment. He didn't believe in "eyeballing" ingredients. Everything was leveled with the flat edge of a butter knife. The dough had to be chilled for exactly thirty minutes. You did the main workâmeasuring, mixing, and rolling the heavy dough out flat on the counterâwhile he stood close beside you, supervising the chemistry of it all.
When it was time to cut the shapes, Jake took over. He treated the rolled-out dough like a puzzle of spatial geometry. He had chosen the star cutter and a specific dinosaur cutter.
"The goal is optimization," he explained seriously, pressing the star into the very edge of the dough. "We must minimize the negative space between the shapes to reduce the need for re-rolling. Re-rolling introduces excess flour and toughens the gluten matrix."
"You are a cookie architect," you laughed, watching his precise, careful movements.
"I am maximizing yield," he corrected gently, pressing the dinosaur cutter down directly next to the star.
You took the filled trays and slid them into the oven. "Okay, timer set for twelve minutes." But variables happen. Your phone buzzed on the counterâit was a call from the agency about a sudden change in scheduling protocols. You answered it, stepping into the hallway so you wouldn't disturb Jake, who was focused on washing the mixing bowl. The coordinator on the phone was chatty, and you got pulled into a frustrating, complicated discussion about paperwork.
You didn't hear the oven timer go off over the sound of the phone call.
You smelled it first. The sweet, buttery scent of baking cookies suddenly turned sharp, followed by the undeniable, acrid smell of burning sugar.
"Oh, shoot!" you gasped, hanging up on the coordinator mid-sentence.
You ran into the kitchen, grabbed the oven mitts, and yanked the trays out. Smoke billowed into the air.You slammed the trays onto the stovetop. The cookies were ruined. The stars were a dark, unhappy brown, and the dinosaurs looked like they had been caught in a prehistoric meteorite strike. They were hard as rocks and blackened around the edges."Dammit," you sighed, your shoulders slumping in defeat. You felt a hot prickle of tears in your eyes. You were his support worker; you were supposed to be on top of things. You had ruined his perfectly optimized geometric dough because you were distracted.Jake turned around from the sink, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at the smoking trays. He looked at your face.
He saw the disappointment. He saw the way you were picking at your thumbnailâa nervous habit he had memorized over the last six months.
He walked up to the stove. He looked at the burnt, sad little dinosaurs.
He reached out and picked one up. It was still hot, but he barely flinched.
"Jake, don't, itâs going to taste like ash," you warned, reaching out to stop him.
He lifted the burnt cookie to his mouth and took a bite.
A loud, aggressive CRUNCH echoed in the kitchen. You winced, waiting for him to spit it out. You knew how sensitive his palate was. Bitter flavors were usually an instant, gag-inducing rejection.He chewed thoughtfully. He swallowed. He looked at the cookie, then looked at you.
"The structural integrity is phenomenal," he stated, his face completely serious.
"Jake, they're burnt."
"They are heavily caramelized," he corrected smoothly. "The Maillard reaction was simply allowed to progress further than usual. It adds a... bold, smoky complexity."
He took another bite. Another loud crunch.
"And the crunch is superior," he continued, holding eye contact with you. "Soft cookies crumble. These cookies are resilient. They require effort. I appreciate the effort."
He was overriding his own intense sensory aversions. He was eating a burnt, bitter cookie just to protect your feelings, to make sure you didn't feel like you had failed him. He was a total sweetheart, wrapping his rigid sensory needs around his care for you.Your heart melted right into the linoleum. You couldn't help yourselfâyou walked over and wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, pressing your face into his chest in a brief, fierce hug.
"You are the absolute sweetest guy in the world, Jake Sim," you mumbled against his shirt.He patted your back awkwardly but affectionately with his free hand. "I am just analyzing the data," he said, taking a third, agonizingly crunchy bite. "But thank you. They really are good."The emotional safety established on those quiet afternoons paved the way for something far more delicate.
It happened late one evening, a few days later. Sarah had gone to a late movie with a friend, leaving the two of you in the living room. The lights were dimmed, and the TV was playing softly in the background.
Jake was sitting on the couch, his knees pulled up to his chest, picking at a loose thread on the hem of his hoodie. He had been quiet for an hour, a heavy, contemplative silence that usually preceded a deep thought.
"Y/N?" he murmured finally. His voice was low, lacking its usual confident, factual cadence."Yeah, Jakey? I'm here."
He kept his eyes glued to the loose thread. "I had a birthday a few months ago. Before you started working here."
"I know," you smiled gently. "Your mom told me. You turned twenty-four."
"I am twenty-four," he repeated, rolling the number around in his mouth like it tasted strange and unpleasant. "You are twenty-three."
"Thatâs right. Youâre older than me."
He didn't smile. His brow furrowed deeply, and he stared down at his hands.
"Twenty-four is a prime integer for adulthood," he said softly. "I read articles online. At twenty-four, normal men are... doing things. They are driving on the interstate. They are navigating tax brackets. They are going to loud places and drinking ethanol. They wear suits that scratch their necks. They live alone."
He swallowed hard, the vulnerability in his voice jagged and painful to hear.
"I do not do those things," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I cannot drive on the highway because the cars move too fast and the input overwhelms my processor. I cannot do taxes. I wear pajama pants with cartoon characters on them. I spend hours sorting plastic bricks. I need Mom to help me make doctor appointments. I need you to help me go to the grocery store."He turned his head to look at you, his brown eyes swimming with a profound, deep-seated insecurity. It was the awareness of a man who knew he was out of sync with the timeline of the world, a man who felt like he was failing a test everyone else inherently knew how to pass.
"I feel... broken," he choked out, the word hitting the quiet room like a dropped glass. "Like I missed the manual on how to be an adult. And you... you have a degree. You fit in the world. I don't understand how you can stand being here with someone who is stuck on the wrong setting."Your heart cracked right down the middle. You shifted on the couch, turning fully toward him, and reached out to take both of his hands in yours. You held them tightly, anchoring him to the present moment."Jake, look at me," you said fiercely.He blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek, but he met your eyes."There is no manual," you said, your voice steady and full of absolute conviction. "There is no 'normal' in adulthood. Everyone is just guessing and hoping they don't mess up."He sniffled, processing this. "But they do the normal things."
"Normal is a myth," you promised him. "You think because I have a degree I know everything? Jake, I had to Google how to fix a leaky pipe yesterday, and I still couldn't do it. I am terrified of making phone calls to strangers. I eat cereal for dinner three nights a week. Everyone has things they can't handle. Adulthood is completely new for everyone, and we're all just trying to survive the input."
You let go of one of his hands to reach up and cup his cheek, gently wiping the tear away with your thumb.
"You aren't broken, Jake. You are just you. You built a working replica of the Titanic from memory. You notice when the air pressure drops before the weather app does. You ate a burnt, charcoal cookie just so I wouldn't feel bad about my baking skills. Do you know how rare that kind of empathy is? How brilliant your brain is?"
He leaned into your palm, closing his eyes, a shaky breath escaping his lips.
"You don't have to like loud bars or scratchy suits to be a man," you whispered, maintaining your professional boundary but pouring every ounce of your care into your words. "You just have to be kind, and honest, and try your best. And you do that every single day. You don't have to fit into the rest of the world, Jake. Everything is new, and you just find where you fit most."
He opened his eyes. The fear was slowly draining away, replaced by a quiet, thoughtful relief.
"Find where I fit most," he repeated, testing the weight of the concept.
"Exactly. And you fit beautifully right here, just the way you are."
He let out a shaky breath, a small smile finally breaking through the sadness. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck, pulling you into a tight, grounding hug.
"You are my favorite variable, Y/N," he mumbled against your skin. "Thank you for the data." To prove your point that his interests were valid and wonderful, you stopped by a department store the very next morning before your shift. When you walked into the house, you handed him a plastic shopping bag. "What is this?" he asked, eyeing the bag suspiciously. "A reminder that what you like is perfectly fine," you smiled.
He reached in and pulled out a brand new, neatly folded package of pajama pants. They were dark navy blue, covered in small, minimalist red Spider-Man logos.
"I checked the tags," you said proudly. "They are tagless. And itâs a modal-cotton blend. Super soft." Jakeâs eyes lit up instantly. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, checking the friction coefficient.
"It is superior," he breathed, a wide grin stretching across his face, the insecurities of the previous night completely forgotten. "The texture is incredibly smooth. Thank you, Y/N."
"You're welcome, Spidey. Go test them out."
He hurried down the hall. When he returned, he was wearing the new pants, looking incredibly cozy and relaxed. He did a small crouch in the living room, testing the stretch of the fabric."Range of motion is uninhibited," he declared happily. "They are perfect."The final days of March brought the first true, undeniable breath of spring. The sun came out, warm and insistent, waking up the dormant life in the backyard.
It was a Saturday morning. You were standing at the kitchen sink, washing out your coffee mug, while Sarah sat at the island, looking over some mail. Jake had been outside in the backyard for twenty minutes, "patrolling the perimeter" in his new Spider-Man pajamas and a light jacket.
You watched him through the window. He was pacing the fence line, his hands in his pockets, enjoying the gentle breeze.Suddenly, he stopped. He knelt down in the grass, inspecting something on the ground. Carefully, with precise, deliberate movements, he pinched something between his fingers and plucked it from the earth.
He stood up and turned around, walking back toward the house with a determined stride.
When the back door opened, he walked straight into the kitchen, bypassing his usual routine of wiping his shoes exactly three times. He walked right up to you, holding his hand out, his fist closed around something delicate.
"I found anomalies in the grass," he announced.
He opened his hand.
Sitting in his palm were a half-dozen dandelions. They were bright, aggressive yellow, their stems slightly crushed from his firm grip.
"They are weeds," Jake explained, looking at you earnestly. "Most people apply herbicide to them to make their lawns uniform. But I researched them. They are the first food for bees in the spring. They are incredibly resilient. They grow through cracks in the driveway. They do not care if they belong; they just grow where they fit."
He held the messy, yellow bouquet out to you."I picked them for you," he said, his brown eyes locking onto yours. "Because you are resilient. And because you help me find where I fit."You stared at the bright yellow flowers.You were horribly, violently allergic to dandelions. The pollen made your throat itch, your eyes swell, and your nose run like a broken faucet. If you held them too close, youâd be sneezing for the rest of the day in absolute misery.You didn't hesitate for a microsecond.
You reached out and gently took the crushed, beautiful weeds from his hand. You would never, ever tell him."They are the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen, Jake," you said, forcing your breathing to remain shallow so you didn't inhale the pollen directly. "Thank you so much. I love them."
His chest puffed out slightly with pride. "They require water. A small vessel. Their stems are short."
"Iâll put them in a shot glass right now," you promised.
You turned around, grabbed a small glass from the cupboard, filled it with water, and arranged the dandelions carefully on the windowsill above the sink. As soon as his back was turned to grab a glass of water, you quickly turned your head and stifled a massive, aggressive sneeze into the crook of your elbow.
"Bless you," Jake said, drinking his water.
"Just dust," you lied smoothly, your voice thick as you quickly washed your hands with soap to remove the pollen. "Spring dust."
Sarah had watched the entire exchange from the kitchen island, her mail forgotten. As Jake wandered into the living room to adjust the volume on the TV, feeling successful and completely at ease, Sarah stepped closer to you.
She looked at the dandelions in the shot glass, and then she looked at you, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You're allergic to those, aren't you?" she whispered, having seen you pop an antihistamine just yesterday when a neighbor mowed their lawn.
"Deathly," you whispered back, rubbing your itchy nose with the back of a clean hand.
Sarah let out a soft, watery laugh. She reached out and squeezed your arm, her grip tight and full of a mother's profound gratitude.
"He hasn't picked flowers for anyone since he was six years old," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "Before the world got too loud and he folded in on himself. I used to wonder if Iâd ever see that sweet, expressive little boy again."
She looked out toward the living room, where Jake was happily sitting on the couch, completely in his element. He wasn't hiding behind his hands or his headphones. He was just a young man, comfortable in his own skin, wearing the Spider-Man pajamas you bought him."Heâs not just surviving anymore, Y/N," Sarah said, looking back at you with fierce, unwavering respect and praise. "He is living. He is confident, and he is himself again. But heâs not doing it alone. He has you. You brought him back."
You looked at the dandelions, their bright yellow petals soaking up the sun in the window, stubborn and resilient against all odds. You weren't his girlfriend, and you were technically just doing your job, but looking at the life and light that had returned to Jake Simâs eyes, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
"I think we're just finding where we fit, Sarah," you smiled, your eyes watering from the pollen, but your heart completely full. "I really do."
April crept in with a deceptive warmth, bringing days that started crisp and ended bathed in golden, gentle sunlight. Over the past month, the trust between you and Jake had solidified into something unbreakable. The boundaries of your job title as his support worker had softened so completely that you often forgot you were on the clock. You were just Y/N and Jake, navigating the world together, one carefully calculated variable at a time.
Because he had been doing so wellâexpanding his safe foods, managing his sensory input, and initiating communicationâyou had planned a special outing.
There was a specialty hobby shop about twenty minutes away. It wasn't a big-box toy store with screaming children and blinding fluorescent lights; it was a quiet, dimly lit collectorâs shop. It smelled of old cardboard, modeling clay, and dust. More importantly, they carried retired, vintage LEGO sets. Jake had been talking about a specific, out-of-production Architecture set for three weeks. He had saved his own money for it, meticulously budgeting his allowance in a small notebook.
"The crowd density on a Thursday at 11:00 AM will be approximately 12% of peak capacity," Jake had announced that morning, standing by the front door.
He was prepared. He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones securely around his neck, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice. Underneath his unzipped, soft grey hoodie, he wore a subtle, vintage-wash Spider-Man t-shirt you had found for him online. It didn't have any scratchy tags, and the seams were flat.
"The math is solid," you agreed, jingling your car keys. "We have a clear window. Are you feeling good? Battery at 100%?" He closed his eyes for a brief second, running an internal diagnostic. "Battery is at 94%. I slept well. The eggs were uniform. I am ready to initiate the mission."
"Let's go get that set, Spidey."The drive was peaceful. You kept the radio volume low, playing a soft instrumental track that Jake liked because the time signature was mathematically consistent. He spent the drive looking out the window, his fingers tapping a complex, rhythmic pattern against his thigh. He was excited. It was a subtle excitement to anyone else, but to you, it was loud and vibrant.
When you pulled into the strip mall where the hobby shop was located, the parking lot was blissfully empty."Twelve percent capacity might have been an overestimation," you smiled, turning off the engine. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves."
Jake unbuckled his seatbelt, a small, proud smile on his face. "My calculations included a margin of error. Empty is an optimal variable."
You walked into the store together. The bell above the door chimedâa soft, pleasant ding that made Jake blink, but he didn't flinch. The shop owner, an older man reading a magazine behind the counter, offered a quiet nod and went back to his reading. It was perfect.
Jake immediately navigated toward the back corner of the store, where shelves were stacked high with pristine, sealed boxes.
You hung back a few feet, giving him space to explore his element. This was his territory. He moved down the aisle with absolute reverence, his eyes scanning the boxes, reading the piece counts and set numbers like they were lines of poetry.
"They have it," he whispered suddenly.You stepped closer. "The Architecture set?"
"Yes." He pointed to a high shelf. "Set number 21010. The Robie House. 2,276 pieces. It was discontinued years ago. The dark red brick count is unprecedented."
His hands started to move. It was a happy stimâhis fingers fluttering rapidly in front of his chest, a physical manifestation of the joy bubbling over in his brain. He bounced slightly on his heels, a soft, high-pitched hum of pure excitement vibrating in his throat."I have the exact funds required," he said, turning to look at you, his brown eyes shining with absolute delight. "This is... this is a highly significant acquisition."
"I'm so happy for you, Jake," you beamed, your heart swelling at the sight of his unbridled joy. "Let me help you get it down."
You reached up and carefully pulled the box from the top shelf, handing it to him. He took it as if it were made of glass, tracing the edges of the cardboard, his happy humming growing a little louder.
And then, the bell above the door chimed again.
You didn't think much of it at first. But then the voices carried down the aisle. Loud, booming, aggressively casual.
"Bro, I swear they sell Warhammer stuff here, just look."
Three guys turned the corner into the aisle. They were roughly Jake's age, maybe a year or two younger. College kids. They were wearing baseball caps backward, reeking of sharp, chemical body spray that immediately made your nose wrinkle. They were talking over each other, their voices echoing harshly in the quiet shop.
You saw Jake stiffen instantly. The happy humming cut off. His fingers stopped fluttering and clenched into tight fists around the edges of the LEGO box. He instinctively took a step back, pressing his shoulders against the shelving unit, trying to make himself smaller. He lowered his head, his hair falling forward to shield his eyes.
You casually moved, placing yourself slightly in front of him, creating a physical buffer between him and the newcomers.
The guys walked down the aisle, completely oblivious to the sudden tension. One of them, a guy in a bright red polo shirt, stopped to look at the shelf right next to where Jake was standing.
"Man, who drops three hundred bucks on plastic bricks?" the guy scoffed, laughing loudly. Jake flinched at the volume. His hands were shaking. He pulled the box tighter to his chest. He was trying to be invisible, but the movement caught the guy's attention.The guy in the red polo looked at Jake. He looked at the way Jake was hunched over, avoiding eye contact. He looked at the vintage Spider-Man t-shirt peeking out from the hoodie.Then, the guy smirked. He nudged his friend.
"Hey, check it out," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "We got a real-life man-child over here. Hey buddy, aren't you a little old for the kids' aisle?"
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Jake froze entirely. His breathing hitched, catching in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut."Excuse me," you said immediately, your voice cold and sharp as a razor. You stepped fully in front of Jake, locking eyes with the guy in the red polo. "Back off."The guy raised his hands in mock surrender, letting out an obnoxious laugh. "Whoa, chill out. I was just making a joke. Didn't realize his mommy was here to defend him."
"I said, back off," you repeated, taking a step toward him, the protective fury blazing in your chest. You didn't care about professionalism. You didn't care about causing a scene. You only cared about the man trembling behind you. "Keep your mouth shut and walk away."The second friend sneered, looking Jake up and down. "Jeez, what's wrong with him? He's shaking like a weirdo. Does he need a diaper change or something?"
Snap.
You moved forward, jabbing your index finger hard into the second guy's chest. "If you say one more word to him, I am going to have the owner throw you out by your hair. You are pathetic, miserable little bullies. Walk. Away. Now."
Your voice wasn't yelling, but it was deadly. The guys looked at your face, realizing you were genuinely a second away from a physical altercation. The bravado faltered.
"Whatever, crazy bitch," the red polo guy muttered, rolling his eyes. "Place is a freak show anyway. Let's go."They turned and swaggered out of the aisle, laughing loudly to save face ,mimicking disabilities, their heavy footsteps echoing as the front door chimed and they left the store.The silence that followed was suffocating.You turned around instantly, your heart hammering. "Jake," you breathed, reaching out. "Jake, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"
He wasn't okay.He was staring blankly at the floor. His face was entirely devoid of color. The box he had been holding so carefully slipped from his numb fingers, hitting the linoleum with a loud, hollow thud.
"Jake?" you asked softly, not touching him, knowing better than to initiate contact when he was in shock.He didn't look at the box. He didn't look at you. He reached up with shaking, jerky movements and pulled his noise-canceling headphones over his ears. He turned around, completely ignoring the set he had saved up for, and began speed-walking toward the exit."Jake, wait!" you called, abandoning the box on the floor and jogging after him.You caught up to him just as he pushed through the front door. The bright April sun hit him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his hands coming up to grip the edges of his headphones so hard his knuckles turned stark white.
"Car," he choked out, his voice thick, rough, and entirely monotone. "Take me to the bubble."
"Okay," you said instantly, unlocking the car with your fob. "We're going. We're going right now."
He practically dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. He didn't put his seatbelt on. He pulled his knees up to his chest, curled into a tight, defensive ball, and pulled his hood over his head and his headphones. He was burying himself alive.
You got in, started the car, and drove.The twenty-minute drive back to his house was the longest of your life. The silence in the car wasn't the comfortable, companionable quiet you were used to. It was a heavy, toxic, suffocating silence. It was the sound of a mind tearing itself apart.You wanted to reach over. You wanted to pull over to the side of the road, wrap your arms around him, and squeeze the pain out of him. But his body language was a massive, neon DO NOT TOUCH sign. He was completely closed off. The static in his head had turned into a roar.
When you pulled into his driveway, you noticed Sarah's car was gone. She was at her yoga class. It was just the two of you.
Jake opened his door before you even put the car in park. He scrambled out, almost tripping over his own feet, and half-ran to the front door. You hurried after him, unlocking it quickly.He didn't take his shoes off. He walked straight down the hallway, into his bedroom, and slammed the door.
You stood in the empty, quiet living room, your heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.You gave him ten minutes. You knew he needed time to process the massive spike of negative data. You went to the kitchen, poured a glass of ice water, and tried to steady your own breathing. Your hands were shaking with residual anger at those boys. You wanted to drive back and key their car.
But anger wouldn't help Jake.
After fifteen minutes, you walked down the hall and stood outside his bedroom door. You listened.You didn't hear crying. You heard a rhythmic, dull thump. Thump. Thump.Your stomach dropped.It was a sound you had only heard once, during his worst meltdown months ago. He was hitting his head. Not hard enough to cause a concussion, but hard enough to try and physically jar the overwhelming thoughts out of his brain. It was a frustration stim.
You didn't knock. You opened the door.
The blackout curtains were drawn, plunging the room into darkness. Jake was sitting on the floor in the corner, wedged between his bed frame and the wall. He had his knees pulled up, his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He was rocking violently forward and backward.
Every time he rocked back, the back of his head hit the drywall. Thump.
"Jake, stop," you said, your voice firm but laced with panic. You crossed the room in three strides.
You dropped to your knees in front of him and slid your hand between the back of his head and the wall. When he rocked back again, his head hit your soft palm instead of the drywall.He gasped, the unexpected texture breaking his rhythm. He opened his eyes, glaring at you through the darkness. His cheeks were wet, but he wasn't sobbing. He was hyperventilating, trapped in a spiral of pure, toxic shame.
"Get out," he rasped, his voice raw.
It was the first time he had ever told you to leave. It felt like a physical blow to the chest, but you held your ground. You kept your hand behind his head.
"I'm not leaving you, Jake."
"Get out!" he yelled, a sudden, desperate burst of volume. He grabbed your wrist, trying to pry your hand away from the wall. His grip was frantic. "You are off the clock! Go away! Go back to your adult life!"
"I don't care about the clock," you said fiercely, refusing to let him push you away. You slid closer, ignoring his attempts to push you back, and grabbed both of his wrists, holding them firmly against his chest. Deep pressure. "Look at me. Look at my face."
"No!" He squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away, trying to hide his face in his knees. "Don't look at me. I am... I am a freak show. I am a man-child."
He was echoing their words. The toxic data had infiltrated his system, overwriting all the confidence you had built together over the last six months.
"They were wrong, Jake," you pleaded, leaning in until your forehead was almost touching his. "They were stupid, miserable bullies who don't know anything about you."
"They were right!" he cried out, a ragged sob finally breaking through his throat. He stopped fighting your grip, his whole body slumping in defeat. "I am twenty-four years old! I wear a superhero shirt! I play with children's toys! I can't even go to a store without my mom or my... my paid caretaker to defend me!"
He pulled his hands out of your grip and buried his face in his palms, weeping openly. The sound of his heartbreak was agonizing.
"I thought I was doing good," he sobbed, his chest heaving. "I thought... I thought I was finding where I fit. But I don't fit anywhere. I am broken. The world looks at me and they see a joke. And you... you just pity me."
"Jake, no," you gasped, the tears finally spilling over your own eyelashes.
"You do," he insisted, his voice muffled by his hands. "You are beautiful. You are smart. You fix leaky pipes and drive cars and yell at scary men. You are a real adult. I am just your charity case. I am a job. You just pretend I am a man so I don't feel bad."
The absolute devastation in his voice, the deep-seated insecurity that had been completely laid bare by three cruel strangers, ripped through you. He didn't just feel humiliated; he felt unlovable. He felt like an imposter in his own life.
You didn't try to reason with him. You couldn't fight this level of emotional static with words alone.You moved. You uncrossed your legs and slid directly into his space. You didn't ask for permission. You wrapped your arms tightly around his trembling shoulders and pulled him forward, practically dragging him out of the corner until his chest hit yours.You wrapped your legs around his hips, trapping him in a tight, full-body embrace. You buried one hand in his dark, fluffy hair, pressing his head firmly against your shoulder, and wrapped your other arm tightly around his back. You applied as much deep pressure as your body could physically muster, crushing the space between you.
He stiffened violently, a gasp tearing from his throat at the sudden, overwhelming input. But he didn't fight it. He never fought your pressure.
"Listen to me," you whispered fiercely into his ear, your voice trembling with unshed tears and absolute conviction. "Listen to my voice. You are going to delete that data right now. Do you hear me?"
He let out a broken, hiccuping sob against your neck, his arms hovering uselessly at his sides.
"You are not a charity case," you continued, holding him tighter. "You have never been just a job to me. Those boys in the store? They are cowards. They tear people down because they have nothing interesting or beautiful inside their own heads. But you? Your brain is a masterpiece, Jake."
He shook his head weakly against your shoulder. "I'm a child."
"You are a man," you stated firmly, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you. You grabbed his face in both of your hands, your thumbs wiping away the hot tears streaming down his cheeks.
His brown eyes were wide, bloodshot, and utterly shattered, staring at you in the dark room. "A real man isn't someone who wears a scratchy suit and drinks at a bar," you told him, staring directly into his eyes, refusing to let him look away. "A real man is someone who is kind. Someone who is honest. A real man notices when I'm sad and gives up his favorite weighted blanket to comfort me. A real man eats a burnt, awful cookie just so I don't feel like a failure. A real man picks resilient yellow weeds for me because he knows I love them."He let out a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling rapidly against yours.
"You are the strongest, bravest, most incredible man I have ever met, Jake Sim," you whispered, your voice cracking. "And I don't pity you. I am in awe of you."
You didn't plan the next part. You didn't calculate the professional boundaries or the risk of sensory overload. You just acted on the overwhelming, desperate need to prove to him that he was loved exactly as he was.You leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.It wasn't a hesitant, chaste peck. It was firm, grounding, and full of every ounce of love and fierce protectiveness you harbored for him. You kept your hands cradling his face, anchoring him to the sensation.For one agonizing second, Jake froze. He went completely rigid beneath you. The new sensory inputâthe softness of your lips, the heat, the overwhelming intimacyâwas massive.
But then, he melted.
A soft, desperate whimper vibrated in his throat. His hands, which had been hovering uselessly, came up and gripped your waist with a frantic strength. He didn't know what he was doing, but his instincts took over. He pressed back into the kiss, his lips moving clumsily but eagerly against yours. He clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly turned to quicksand.
You kissed him until the shaking in his body finally, slowly began to subside. You kissed him until the frantic rhythm of his heart slowed to a manageable beat against your chest. When you finally pulled back, you kept your foreheads pressed together, both of you gasping softly for air in the quiet, dark room. Jake's eyes were closed. His eyelashes were wet with tears, but his face had lost that pale, terrified pallor. His hands were gripping your hips so tightly it almost hurt, grounding himself in your physical presence. "Did you mean it?" he whispered, his voice incredibly small, incredibly fragile. "I meant every single word," you promised, stroking your thumbs over his cheekbones. "You are my favorite person in the entire world, Jake. I don't want a 'normal' guy. I want you. With your Spider-Man shirts and your LEGOs and your beautiful, brilliant brain." He opened his eyes. The shattered glass look was gone. The insecurity hadn't vanished completelyâit never did, not instantlyâbut the toxic shame had been washed away by the absolute certainty in your voice and the lingering heat on his lips.
He swallowed hard. "I dropped the Robie House set."
You let out a wet, tearful laugh, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "We can go back tomorrow. Or we can order it online. Whatever you want."
"Online," he decided immediately, his voice gaining a fraction of its usual factual cadence. "The crowd density in that store is heavily polluted with negative variables."
"Online it is." He took a deep breath, processing the massive emotional shift that had just occurred. He loosened his death-grip on your waist, moving his hands up to carefully, hesitantly wrap his arms around your back, returning the full-body hug. He rested his chin on your shoulder, burying his nose in your hair.
"You smell like vanilla and anger," he murmured into your neck.
You laughed again, burying your face in his soft hoodie. "I was very angry. I wanted to hit them."
"I am glad you didn't," he said seriously. "Assault is a felony. That would disrupt our routine."
"You're right. No felonies."
You sat there on the floor for a long time, tangled together in the dark. The sting of the outside world, the cruelty of strangers, was still there, but it was locked outside. Inside this room, inside the circle of your arms, he wasn't a man-child. He wasn't a broken algorithm.
"Y/N?" he whispered after a long silence.
"Yeah, Jakey?"
"When you kissed me... the static stopped completely."
"Yeah?"
"Yes. It was... highly effective. Superior to the noise-canceling headphones."
You smiled against his shoulder, your heart finally settling into a steady, peaceful rhythm. "Well, then I guess I'll just have to keep doing it. For medicinal purposes, of course."
"Agreed," he hummed, the vibration rumbling happily against your chest. "Frequent application is recommended." And as you held him in the dark, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, you knew that no matter how loud or cruel the world got, you would always be his quiet place. And he, in all his honest, beautiful complexity, would always be yours.
The aftermath of that afternoon on his bedroom floor shifted the entire axis of your relationship. The kiss had been an impulsive, desperate act of protection on your part, meant to shock him out of a spiral of toxic shame. But for Jake, it had fundamentally rewritten his internal algorithm.
You had become his baseline. In the weeks that followed as April blossomed into a warm, gentle May, Jake became undeniably, profoundly clingy. It wasn't a demanding, suffocating kind of clinginess. It was a quiet, constant gravitational pull. He simply needed to be in your orbit.
Before, he had valued his solitary space. He would spend hours in the living room building LEGOs while you read in the armchair, comfortable but separate. Now, if you sat on the sofa, he sat on the sofa, his hip pressed firmly against yours. If you stood at the kitchen island cutting his grilled cheese or pouring his milk, he would stand right behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.
He initiated touch constantly. It was never light or brushingâhe still hated the "spiderweb" feeling of gentle contact. Instead, it was firm and deliberate. He would reach out and wrap his long fingers securely around your wrist while you were talking to Sarah. He would drop his heavy head onto your shoulder while waiting for the microwave to beep. He would randomly press his palm flat against the center of your back as you walked down the hallway.He was seeking deep pressure, but more than that, he was seeking you. You were the variable that made the static stop, and he wanted that quiet safety as much as possible.
You didn't mind it. In fact, your heart swelled every single time he reached for you. You returned his affection in equal measure, leaning into his weight, squeezing his hand back, and resting your cheek against his fluffy, dark hair whenever he ducked his head into your neck.
Nothing was labeled. You hadn't sat down and had a formal discussion about being "boyfriend and girlfriend." You were just existing in this warm, safe bubble of mutual adoration, letting Jake process the new physical and emotional data at his own pace.
Sarah, of course, noticed the shift immediately.
It was impossible to miss. One Tuesday morning, you were standing at the stove, carefully stirring a pot of oatmeal (no lumps, perfectly smooth). Jake had padded into the kitchen wearing his tagless Spider-Man pajama pants and a soft grey t-shirt. Instead of sitting at his usual spot at the round table, he walked straight up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, and let out a long, contented sigh that vibrated against your back.You had simply smiled, leaning back against his solid chest, and kept stirring. "Morning, Jakey. Did you sleep well?"
"Eight hours and twelve minutes," he mumbled into your skin, his arms tightening in a firm squeeze. "The humidity dropped. The sheets felt correct."
Sarah had walked in right at that moment, pausing in the doorway. She froze, a mug of coffee half-raised to her lips. She stared at the way her son, who had spent his entire life flinching away from unexpected contact, was willingly, eagerly anchoring himself to another human being.She caught your eye over Jakeâs shoulder. You offered her a soft, reassuring smile.Sarahâs eyes immediately filled with tears. She didn't say anything to disrupt his peace; she just pressed her lips together, gave you a shaky, incredibly grateful nod, and quietly backed out of the kitchen to give you both privacy.Later that afternoon, while Jake was in the backyard inspecting the growth of his beloved dandelions, Sarah sat next to you on the porch."I have never seen him like this," she whispered, watching him carefully step over a line of worker ants on the patio. "Heâs always been so guarded. Even with me, sometimes. His sensory threshold is just so delicate. But with you... itâs like he doesn't have a threshold at all. Youâre just part of him.""He makes it easy, Sarah," you said honestly, pulling your cardigan tighter against the spring breeze. "Heâs so honest. Thereâs no guessing games with him. I know exactly where I stand."
"You know he likes you, right?" she asked gently, turning to look at you. "More than just as a support worker. I know the agency has rules, but Y/N... I am his mother. And I have never, ever seen him look at someone the way he looks at you."
"I like him too," you admitted, the truth feeling warm and bright in the cool air. "I really, really do. Weâre just... taking it slow. I want him to figure out the feelings on his own timetable."
"Take all the time you need," Sarah smiled, her shoulders dropping in profound relief. "Just... thank you. For seeing him. For really seeing him."
The culmination of all those quiet, clingy weeks happened on a rainy Friday evening.
It was Movie Night. The blackout curtains were drawn, creating a cozy, insulated cave in the living room. The TV was glowing brightly with the saturated colors of Spider-Man: Far From Home.
Jake was sitting on the sofa. You were tucked seamlessly into his side. His arm was wrapped heavy and secure around your shoulders, and your legs were tangled together beneath his favorite fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket. The pressure of the blanket combined with the solid weight of his body pressing against yours was incredibly grounding.
On the screen, Peter Parker was awkwardly fumbling through a conversation with MJ in Venice, clearly overwhelmed by his circumstances and his desperate, clumsy desire to just tell her how he felt.
Jake was usually hyper-focused during Marvel movies, cataloging the physics of the web-shooters or the structural damage to the buildings. But tonight, he was distracted.
His fingers were tracing a repetitive, rhythmic circle on your upper arm. One, two, three. One, two, three. It was a self-soothing stim. He had been doing it for twenty minutes."Is the volume okay?" you whispered, tilting your head up to look at his profile. The blue and red light from the television painted sharp angles across his jawline."The volume is at level 14. It is optimal," he replied softly.
He didn't look down at you. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen, but his brow was furrowed in deep concentration. He stopped tracing circles on your arm.
"Y/N?" he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest against your side.
"Yeah, Jake?"
"Peter's heart rate is elevated," he observed, watching the animated panic on Tom Holland's face. "He is experiencing a stress response. But there is no immediate physical threat. The elemental monsters are not present in this scene."
"No," you agreed softly. "There are no monsters. He's just stressed because he's trying to talk to MJ."
"Because he wants to give her the black dahlia necklace," Jake stated factually. "Because he likes her."
"Exactly. He likes her, and he's terrified of messing it up. Feelings can cause a stress response too, Jake. Adrenaline. Sweaty palms. A fast heart rate."
Jake went completely still. The slight, rhythmic bouncing of his foot beneath the weighted blanket stopped. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"I have been experiencing a stress response," he said. The admission was quiet, almost a whisper, as if he were confessing a systemic error.
Your heart did a tiny, nervous flip. You shifted slightly under the heavy blanket, turning your body more toward him. "Are you experiencing one right now? Is the environment too loud?"
"No," he said quickly, his grip on your shoulder tightening in a firm, reassuring squeeze. "The environment is safe. The blackout curtains are closed. The blanket is heavy. You are here. The variables are all controlled."
"Then what's causing the stress response, Jakey?"
He finally pulled his eyes away from the television screen. He looked down at you. His dark brown eyes were wide, intensely focused, and swimming with an emotion so raw and heavy it practically took your breath away.
"You," he said simply.
You froze. "Me?"
"Yes," he nodded, his expression deadpan but his eyes betraying a frantic, searching vulnerability. "I have been analyzing the data for weeks. Ever since... ever since the incident at the hobby store. When you kissed me. My baseline changed."
He pulled his hand away from your shoulder, bringing it up to rest flat against the center of his own chest, right over his heart.
"It feels heavy in here," he explained, his voice trembling slightly as he tried to articulate the abstract chaos inside his mind. "But it's not the bad heavy. Itâs not a meltdown. Itâs like... like when I put the weighted blanket on, but itâs on the inside of my ribs."He reached out and carefully took your hand, lacing his long, elegant fingers through yours. He squeezed firmly.
"When you are not here, the static comes back. When you leave to go to your apartment, I count the hours until 8:50 AM when your car pulls into the driveway. I check the window. And when I see you wearing your quiet white shoes... my heart beats very fast. Like Peter Parker." Tears immediately pricked the back of your eyes. The absolute, unvarnished honesty of his words was staggering. There were no games. There was no posturing. He was laying his entire internal processor bare for you to see. "Jake," you breathed, your voice thick.
"I didn't know how to categorize the data," he continued, his thumb rubbing firmly over your knuckles. "I read the diagnostic criteria for anxiety, but the symptoms didn't match perfectly. Because anxiety makes me want to hide. This feeling... makes me want to be exactly where I am. Sitting right next to you. With no gap between the cushions."
He looked back at the TV for a split second, pointing at Peter and MJ, who were now sharing a quiet, charged moment on the screen.
"Peter feels it," Jake said, looking back down at you. "He feels the heavy, fast thing in his chest. And he calls it love." A single tear spilled over your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. Jake saw it. He immediately let go of your hand, his face falling into a mask of panic. "You are leaking. I said the wrong thing. I processed the variable incorrectlyâ"
"No, no, Jake, look at me," you interrupted quickly, reaching up with both hands to cup his face. You held his cheeks firmly, applying the deep pressure he needed to stay grounded in the moment. "I'm not crying because I'm sad. I'm crying because I'm happy. Because it's a good heavy feeling."
He stopped pulling away. He leaned into your palms, his wide eyes searching yours for confirmation. "It is a good variable?"
"Itâs the best variable," you sobbed out a watery laugh, swiping your thumbs under his eyes. "You're saying you love me, Jake?"
"Yes," he said. He didn't hesitate. He didn't stutter. He looked at you with an innocence and a certainty that shattered every doubt you had ever harbored. "I love you. I love your quiet shoes. I love that you know I need the cheese cut into squares. I love that you fought those loud men for me. You are my safe place, Y/N. I love you."
Your heart took a massive, soaring leap against your ribs. You pulled his face down and pressed your lips firmly against his.
It was better than the first kiss. The first kiss had been born of panic and desperation. This kiss was born of absolute, undeniable clarity. Jake responded instantly, his hands coming down to grip your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He kissed you with that same meticulous, focused attention he applied to everything he cared about, learning the exact pressure and rhythm that made you sigh into his mouth.
When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. Jakeâs glasses were slightly askew, and his cheeks were flushed a beautiful, vibrant pink.
"I love you too, Jake," you whispered, resting your forehead against his. "So much. My chest gets heavy when I look at you, too."
He let out a long, shuddering exhale, a massive weight lifting off his broad shoulders. He bumped his nose affectionately against yours. "Optimal," he whispered, a huge, gummy smile breaking across his face. You laughed, tangling your fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. "Since we both have the same data... does this mean you want to be my boyfriend?"
Jake paused. He blinked, processing the terminology. He tilted his head slightly.
"Boyfriend," he repeated slowly. "And you would be my girlfriend."
"If you want to be."
He thought about it. "Labels are useful. They categorize relationships so the boundaries are clear. A girlfriend is a primary, permanent variable."
"I would very much like to be a permanent variable, Jake."
His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. "Yes. I will be your boyfriend. That is... a very pleasing symmetry."
"It's perfect symmetry." He pulled you back against his side, wrapping his arm securely around your shoulders, tighter than before. He dragged the weighted blanket higher up over your chests, cocooning the two of you in the dim, flashing light of the television.
"Y/N?" he asked softly, resting his cheek on the top of your head.
"Yeah, boyfriend?" you teased gently. He hummed, a deep, happy vibration that rattled pleasantly against your ribs. "I do not need to buy you a black dahlia necklace like Peter Parker, do I? Because you do not like jewelry that clicks against the table. And glass is fragile."
You couldn't help the joyous laugh that bubbled out of you. "No, Jake. No glass necklaces required."
"Good," he said practically. "I will buy you more smooth salsa instead. It is a superior investment."
"I'd love nothing more." As Spider-Man swung across the screen, saving the city from chaos, you sat safely in the dark, anchored by the weight of the blanket and the boy who held you. There was no more static. There was no more confusion about where you fit into his life. You were dating Jake Sim, and as he pressed a firm, deliberate kiss to your hairline, you knew absolutely that you had found exactly where you belonged.
The transition from support worker to girlfriend wasn't just an emotional shift; it required a logistical one, too.
Two days after that rainy movie night on the couch, you walked into the drab, fluorescent-lit office of New Horizons Support Services and placed your ID badge on your supervisor's desk. You explained that you could no longer remain objective. You didn't give them the deeply personal details, but you told them enough: the professional boundary had dissolved, and it was no longer ethical for you to clock in and bill the state for the time you spent at the Sim household.
Your supervisor had sighed, citing "high turnover" again, but you didn't care. You walked out of that office feeling lighter than air.
You drove straight to Jakeâs house. When you walked through the front door, you weren't wearing your agency polo. You were just wearing a comfortable sweater and your quiet white Converse. Jake was sitting at the kitchen island, meticulously peeling an apple in one continuous ribbon. Sarah was at the stove, boiling water for pasta. "I quit my job today," you announced softly, standing in the archway.
Sarah froze, the wooden spoon pausing in the pot. She turned to look at you, panic momentarily flashing in her dark eyes. "You... you quit? Y/N, what happened? Did the agencyâ"
"No, Mom," Jake interrupted. He didn't look up from his apple, but his voice was remarkably steady, imbued with a quiet, undeniable pride. The apple peel fell to the cutting board in a perfect spiral. "She did not quit me. She quit the agency. It is a conflict of interest for her to be on the payroll." Sarah blinked, looking back and forth between the two of you. "Conflict of interest?"
Jake finally looked up. He set the paring knife down carefully. He walked over to where you were standing in the archway. He didn't hesitate, didn't check the room for variables. He simply reached out, took your hand in his, and intertwined his long fingers with yours. He gave your hand a firm, grounding squeeze.
"Y/N is my girlfriend now," Jake stated, looking at his mother with absolute clarity. "She is my permanent variable. We are dating."
For a full ten seconds, the kitchen was dead silent. The only sound was the rolling boil of the pasta water.
Then, Sarah dropped the wooden spoon. It clattered against the stove. She covered her mouth with both hands, a loud, wet sob escaping her throat.
"Oh, my God," she wept, the tears spilling over her cheeks in a flood of sheer, unadulterated joy. "Oh, Jakey." She crossed the kitchen in three quick strides and wrapped her arms around both of you, pulling you into a crushing, messy hug. Jake stiffened slightly at the suddenness of the contact, but he didn't pull away. He just patted his motherâs back awkwardly with his free hand, while keeping his other hand locked tightly in yours.
"I am so happy," Sarah cried into your shoulder, squeezing you tight. "I am so, so happy for both of you. Y/N, you... you are family. You were already family, but this... thank you. Thank you for loving him."
"I couldn't stop if I tried, Sarah," you whispered, wiping your own eyes.
From that day on, it wasn't a job anymore. You were just taking care of your love, and he, in his own brilliant, meticulous way, was taking care of you.
As the damp chill of spring gave way to the heavy, golden warmth of summer, Jake bloomed.The boy who used to flinch away from unexpected contact became entirely, wonderfully unabashed about seeking it from you. He didn't care who was watching. If he needed grounding, he took it.
You started going to the local metro parks together. It was a massive sensory step for himâparks were unpredictable. There were off-leash dogs, shouting children, and the sudden, sharp crack of baseball bats from the nearby diamonds. But he wanted to go, because he knew you liked the walking trails.
To manage the input, he wore his noise-canceling headphones, a pair of dark polarized sunglasses to cut the glare of the sun, and, most importantly, he held your hand.
Jakeâs hand-holding wasn't a casual, loose grip. It was a firm, deliberate anchor. He would press the palm of his hand flush against yours, locking your fingers together so tightly you could feel his pulse beating against your skin.
"Deep pressure," he would murmur, adjusting his grip as you walked down the shaded, tree-lined paths. "It keeps the static away. You are my tether."
"I've got you, Spidey," you would smile, swinging your joined arms gently.
One particularly warm afternoon in late June, a golden retriever slipped its leash and came bounding toward you on the trail, barking excitedly. Before you could even react, Jake stepped directly in front of you, placing his body between you and the dog. He was terrified of loud, unpredictable animals, his shoulders hitching up to his ears, but his first instinct was to shield you.
When the owner ran up apologizing and leashed the dog, Jake let out a long, shaky breath."You stepped in front of me," you said softly, rubbing his tense back as he watched the dog walk away.
"I am the boyfriend," he stated, his voice trembling slightly from the adrenaline, but laced with a fierce, protective logic. "The boyfriend protects the girlfriend from biological anomalies. It is in the protocol."
You had pulled him down by the strings of his hoodie and kissed him right there on the trail, surrounded by the buzzing cicadas and the summer heat. He had melted into the kiss instantly, his hands finding your waist, the fear of the dog entirely overridden by the overwhelming, consuming input of your lips against his.
Summer evenings in Jake's backyard became your sanctuary.
When the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in bruises of purple, pink, and deep, saturated orange, the temperature would drop to a comfortable coolness. The neighborhood would quiet down, and the sensory input of the world would finally dial back to a manageable hum.
One evening in July, you had brought a cheap, plastic bottle of bubbles from the grocery store.Jake had been sitting on the patio chair, watching the fireflies begin to blink in the grass. You sat on the grass in front of him, unscrewed the cap, and blew a stream of bubbles into the warm evening air.Jakeâs eyes went wide. He watched the translucent spheres float upward, catching the dying light of the sunset.
"They are perfectly spherical," he breathed, leaning forward, utterly captivated. "Surface tension forces the liquid into the shape with the least surface area. It is... mathematically flawless."
"They're pretty, aren't they?" you smiled, blowing another stream toward him.
He reached out and caught one on the tip of his finger. It didn't pop immediately. He brought it closer to his face, his dark eyes reflecting the shimmering, rainbow-colored surface of the soap film."Thin-film interference," he whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The light waves are bouncing off the inner and outer boundaries of the soap film. They are interfering with each other to create the colors. Magenta. Cyan. Yellow. It is chemistry and physics working together."
Pop. The bubble vanished, leaving a tiny drop of soapy water on his skin. He laughed. It was a rare, full-bellied sound that bubbled up from his chest, pure and bright.
"Do it again," he requested, his eyes shining.
You spent an hour blowing bubbles for him. He didn't just watch them; he analyzed them. He tried to catch them without popping them. He tracked their flight paths, calculating the wind currents. And every time he laughed, your heart swelled until you thought it might burst.He looked so beautiful in the fading light. He was stripped of all his anxieties, all his fears about fitting into the "normal" world. He was just a brilliant, joyful man marveling at the physics of a soap bubble.
When the bottle was empty, he slid off the patio chair and sat on the grass beside you. He pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head on your shoulder.
"That was a superior activity," he murmured, his breath warm against your neck. "The visual input was highly stimulating, but not overwhelming. It was... soft."
"We can get more tomorrow," you promised, resting your cheek against the top of his fluffy hair.
"Yes. But only the brand with the pink wand. The fluid viscosity was excellent."
You laughed, wrapping your arms around his chest and pulling him backward until you were both lying flat on the cool grass, looking up at the first stars pricking through the twilight. He rolled onto his side, throwing a heavy leg over yours and burying his face in your chest.
"I love you, Y/N," he whispered into the fabric of your shirt, his voice drowsy and content.
"I love you too, Jakey."
As the summer wore on, your integration into his daily life became seamless. You didn't just watch him build LEGOs anymore; you built them with him.
It was a profound level of trust. Jake was highly territorial over his LEGO sets. They were his system of order in a chaotic world. But one rainy August afternoon, he pushed the massive instruction booklet for the LEGO Rivendell set toward the middle of the coffee table.
"You may assemble the roof tiles," he announced, handing you a plastic sorting tray filled with hundreds of tiny, earth-toned pieces.
You took the tray, deeply honored. "Are you sure? I don't want to mess up the symmetry."
"I have observed your fine motor skills," he stated pragmatically, clicking a wall piece into place. "You are careful. You do not force the bricks if they resist. And... I like seeing your hands next to mine."
You spent four hours sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor. You learned the specific, satisfying snap of a perfectly placed tile. You learned not to talk when he was counting studs. It was an intimate, quiet language you developed together.
When you finished the Elven council ring, Jake stopped. He looked at the structure, then looked at you."We built this," he said, the realization settling heavily on him. "Together as a unit."
"We make a good team."He reached out and traced the edge of the plastic roof you had assembled. "My life used to be a solo build. I did not want anyone to touch my pieces because they always knocked them over. But you... you reinforce the structure. You make the build stronger."By the time the leaves began to turn the vibrant reds and oranges of October, months had passed since the kiss.And with the passage of time came the deepest intimacy of all: spending the night.
The first time it happened, it hadn't been planned. You had been watching a marathon of animated movies, and the heavy rain outside had lulled you to sleep on the sofa, your head pillowed on his chest.
When you woke up, it was 2:00 AM. Jake was still awake. He was sitting perfectly still, not moving a muscle, his arm wrapped tightly around you.
"Jake?" you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. "Why didn't you wake me up? Your arm has to be numb."
"My arm is numb," he confirmed softly. "But you were in the REM cycle of sleep. Your breathing was deep. Interrupting the REM cycle causes cognitive fatigue. And... I liked the weight of you. It is better than the blanket."
You had smiled sleepily, stretching your stiff back. "I should probably drive home."
Jakeâs grip on your waist tightened instantly. His heart rate spiked against your cheek.
"The roads are slick," he said, his voice rising in that familiar, anxious pitch. "The visibility is reduced by 60%. The statistical probability of an accident is elevated."
He looked down at you, his brown eyes wide and pleading in the dim light of the living room. "Please do not drive. The variables are unsafe. My bed is... it is a king size. There is room. You can sleep there."
You hadn't hesitated. "Okay. I'll stay."
Sleeping in Jakeâs bed was a sensory experience in itself. His mattress was firm. His sheets were 100% Egyptian cotton, washed in unscented detergent because artificial lavender made his nose itch.
When you climbed into the bed, wearing a spare oversized Spider-Man t-shirt he had given you, he immediately pulled his heavy, fifteen-pound grey weighted blanket over both of you."Is the weight acceptable?" he asked anxiously, hovering over you. "It can be crushing to neurotypical nervous systems."
"It feels like a hug," you assured him, settling into the pillows.
Jake climbed in beside you. He didn't leave a gap. He closed the distance immediately, turning on his side and wrapping himself around you like an octopus. He pulled your back flush against his chest, throwing his heavy arm over your waist and tangling his long legs entirely with yours.
He buried his face in the back of your neck. He took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent of your shampoo.
"Optimal," he whispered into your skin.
You reached down and laced your fingers through his where they rested on your stomach. "Goodnight, Jake."
"Goodnight, Y/N."
You learned that Jake didn't move in his sleep. Once he found his anchoring position against you, he was dead weight. He slept deeply and heavily, his breathing a steady, soothing rhythm against your spine.
Waking up to him was even better.The first time you opened your eyes in his bed, the morning sun was filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. Jake was already awake.He was propped up on one elbow, his chin resting on his hand, just staring at you. His hair was an absolute bird's nest of fluffy, chaotic curls sticking up in every direction. His face was soft, relaxed, completely devoid of the tension he carried during the day.
"You have a freckle on your left eyelid," he whispered, his voice deep and raspy from sleep. "I never noticed it before. It is very small. Exactly 1.5 millimeters."
You smiled lazily, reaching up to push a stray curl out of his eyes. "Good morning to you too, Spidey."
"You look different when you sleep," he observed, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Your facial muscles lose their tension. You look very peaceful. It made my chest feel heavy again. The good heavy."
"I was peaceful because I was sleeping next to you," you murmured, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt until his chest rested against yours.
He hummed happily, nuzzling his nose against your jaw. Waking up together became a staple of your weekends. You learned that he needed exactly ten minutes of quiet transition time before speaking about complex topics. You learned that he liked it when you traced light patterns on his bare back to help him wake up his sensory receptors.You learned that you had never, ever felt a love like this before.
It was a love completely stripped of games, manipulation, and societal expectations. It was a love built on raw honesty, calculated variables, and an intense, unwavering loyalty.
Now, exactly six months since that rainy New Year's Eve, you were sitting in the living room on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
The Thanksgiving break was approaching, and the air outside was biting and crisp. Inside, the fireplace was crackling.
Jake was sitting on the floor, leaning back between your legs as you sat on the couch. This was his favorite position. He called it "the grounding chair." You were running your fingers slowly and rhythmically through his dark hair, scratching gently at his scalp.He had his eyes closed, practically purring.
"The tactile input is superior," he murmured, his head tilting back against your knee to give you better access. You smiled, looking down at him. He was beautiful. He was so incredibly bright. You thought about the file you had read a year ago. Difficulty establishing rapport. Rigid. High support needs. They had missed everything that mattered. They missed the way his mind was a kaleidoscope of logic and empathy. They missed the way he noticed the iridescent colors in a soap bubble. They missed the fierce, protective way he would step in front of a strange dog for the person he loved.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, opening his eyes and looking up at you upside down."I'm thinking about you," you said softly, cupping his face in your hands.
"Is the data positive?" he asked, a small, teasing lilt in his voice. He was learning how to joke with you, understanding the cadence of playful banter.
"The data is overwhelmingly positive," you assured him, leaning down to kiss him upside down, like Spider-Man.
He smiled against your lips. He reached up, his long fingers wrapping gently around your wrists."I am operating at 100% battery," Jake whispered, looking at you with those deep, liquid brown eyes that held his entire, beautiful soul. "And you are the power source. I love you, Y/N."
"I love you too, Jake. Forever."
"Forever is a mathematical concept denoting infinite time," he stated, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I accept those parameters."
He closed his eyes and leaned back against you, completely at peace, and you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that your parameters were perfectly, infinitely aligned.
The seven-month mark of your relationship with Jake, the world outside the house had grown cold, brittle, and gray. But inside the house, the atmosphere was a saturated, brilliant gold.
You knew the exact rhythm of his breathing when he was relaxed; you knew the precise weight of the fifteen-pound blanket; you knew that when the world got too loud, you were the quiet room he retreated into.
It was a Friday night. The wind was howling outside, rattling the windowpanes with a chaotic, unpredictable rhythm that would have usually sent Jake into a spiral of sensory defense. But tonight, the blackout curtains were drawn tight, sealing the unpredictable elements away. The living room was bathed in the warm, colorful glow of the television screen.
You were having a movie night. It was a comedic, wildly colorful animation film about a chaotic family trying to save the world from a robot apocalypse. Jake had initially been skeptical of the plot's disregard for basic physics, but he had quickly become captivated by the vibrant, symmetrical animation style and the logical, deadpan humor of the familyâs pug.For the last hour, you had been spooning on the sofa.
It was a position that had required careful calibration over the last few months. Jakeâs sensory processing meant that light, feathery touches felt like crawling insects on his skin. But deep, firm pressure was his anchor. So, he lay behind you, his broad chest pressed flush and firm against your back. His heavy arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his hand splayed flat against your stomach, grounding you both. His long legs were tangled with yours beneath the plush velvet blanket.
He was incredibly warm, a human furnace radiating a steady, comforting heat through his vintage, tagless t-shirt.On the screen, the animated pug did something ridiculous, and a bright, bubbly laugh escaped your lips. Behind you, Jake laughed âa bright, resonant vibration in his chest that you could feel all the way down your spine. It was his version of a laugh, a happy, contented sound that meant his battery was operating at optimal capacity."The canineâs center of gravity is entirely disproportionate to its mass," Jake murmured into the shell of your ear, his breath sending a pleasant shiver down your neck. "It is impossible for it to run that fast."
"It's a cartoon, Jakey," you smiled, tilting your head back slightly to rest against his shoulder. "Physics take a holiday in cartoons."
"Physics never take a holiday," he corrected softly, his nose brushing against your hair. "But I will suspend my disbelief because the color palette is soothing."
You relaxed further into his hold, feeling utterly, completely safe. But after another ten minutes of lying in the exact same position, biology demanded a shift. Your left arm, which was tucked beneath your body and wedged against the cushions, was beginning to tingle uncomfortably.
"Jake," you whispered, squirming just a fraction. "My arm is falling asleep. The nerve is pinched."
"Paresthesia," he noted immediately, his grip on your waist loosening just enough to allow you to move. "You need to restore the blood flow."
"Yeah. Just give me a second."
You pushed backward against him to free your trapped arm, using your hips to gain leverage against the cushions. You shifted your weight, pressing your backside firmly against his lap to brace yourself as you pulled your arm free and rolled your shoulders. As you pushed your hips back into him, Jake made a sound you had never heard before. It wasn't his happy, vibrating hum. It wasn't the sharp, panicked gasp of a sensory overload. It was a low, breathy whimper that hitched in the back of his throatâa sound that was raw, involuntary, and entirely instinctual.
You froze. Before you could ask if you had accidentally hurt him, you felt it. Pressed flush against the soft curve of your backside, right through the fabric of your sweatpants and his soft flannel pajamas, was a distinct, solid ridge of heat.
He was hard.For a microsecond, the living room was dead silent, save for the cartoon explosions on the TV screen. You stopped breathing, your mind racing to process the new variable. Jakeâs body, however, didn't wait for his logical brain to catch up.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming biological imperative, Jakeâs hips twitched. He pushed forward, pressing that hard, aching heat deliberately into your backside, seeking the friction.Another soft, ragged moan escaped his parted lips, hot against your neck. His heavy arm, which was still wrapped around your waist, suddenly tightened, his large hand gripping your hip with a frantic, desperate pressure.
"Jake?" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, erratic flutter against your ribs.
He jerked slightly, as if your voice had snapped him out of a trance. The physical pressure against your back remained, but his breathing had turned shallow and erratic.
"I... I apologize," he stammered, his voice thick and wavering. He tried to pull his hips back, a sudden wave of panic radiating from his tense muscles. "I did not calculate that reaction. The friction... when you moved... the sensory input was massive. It bypassed my primary processor." You didn't let him pull away. You reached down and placed your hand firmly over his where it gripped your hip, anchoring him to you.
"Jake, it's okay," you said softly, keeping your voice low and steady. "You don't have to apologize. It's just biology. It's a natural variable."
"My heart rate is elevated to 110 beats per minute," he whispered, his chest heaving against your back. "The blood flow has heavily redirected. The physical sensation is... it is loud, Y/N. It is very loud."
"Is it a bad loud?" you asked carefully. "Is it overwhelming like a meltdown, or... is it something else?" He went still, analyzing the internal data. He pressed his forehead against the back of your shoulder, taking a shaky breath.
"It is not a meltdown," he confessed, his voice dropping to a gravelly, intimate register. "It does not feel like the static. It feels like... gravity. Like I am being pulled toward the center of the earth. It is a very heavy, concentrated need. I want..." He swallowed hard. "I want to press against you again. The pressure felt... optimal."
Your pulse skyrocketed. You had navigated countless sensory challenges together, but this was uncharted territory. Over the last seven months, your physical intimacy had been limited to deep kisses, fierce hugs, and the quiet comfort of sleeping tangled together. You had let him set the pace, knowing that the intense vulnerability of sex could easily turn into a sensory nightmare if not handled with absolute care and trust.
But right now, his body was telling him what he needed, and he was trusting you enough to vocalize it.
You slowly turned over in his arms, shifting until you were facing him on the sofa.
His dark eyes were wide, blown out, and swimming with a chaotic mix of desire, confusion, and vulnerable trust. His chest was rising and falling rapidly under his t-shirt. His hair was messy, falling into his eyes, making him look devastatingly beautiful in the flickering light of the television.
"You can press against me, Jake," you whispered, reaching up to cup his face in both hands, applying the firm, grounding pressure he loved. "If you want to. We can explore this data together. But only if you feel safe."
He leaned into your palms, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "I always feel safe with you. You are my permanent variable."
"Do you want to turn the TV off?" you asked. "To reduce the audio-visual input?"
He opened his eyes and nodded once, a jerky, decisive motion. "Yes. The flashing lights are distracting. I only want to focus on one input. I want to focus on you."
You reached for the remote on the coffee table and clicked the power button. The room was instantly plunged into a soft, velvety darkness, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of the streetlamp filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains. The silence in the room was profound, amplifying the sound of your mingled breathing.
"Is the dark okay?" you murmured, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones.
"The dark is good," he rasped, his hands sliding from your waist to grip your thighs. "It limits the variables. I can only feel."
"Okay," you breathed. "We're going to go very slow, Jake. If anything feels like too muchâif the texture is wrong, or the pressure changes, or the static gets too loudâyou just squeeze my hand three times. The emergency exit. And we stop immediately. Deal?"
"Deal," he agreed, his voice trembling slightly with anticipation. "Three squeezes."
You moved closer, swinging one leg over his hips so you were straddling him on the wide cushions of the sofa. You settled your weight down carefully.
The moment your center pressed directly against the hard ridge behind the zipper of his flannel pants, Jake let out a sharp, fractured gasp. His head fell back against the armrest, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands clamped down hard on your hips.
"Deep pressure," he groaned, his hips bucking upward instinctively to meet your weight. "Y/N... the pressure is... oh."
"I know, baby," you whispered, leaning down to press your lips to the erratic pulse beating wildly at the base of his throat. "I'm right here. Just feel it."
You began to move, establishing a slow, rhythmic rock against him. You knew better than to be unpredictable. He needed a pattern. Forward, back. Press, release. You created a physical metronome with your body, allowing his sensory processor to latch onto the predictability of the friction. Jakeâs response was breathtaking. Stripped of his anxieties and grounded by the heavy weight of your body, he surrendered completely to the sensation. His hands roamed over your back, mapping the curve of your spine with firm, deliberate strokes. He was learning the topography of your body in a whole new way. "I need..." he panted, opening his eyes to look up at you. "The barrier. The fabric is creating a secondary friction that is confusing my receptors. I want... skin."
"Okay," you said, your own voice thick with desire. "Let's remove the barriers."
You sat up, reaching for the hem of your sweater. You pulled it over your head and tossed it onto the floor, leaving you in just your bra. Jakeâs dark eyes widened, tracing the exposed skin of your chest and stomach. He didn't reach out with a light, tentative touch; he placed his large, warm palms flat against your ribcage, anchoring himself to your warmth.
"Symmetrical," he whispered, a breathless awe in his voice. "You are structurally perfect."
You smiled, a rush of pure affection warming your blood. You reached down and grabbed the hem of his vintage t-shirt, pulling it up and over his fluffy hair. His chest was broad and pale, his muscles tense and defined under the amber light.
You leaned down, pressing your bare chest flush against his.
The skin-to-skin contact was electric. Jake let out a long, shuddering sigh, wrapping his arms around you in a crushing, desperate hug.
"The thermal transfer is optimal," he murmured into your hair, his heart hammering against your breasts. "You feel like... you feel like the sun, Y/N."
"You feel amazing, Jake."
You reached down, your fingers fumbling with the waistband of your sweatpants. You shimmied them down your legs, kicking them off the edge of the sofa. Jake followed suit, his hands shaking slightly as he shoved his flannel pajama pants and boxers down, kicking them away with a clumsy urgency.
When you settled back over him, entirely bare against him, the reality of the moment hit him. It was his first time. Twenty-four years of guarding his body against a world that was too loud, too bright, and too sharp, and he was opening all the doors for you.
"Y/N," he whispered, his hands gripping your waist tightly. Panic flickered in the depths of his brown eyes, a sudden spike in his data processing. "I do not have the manual for this. I have read the biological mechanics online, but... the practical application... what if I malfunction? What if my rhythm is inefficient?"
You stopped moving. You cupped his face again, bringing your forehead down to rest against his."There is no manual, Jake," you promised him, repeating the words you had told him months ago when he felt broken. "There is no malfunction. This isn't a test with a pass or fail grade. This is just you and me, talking to each other in a different way. You just have to tell me what feels good, and Iâll tell you what feels good. We write our own code."
He blinked, processing the logic. "We write our own code," he echoed.
"Exactly. And I promise you, everything you do is perfect to me."
He let out a shaky breath, the panic subsiding. "Okay. Initiate the sequence."
You reached down, guiding his thick, incredibly hot length to your entrance. He was trembling beneath you, a fine, high-frequency vibration of pure anticipation.
"I'm going to go very slow," you whispered, locking your eyes with his. "Deep pressure. Ready?"
"Ready."
You sank down.The entry was a slow, deliberate stretch. You took him inch by inch, allowing his body to process the immense, overwhelming sensation of being enveloped.When you were seated fully at the base, you stopped.
Jakeâs reaction was instantaneous and profound. His eyes rolled back slightly, his jaw dropping open in a silent shout. His hands flew up, not to your hips, but to your back, pulling you down into a crushing, desperate embrace. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his entire body going rigid as he absorbed the data.
"Jake?" you whispered, your hands stroking his hair. "Are you okay? Is it too much?"
He shook his head frantically against your collarbone.
"No," he gasped, a wet, fractured sound tearing from his throat. "It is not too much. It is... everything. It is all the data in the universe at once, but it is organized. It is quiet. Y/N, you are so quiet."
He meant it as the highest compliment his brain could formulate. You were the only thing in his life that silenced the chaotic noise of the world.
He didn't wait for you to establish the rhythm. His instincts, buried under layers of logic and sensory defense, roared to life. He surged upward, his hips snapping off the cushions, driving himself deep inside you. You cried out, a loud, breathless sound of pleasure that echoed in the dark room. The sound was a positive variable for him. It fueled him.He began to thrust. It wasn't clumsy, and it wasn't hesitant. It was a firm, relentless, driving rhythm. He found the mathematical perfection of the friction and locked onto it. Up, down. Press, release. He held your hips in a vice grip, ensuring the angle never deviated, maximizing the sensory input for both of you.
"Jake... oh my god, Jake," you moaned, your hands bracing on his broad shoulders as you rode the incredible wave of his momentum.
"Is the depth acceptable?" he panted, his brow furrowed in intense concentration, sweat glistening on his forehead. "Is the velocity optimal?"
"It's perfect," you gasped, leaning down to capture his lips in a fierce, messy kiss. "Don't stop. You feel so good."
He growled into your mouthâa primal, masculine sound that sent a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. The logical, quiet young man who meticulously sorted LEGO bricks was completely subsumed by the overwhelming, consuming fire of his love for you. The pleasure began to build, a tightening coil of heat that radiated outward. The sensory input in the room narrowed down to just himâthe smell of his clean sweat, the sound of his ragged breathing, the solid, heavy impact of his hips against yours. "I'm going to fall," he whimpered suddenly, breaking the kiss. His rhythm became erratic, frantic. His eyes squeezed shut, his head tossing back against the armrest. "Y/N, my system is overloading. The pressure is too high. It's too high!" He wasn't panicking; he was climaxing.
"Let it overload, Jakey," you cried out, feeling your own climax rushing forward to meet his. "I've got you! Just let go!"
With a final, desperate, upward surge, Jake broke.
A high, fractured whimper tore from his throatâa sound of absolute, overwhelming release. He froze, his body bowing upward off the couch, every muscle pulled taut as a bowstring. He buried himself as deeply inside you as physically possible, his hands digging into your lower back to anchor you to him as he flooded you with his warmth.
The intensity of his release pushed you right over the edge. You shattered around him, your internal muscles spasming and milking him dry, crying out his name into the quiet, dark room.For a long, endless minute, neither of you moved. You lay collapsed against his chest, your breathing ragged and out of sync.
Slowly, the tension drained out of Jake's body. He slumped back against the cushions, his arms wrapping limply but securely around your waist.
You lifted your head, your hair falling in a messy curtain around your face, and looked down at him.His eyes were closed. His chest was heaving. And tracing down the sides of his flushed, sweat-dampened cheeks were two steady streams of tears.
Your heart constricted in a sudden panic. You reached down, wiping your thumb across his cheek. "Jake? Baby, what's wrong? Why are you crying? Did it hurt? Was the static too loud?"He opened his eyes. They were bloodshot, wet, and incredibly bright.He looked up at you, reaching a trembling hand up to cover yours where it rested on his cheek. He turned his face into your palm, pressing a kiss to your skin.
"It didn't hurt," he whispered, a watery, brilliant smile breaking across his face. "The static is completely gone. There is no noise left in my head at all."
"Then why are you leaking?" you asked softly, using his terminology.
"Because my capacity is full," he explained, his voice thick with a profound, overwhelming happiness. "I processed the data of the physical connection, and I combined it with the data of my emotional attachment to you. The resulting sum was larger than my internal storage. It had to spill over."
He let out a shaky, joyful laugh, pulling you back down until your ear was resting right over his racing heart."I am crying because I am exactly where I belong," he murmured into your hair, wrapping his arms around you like a shield. "You are my favorite variable, Y/N. You are the only math that makes sense."You closed your eyes, a few happy tears of your own slipping onto his chest, and held your permanent variable as tightly as you could.
EpilogueÂ
The two years following that rainy autumn night unfolded with a rhythm that was entirely your own. Your relationship with Jake wasn't built on grand, unpredictable gestures or spontaneous cross-country road trips. It was built on the quiet, steady accretion of reliable data. It was built on Tuesday grilled cheese, the specific hum of the dryer on Thursdays, and the absolute certainty that when the world outside grew too sharp, you were each other's soft landing.
The seasons cycled âthe oppressive, humid summers fading into the stark, brilliant colors of autumn, giving way to the biting cold of winter, and melting back into the muddy hope of spring. Through it all, Jake continued to bloom.
He still wore his Spider-Man pajama pants. He still organized his LEGOs by size, function, and color. He still required a predictable morning routine to conserve his daily battery. He was still undeniably, beautifully Jake. But the fear that had once defined his interactions with the world had largely dissipated. He was anchored. He had found where he fit.
It was a Saturday morning in late May. The air was warm, and the morning sun was filtering through the kitchen windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air.
You were sitting at the kitchen island, wearing one of Jake's oversized grey hoodies, nursing a mug of coffee. You were twenty-five now, working full-time at a local community center. Your imposter syndrome hadn't vanished completely, but you no longer felt like a fraud playing at being an adult. You had a handle on your life, mostly.
Jake was standing at the counter, completely absorbed in the meticulous preparation of his breakfast. Two scrambled eggs (uniform yellow), three strips of bacon (cut into one-inch squares). "The humidity is rising," Jake noted, spearing a piece of bacon with his fork. He didn't look away from his plate. "It is currently at 68%. By mid-afternoon, it will likely exceed my comfortable threshold. My hair will experience frizz."
"We can stay inside," you offered, taking a sip of your coffee. "We have the new Star Wars puzzle. The 3,000-piece one."
Jake paused mid-chew. He swallowed and took a deliberate sip of his water.
"No," he said, finally looking up at you. His dark brown eyes were serious, but there was a subtle, nervous energy thrumming beneath the surface. He was tapping his left foot against the linoleumâa sign of processing complex variables. "I have calculated a different trajectory for today. I require a change in routine."
You lowered your mug, intrigued. A voluntary change in routine was rare. "Oh? What's the new variable?"
"I would like to visit the city Park," he announced, his posture straightening slightly. "The one with the botanical gardens. The rhododendrons are currently in peak bloom. They are highly saturated in color."
"The Park on a Saturday?" you asked, verifying the data. "It might be crowded, Jakey. High density."
"I am aware," he said, reaching up to adjust the collar of his t-shirt. "I have packed my noise-canceling headphones. I have assessed my battery level. I am operating at 98% capacity. I believe I can manage the input. It is... important."
There was a weight to the word important that made your heart skip a tiny beat. You had learned to trust his self-assessments. If he said he could handle it, he meant it.
"Okay," you smiled warmly. "Let's go see the rhododendrons."
The drive to the Park was filled with the familiar, comforting silence of Jake's lo-fi hip hop playlist. He sat in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping a complex rhythm against his thigh. He was wearing his favorite soft, navy blue hoodie and a pair of clean, comfortable jeans.When you arrived at the park, it was, as predicted, relatively busy. Families were walking dogs, joggers were navigating the paved trails, and children were shouting near the playground.Jake immediately deployed his headphones, pulling them over his ears to muffle the auditory chaos. He reached out with his right hand, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, and waited.You slipped your hand into his, intertwining your fingers tightly. Deep pressure. The anchor.
He squeezed your hand three times. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I love you.
You squeezed back three times.
I love you too.
His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and together, you began to walk down the main path toward the botanical gardens. The gardens were a stark contrast to the rest of the park. They were quieter, designed for contemplation rather than recreation. The air smelled of damp earth and blooming flowers.Jake led the way, navigating the winding stone paths with purpose. He stopped occasionally to examine a specific leaf structure or to identify a flower species under his breath."The Fibonacci sequence is evident in the petal arrangement of the Echinacea purpurpea," he murmured, pointing to a purple coneflower. "Nature relies heavily on mathematical efficiency."
"It's beautiful," you agreed, leaning against his side.He guided you deeper into the gardens, away from the main thoroughfare, until you reached a small, secluded clearing. In the center of the clearing was a large, ornate wooden gazebo, surrounded on all sides by massive, blooming rhododendron bushes. The flowers were a blinding, saturated magenta.The clearing was entirely empty.
Jake stopped walking. He pulled his headphones down so they rested around his neck.Â
The sudden exposure to the ambient noise of the park made him blink rapidly for a second, but he didn't put them back on.
He turned to face you.
His breathing had grown shallow. You could feel the slight tremor in his hand, which was still gripping yours tightly.
"Jake?" you asked softly, recognizing the physical signs of a stress response. "Is it too loud? Do you need your headphones?"
"No," he said, his voice hitching slightly. "The noise is acceptable. The variables are within manageable parameters."
He let go of your hand. You frowned, a sudden spike of anxiety hitting your chest. Jake never let go of your hand in a public place. It was his primary grounding mechanism.
He took a step back, putting a careful two feet of space between you. He reached his hands into the front pocket of his navy hoodie. He was searching for something.
"Y/N," he began, his voice taking on the formal, factual cadence he used when he was nervous. "I have spent the last two years analyzing the data of our cohabitation. I have observed the statistical probability of a successful, long-term human partnership."Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart began to hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird."The data indicates," Jake continued, his dark eyes locked intensely on yours, refusing to look away, "that relationships are prone to entropy. They break down due to poor communication, mismatched variables, and a lack of systemic maintenance."
He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. He pulled his hands out of his hoodie pocket. He was holding a small, square object made of dark, polished wood. It wasn't a standard velvet jewelry box. It looked distinctly handmade.
"However," he said, his voice softening, the clinical distance dropping away to reveal the raw, beating heart beneath. "My internal processor has run the simulation a thousand times. And in every single simulation, the variable that prevents the entropy... is you."
He took a step forward, closing the gap between you. He didn't drop to one kneeâhe knew that societal conventions didn't dictate the validity of an action, and the ground was dampâbut he held the wooden box out between you."You do not try to rewrite my code," Jake whispered, his eyes shining with an overwhelming, profound sincerity. "You learned my language. You understand that the static is loud, and you are the only thing that makes it quiet. You eat burnt cookies, and you do not make fun of my Spider-Man pajamas, and you provide optimal thermal transfer when I am cold."A tear slipped free from your eyelashes, tracking hotly down your cheek. You couldn't speak. You could barely breathe."I do not possess the vocabulary to adequately express the magnitude of my attachment to you," he admitted, his hands trembling slightly as he gripped the small wooden box. "But I have learned that human tradition utilizes symbolic gestures to denote permanent, primary variables."
He opened the wooden box. Inside, resting on a bed of dark blue velvet, was a ring. It wasn't a massive, flashy diamond. It was a simple, elegant band of polished titanium, inlaid with a thin, continuous stripe of dark, starry lapis lazuli.
"I selected titanium," Jake explained, his voice gaining confidence as he presented the data. "It has the highest strength-to-weight ratio of any metallic element. It is incredibly resilient. It will not warp or degrade. And the lapis lazuli is blue. You are my protective blue aura." He looked up from the ring, his gaze finding yours. The puppy-dog innocence was still there, but it was anchored by the unwavering conviction of a man who knew exactly what he wanted."Y/N," he said, his voice clear and resonant. "Will you agree to be my permanent, legally recognized variable? Will you marry me?" A sob tore from your throatâa loud, messy, uncalculated sound of pure joy. You didn't answer with words initially. You couldn't. You closed the remaining distance between you, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his face down to yours. You kissed him with every ounce of love, gratitude, and fierce devotion you possessed.
Jake gasped against your lips, his hands instantly finding your waist, the wooden box clutched safely in one fist. He kissed you back eagerly, grounding himself in the familiar, perfect pressure of your touch.When you finally pulled away, you were both breathless. You rested your forehead against his, your tears mixing with the warmth of his skin."Yes," you whispered, your voice thick and wobbly. "Yes, Jake. A million times, yes. I will be your permanent variable."His face broke into a blinding, full-teeth smileâthe kind of smile that reached his eyes and crinkled the corners. He let out a long, shuddering sigh of absolute relief."Optimal," he breathed. "The simulation was accurate." He carefully extracted the ring from the wooden box. He took your left hand, his fingers steady now, and slid the titanium band onto your ring finger. It fit perfectly. He had likely measured your finger while you were sleeping, calculating the exact circumference."It's perfect, Jakey," you sobbed, looking at the band. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"It is mathematically precise," he agreed, admiring his handiwork.
He pulled you back against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You buried your face in his navy hoodie, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of unscented detergent and the crisp spring air.
The wedding, like your relationship, was exactly what you both needed it to be: small, controlled, and deeply personal.There was no massive reception hall filled with hundreds of strangers. There was no loud DJ blasting bass-heavy music. There were no flashing strobe lights.Instead, six months later, you stood in the backyard of the beige two-story house. The late October air was crisp and smelled of fallen leaves. The trees surrounding the yard were ablaze in oranges and reds.
Sarah had spent weeks transforming the backyard into a quiet, intimate sanctuary. Fairy lightsâwarm white, non-flickeringâwere strung through the branches of the old oak tree. The grass was meticulously trimmed.
There were only twelve guests. Your parents, your brother, Sarah, and a few close friends who understood the rules of the environment.
You wore a simple, elegant white dress with no scratchy lace or heavy, restrictive corsetry. You wore your new white Converse sneakers beneath the hem.
Jake stood at the end of the short aisle. He wasn't wearing a suit. He had tried one on during the planning phase, but the stiff collar and the tight constraints of the jacket had sent him into a near-meltdown.Instead, he wore a dark navy blue cashmere sweater over a collared shirt, and dark, comfortable trousers. He looked incredibly handsome, comfortable in his own skin, and entirely at peace.He was wearing his noise-canceling headphones around his neck, a comforting weight, but he didn't need to turn them on. The environment was safe.When you walked down the aisle, your eyes locked onto his. He wasn't looking at the ground. He wasn't looking at your shoes. He was looking directly at your face, his brown eyes shining with unshed tears.
He held his hand out to you as you approached.
You took it, feeling the immediate, deep pressure of his grip.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I love you.
The ceremony was short. The officiant, a close family friend, spoke softly and clearly.
When it came time for the vows, you hadn't written traditional promises. You had written your own code."Jake," you said, your voice steady, holding both of his hands in yours. "I promise to always be your quiet place. I promise to never mix the eggs with the bacon. I promise to always check the weather for humidity spikes, and to always have your noise-canceling headphones charged."
Jake smiled, a single tear slipping down his cheek."I promise to fiercely protect your routines," you continued, your own vision blurring. "Because your routines are what allow your brilliant, beautiful mind to thrive. I promise to love you, exactly as you are, in every variable, in every simulation, for the rest of our lives."
Jake took a deep, shaky breath. He didn't have notes. He had memorized his data.
"Y/N," he began, his voice carrying the deep, resonant timbre that always grounded you. "Before I met you, the world was a chaotic, unmanageable input. I survived by building walls and closing doors. You did not try to break the walls down. You simply sat outside them, in your quiet shoes, until I realized I wanted to open the door."
He squeezed your hands, his thumb brushing over the titanium ring on your finger.
"You are the most statistically improbable, incredibly fortunate anomaly of my life," he said, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that defied any clinical diagnosis. "I promise to provide optimal thermal transfer when you are cold. I promise to eat the burnt cookies so you do not feel inadequate. I promise to step in front of the unpredictable variables to shield you. I promise to be your permanent, primary partner, until the entropy of the universe consumes us both."
There wasn't a dry eye in the small gathering. Sarah was openly weeping into a tissue, clutching your motherâs hand.
When the officiant pronounced you husband and wife, Jake didn't hesitate. He pulled you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms around your waist, and kissed you with the firm, deliberate passion of a man who had finally found his permanent place in the world.The small crowd cheered softly, clapping their handsâa muted, respectful applause that didn't startle him.The reception was a dinner held in the living room and kitchen. The food was carefully curated. There was a macaroni and cheese bar (no mixing required), a tray of perfectly uniform, sharp cheddar cheese cubes, and a massive bowl of smooth, roasted tomato bisque, a roast Sarah made, a salad.For dessert, there wasn't a traditional, multi-tiered wedding cake.Instead, there was a large platter of sugar cookies and other desserts. The cookies were cut into precise geometric shapesâstars and Stegosauruses. They were baked to a perfect, light golden brown.Jake stood by the dessert table, holding a star cookie. He looked across the room at you. You were talking to your brother, laughing at something he had said.Jake walked over to you. He didn't care that you were mid-conversation. He stepped up behind you, wrapping his arm securely around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
"Deep pressure," he murmured into your ear, resting his chin on your shoulder.
"Always," you smiled, leaning back into his solid warmth.
Your brother smiled warmly at the two of you and excused himself to get more macaroni and cheese.Jake held the star cookie out in front of you.
"The bake on these is optimal," he noted, his voice a low, happy rumble against your back. "The structural integrity is sound. The Maillard reaction was controlled."
"I set three timers," you laughed, turning your head to kiss his cheek. "I wasn't taking any chances today."He took a bite of the cookie. It crunched satisfyingly.
"They are very good," he decided, chewing thoughtfully. "But..."
"But?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
"But I think I prefer the fossilized dinosaurs," he said, his eyes crinkling with a subtle, teasing humor. "They possessed a superior... smoky complexity. And they proved that you are fallible. Which makes you mathematically perfect for me."
You let out a loud, joyous laugh, turning fully in his arms to wrap your hands around his neck."You are ridiculous, Jake Sim," you beamed, looking up at your husband.
"I am entirely logical," he corrected softly, his gaze dropping to your lips. "The data supports my conclusion." He leaned down and kissed you again, right there in the middle of the living room, surrounded by the soft murmur of your families and the warm, golden light of the fairy lights.Outside, the world continued its chaotic, unpredictable spin. The traffic roared, the sirens wailed, and the variables shifted without warning.
But inside, wrapped in the arms of the man who organized his life with plastic bricks and unyielding honesty, everything was perfectly, mathematically still. The static was gone. You were home. And you knew, with the absolute certainty of a scientifically proven fact, that you would never need to run from the noise again.
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⊠Summary â Youâre the life of every party, the center of every group, and the girl everyone noticesâ but one day your best friend bets you canât make the schoolâs resident nerd fall for you. Only problem? Heâs brilliant, socially awkward, and completely oblivious⊠which works perfectly when you ask him to tutor you. What starts as a harmless bet turns into something neither of you saw coming. Could the fake love be real all this time?
⊠Genre â strangers to lovers (kind of), slow burn, university AU, romance, angst with happy ending, smut
⊠Word count â 29.6k
⊠Warnings â explicit sexual content (MDNI), penetrative sex, oral (male & female receiving), semi-public sex, multiple encounters, strong language, alcohol & smoking, party culture, emotional manipulation (bet trope), betrayal & trust issues, crying/emotional distress, brief social media harassment mention, heavy angst
⊠Now playing â Electric Love by BĂRNS
⊠Authors note â Okay so this fic has been living in my head rent free for way too long and i finally sat down and wrote it. This got away from me (nearly 30k, oops) but i hope every word is worth it. Reader is intentionally flawed because the messiness is the point. Listen to the assigned song for this while you read, especially the middle parts, youâll understand. As always comments, likes and reblogs mean the world. Enjoy the angst, youâre welcome in advance.đ
My masterlist
The bass thrums through your body like a second heartbeat, vibration crawling up from the soles of your heels and settling somewhere in your chest. Youâre three drinks inâsomething sweet and deceptively strong that Mina mixed in the kitchenâand the party is exactly where you like it: chaotic, loud, and utterly yours.
You stand near the center of the living room, red solo cup dangling from your fingers, wearing a black crop top that barely qualifies as a shirt and a skirt short enough that youâd tugged it down twice on the walk over. Not that you care. You know you look good. The stares confirm it, the way eyes track you when you move through a room, the way conversations pause just slightly when you laugh.
âBabe!â Minaâs voice cuts through the music, and you turn to see her shoving her way through a cluster of drunk business majors, her own outfit just as devastating as yoursâa tight red dress that clings in all the right places. Sheâs holding two fresh drinks, wearing that wild grin that always means trouble.
You take the cup she offers, raising an eyebrow. âWhatâs that look for?â
âIâm bored,â she announces, taking a long sip. âThis partyâs gotten stale. Everyone here is so predictable.â
You glance around. Sheâs not wrong. Same people, same drama, same bullshit. Heeseung is doing keg stands in the corner while Jake hypes him up, Jay is flirting with some girl from your Econ lecture, and everyone else is just going through the motions of a typical Friday night.
âSo what do you wanna do?â you ask, leaning against the wall. âLeave?â
âNo.â Minaâs eyes glitter with mischief. âI want to make a bet.â
You laugh, already intrigued. Minaâs bets are legendaryâlast semester sheâd dared you to steal a traffic cone from campus security, and youâd done it just to see the look on her face. âIâm listening.â
She leans in close, her breath smelling like vodka and cherry chapstick. âSee that guy over there?â
You follow her gaze across the room. At first, you donât see who sheâs talking aboutâthereâs too many people packed into the spaceâbut then the crowd shifts, and you spot him.
Park Sunghoon.
Heâs standing near the bookshelf, looking deeply uncomfortable in a neat button-up shirt and glasses, holding what appears to be a bottle of water. His posture is stiff, like heâs not sure what to do with his hands, and heâs nodding along to something Heeseung is saying with this polite, awkward smile.
You know who he is, obviously. Everyone does, but for different reasons than they know you. Where youâre known for the parties, the chaos, the way you light up every room you enter, Sunghoon is known for being the biggest nerd on campus. Statistics and Data Science major, perfect GPA, the guy everyone goes to when theyâre desperate for tutoring. Youâve seen him aroundâusually in the library, hunched over a laptop, or walking to class with his nose in a textbook.
âThe nerd?â you say, taking a sip of your drink. âWhat about him?â
âI bet you canât make him fall for you.â
You almost choke on your drink. âWhat?â
Minaâs grin widens. âCome on. Look at him. Heâs like⊠a different species. You really think someone like him would ever go for someone like you?â
Thereâs no malice in her wordsâthis is just how you two operate, all teasing and challengeâbut something about it pricks at your pride. âSomeone like me?â
âYou know what I mean. Party girl. Confident. Hot as fuck. He probably faints if a girl even looks at him.â She gestures toward Sunghoon, who is now adjusting his glasses and looking around like heâs searching for an escape route. âI donât think heâs ever even been to a party before tonight. Heeseung probably dragged him here.â
You study Sunghoon more carefully. Heâs taller than you expected, with sharp features that might actually be attractive if he didnât look so perpetually nervous. His hair is neat, parted carefully, and his clothes scream âI iron my shirts on Sunday nights.â
âThatâs the bet?â you ask, turning back to Mina. âMake him fall for me?â
âYep. And Iâm talking actual feelings. Not just him stuttering around youâI want him gone for you. Pining. Obsessed.â
You laugh, loud enough that a few people glance over. âThatâs almost too easy.â
âThen you wonât mind putting money on it.â Mina pulls out her phone, thumbs flying across the screen. âTwo hundred dollars says you canât do it.â
Two hundred dollars. Thatâs not nothingâthatâs a weekend trip, or a new pair of boots youâve been eyeing, or enough drinks to not worry about your bank account for a month.
But more than that, itâs the principle. The idea that Mina thinks you canât do something, that Park Sunghoon is somehow immune to you, needles at something deep and petty in your chest.
âYouâre on,â you say, shaking her hand. âTwo hundred dollars. And bragging rights.â
âBragging rights,â Mina agrees, her grin turning wicked. âThis is going to be so fun to watch.â
You drain the rest of your drink, feeling the alcohol warm and loose in your veins, and set the empty cup on the nearest surface. âHow long do I have?â
âEnd of the semester,â Mina says. âThatâs what, fourteen weeks? Should be plenty of time. If youâre as good as you think you are.â
âPlease.â You flip your hair over your shoulder, already feeling the familiar thrill of a challenge. âIâll have him obsessed with me by midterms.â
Mina cackles, pulling you into a quick hug. âGod, I love you. Okay. Go work your magic.â
You glance back toward Sunghoon. Heâs still standing with Heeseung and Jake now, looking like heâs barely contributing to the conversation. Jay has joined them too, and the contrast is almost funnyâthree effortlessly cool guys and one awkward nerd who looks like heâd rather be literally anywhere else.
The smart play would be to approach him tonight, start planting the seeds. But youâre tipsy and the party is loud, and you know first impressions matter. You need to do this right.
âNot tonight,â you say, turning back to Mina. âI need a strategy.â
âOoh, strategic. I like it.â
âMonday,â you decide. âIâll figure out his schedule, and Iâll make my move.â
Mina raises her fresh drink in a toast. âTo the downfall of Park Sunghoonâs GPA and emotional stability.â
You clink your cup against hers, grinning. âHe wonât know what hit him.â
Monday morning comes with a hangover you shake off in the shower and a determination that feels almost dangerous.
You dress carefullyâa tight cropped sweater that shows a sliver of skin above your low-rise jeans, paired with heels that make your legs look longer. Your makeup is flawless, lips glossy, and you know you look good because your roommate actually stops mid-bite of her cereal to stare.
âWhere are you going looking like that?â she asks.
âLibrary,â you say, grabbing your bag.
âThe library?â
You just smile and head out.
Youâd done your research last night, scrolling through social media and asking around until you had a decent sense of Sunghoonâs schedule. Turns out, heâs a creature of habitâevery Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, heâs in the library from 9 AM to noon, tutoring students for credit. Something about needing volunteer hours for his degree, or maybe itâs for some honors society. You donât really care about the why. You just need the when and where.
The library is quieter than usual, the Monday morning crowd sparse. You spot him almost immediately, sitting at one of the large tables near the windows, his laptop open and a stack of textbooks beside him. Heâs alone right now, tapping away at his keyboard with the kind of focus that makes you think heâs probably forgotten the rest of the world exists.
You take a breath, adjust your bag on your shoulder, and walk over.
He doesnât notice you at first. You have to actually stop in front of his table and clear your throat before he looks up, and when he does, his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses.
âUm,â he says, his voice soft and uncertain. âHi?â
âHi,â you say, flashing your most disarming smile. âYouâre Park Sunghoon, right?â
âUh. Yes?â He blinks up at you, clearly confused about why youâre talking to him. His gaze flickers down for just a secondâtaking in your outfit, probablyâbefore snapping back to your face, his cheeks flushing pink.
Perfect.
âI heard you do tutoring,â you say, sliding into the chair across from him without waiting for an invitation. âFor Statistics?â
âOh.â His expression shifts slightly, relaxing into something more familiar. This is territory he knows. âYeah, I do. Are you⊠do you need help with a class?â
âDesperately,â you lie, letting a little frustration creep into your voice. âIâm in STAT 400, and Iâm completely lost. Like, I donât even know where to start.â
STAT 400 is a class you could probably teach at this pointâyouâd aced it last semesterâbut he doesnât need to know that.
Sunghoon nods, pulling out a notebook. âThatâs a tough class. What specifically are you struggling with?â
You wave a hand vaguely. âHonestly? All of it. Probability distributions, hypothesis testing⊠I just canât make it click, you know?â
Heâs scribbling something down, his brow furrowed in concentration. âOkay. Yeah, I can definitely help with that. I tutor that class a lot, actually.â
âReally?â You lean forward slightly, resting your chin in your hand. âYouâre a lifesaver. I was seriously worried I was going to fail.â
His eyes flicker to you again, and you can see him trying very hard not to stare. Itâs almost endearing, the way heâs fighting to keep his focus on his notebook.
âSo, um,â he says, clearing his throat. âWhen works for you? I usually do sessions twice a week, an hour each.â
âWhatever works for you,â you say easily. âIâm pretty flexible.â
He checks his phone, scrolling through what looks like a calendar. âHow about⊠Tuesdays and Thursdays? 5 PM?â
âPerfect.â You pull out your own phone, typing in the times. âShould I meet you here?â
âYeah, hereâs good.â He looks up at you, and for a moment, youâre struck by how dark his eyes are behind those glasses. âCan I get your name? For my schedule.â
You tell him, and he types it into his phone, his fingers quick and precise.
âGot it,â he says, offering you a small, polite smile. âIâll see you tomorrow, then.â
âLooking forward to it.â You stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and give him a little wave. âThanks, Sunghoon.â
His blush deepens at the sound of his name, and you have to bite back a grin as you walk away. This is going to be easier than you thought.
You show up to the library on Tuesday at 4:55 PM, which is late enough to seem casual but early enough to seem eager. Youâve dressed down slightly from yesterdayâa fitted long-sleeve shirt that still manages to show off your figure, paired with jeans that sit low on your hips. Still hot, but approachable. Youâre playing a character here, and the character is a girl whoâs struggling with statistics and needs help, not a girl whoâs about to ruin someoneâs life for two hundred dollars.
The guilt hasnât hit yet. Right now, itâs still just a game.
Sunghoon is already at the same table by the windows, his laptop open and a thermos of what you assume is coffee beside him. He looks up when you approach, and you catch the tiniest flicker of surprise in his expression, like he half-expected you not to show.
âHi,â you say, dropping your bag onto the table and sliding into the seat across from him.
âHi.â He closes his laptop and pushes it aside, pulling out a notebook instead. âReady to get started?â
âAs ready as Iâll ever be,â you say with a self-deprecating laugh. âFair warning, Iâm really bad at this.â
âThatâs okay,â he says, and thereâs something unexpectedly kind in his voice. âEveryone starts somewhere. Can you show me what youâre working on in class right now?â
You pull out your own notebookâyouâd actually done some prep work last night, writing out problem sets from the STAT 400 syllabus you still have saved on your laptop. Youâd deliberately gotten some of them wrong, made your handwriting a little messier than usual, added some confused notes in the margins. It has to look real.
Sunghoon takes the notebook and studies your work, his brow furrowing in concentration. His fingers tap against the edge of the paper, a nervous habit, and you notice that his nails are neatly trimmed, his hands surprisingly elegant for someone so awkward.
âOkay,â he says after a moment. âI see whatâs happening here. Youâre getting tripped up on the notation, I think. The concepts arenât that complicated once you understand what the symbols actually mean.â
He flips to a blank page in your notebook and starts writing, his handwriting neat and precise. As he explains the basics of probability distributions, you force yourself to pay attention, nodding along and asking questions that someone whoâs actually confused would ask.
âDoes that make sense?â he asks after a few minutes, glancing up at you.
âI think so,â you say. âCan you go over that last part again?â
He does, patient and thorough, and you notice the way he relaxes slightly when heâs teaching. The nervousness fades, replaced by something that almost resembles confidence. This is where heâs comfortableâexplaining things, breaking down complex ideas into manageable pieces.
Itâs⊠not what you expected.
Youâd thought this would be painful, sitting through tutoring sessions for a class you donât need help with. But Sunghoon is actually a good teacher, and thereâs something almost soothing about the way he talks through problems, his voice low and steady.
âTry this one,â he says, sliding the notebook back to you with a new problem written out.
You make a show of working through it, deliberately hesitating in places, second-guessing yourself. When you write down the final answerâwhich you know is correctâyou look up at him uncertainly.
âIs that right?â
He checks your work, and a small smile crosses his face. âYeah. Thatâs perfect.â
The praise shouldnât feel as good as it does.
âReally?â You let yourself sound surprised, pleased.
âReally. Youâre getting it faster than you think.â
You beam at him, and his cheeks flush pink again. He looks away quickly, clearing his throat.
âLetâs do a few more,â he says.
The hour passes faster than you expected. By the time Sunghoon checks his phone and announces that your session is up, youâre almost disappointed.
âSame time Thursday?â he asks, packing up his things.
âYeah, definitely.â You stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âThanks, Sunghoon. Youâre really good at this.â
âOh. Thanks.â He ducks his head, and you catch the small smile on his face as he turns away.
As you walk out of the library, you pull out your phone and text Mina.
Session one: complete. He blushed like four times.
Her response is immediate: youâre evil. i love it.
Thursdayâs session follows a similar pattern. You show up right on time, dressed in a crop top and high-waisted pants that make Sunghoonâs eyes widen for just a second before he forces his gaze back to his notebook. You work through more problems, ask more questions, let him guide you through concepts you already understand.
But this time, you start to push things slightly.
âGod, I donât know how you keep all of this straight in your head,â you say at one point, leaning back in your chair and stretching your arms above your head. The movement makes your shirt ride up slightly, exposing your stomach, and you donât miss the way Sunghoonâs gaze flickers down before he quickly looks away.
âItâs just practice,â he says, his voice a little strained. âOnce you do enough problems, it becomes automatic.â
âYou must be so smart,â you say, propping your chin in your hand and looking at him with wide, admiring eyes. âLike, seriously. I feel like Iâm barely keeping my head above water in most of my classes, and youâre just⊠breezing through everything.â
He shifts uncomfortably. âIâm not that smart. I just work hard.â
âDonât be modest.â You nudge his foot lightly under the table with yours, and he actually jumps a little. âYouâre like, a genius. Everyone says so.â
âIâm really not,â he insists, but you can see the pleased flush creeping up his neck.
You let it drop, returning your attention to the problems in front of you, but youâve planted the seed. Compliments, physical proximity, attentionâthese are the tools you know how to use.
Near the end of the session, as Sunghoon is explaining something about confidence intervals, you let your knee bump against his under the table. Itâs brief, could be an accident, but you see the way he falters mid-sentence, his train of thought derailing completely.
âSorry,â he says, blinking rapidly. âWhere was I?â
âConfidence intervals,â you prompt, biting back a smile.
âRight. Yeah.â He takes a deep breath and continues, but his voice is slightly shakier now.
When the session ends, you pack up slowly, deliberately taking your time.
âHey,â you say as heâs closing his laptop. âCan I ask you something?â
âSure.â
âWhy do you tutor? Like, I know itâs for credit or whatever, but youâre already so busy. Donât you ever just⊠want a break?â
He seems surprised by the question. âI donât know. I guess I like helping people. And itâs good practice for me, too. Explaining things helps me understand them better.â
âThatâs really nice,â you say, and youâre surprised to find that you actually mean it. âMost people wouldnât go out of their way like that.â
He shrugs, looking uncomfortable with the praise. âItâs not a big deal.â
âIt is, though.â You give him a warm smile. âAnyway. Thanks again. I actually feel like I might not fail this class now.â
âYouâre not going to fail,â he says firmly. âYouâre doing really well.â
Something about the conviction in his voice makes your chest tighten, but you push the feeling aside.
âSee you next week,â you say, heading toward the exit.
As you leave, you glance back and catch him watching you. He looks away immediately, his face flushing, and you canât help the satisfied smile that crosses your face.
This is almost too easy.
By the third week of tutoring, youâve established a routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, 5 PM, the same table by the windows. Sunghoon is always there early, his materials already laid out, a thermos of coffee within reach. Youâve started to learn his habitsâthe way he taps his pen against the table when heâs thinking, the way he pushes his glasses up when heâs concentrating, the way he smiles when you get a problem right.
Youâve also started to push boundaries more deliberately.
You sit closer to him now, close enough that your arms brush when youâre both leaning over the same textbook. You ask him to show you how to work through problems on your laptop, which means he has to lean in close, his shoulder pressed against yours, his face inches from yours as he points at the screen.
Heâs still nervous, still awkward, but heâs getting more comfortable with you. He makes eye contact more often, laughs at your jokes, occasionally offers comments that arenât strictly about statistics.
âAre you going to the game on Saturday?â you ask during one session, glancing up from your notebook.
âGame?â He looks confused.
âThe basketball game. Against State.â
âOh. No, probably not. Thatâs not really my thing.â
âWhat is your thing?â you ask, genuinely curious despite yourself.
He thinks for a moment. âI donât know. I like hiking, I guess. And I play chess online sometimes.â
âHiking?â You raise an eyebrow. âI wouldnât have pegged you for the outdoorsy type.â
âWhy not?â Thereâs a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
âI donât know. You just seem like youâd rather be inside with a book.â
âI can like both,â he points out, and thereâs a glimmer of something in his eyesâamusement, maybe, or challenge.
âFair enough.â You grin. âMaybe you should take me sometime. I could use the exercise.â
His eyes widen. âOh. Uh. I mean, if you want. Thereâs a good trail about twenty minutes from campusââ
âIâm kidding,â you say quickly, laughing. âCan you imagine me hiking? Iâd die.â
âRight.â He laughs too, but it sounds slightly forced. âYeah.â
You almost feel bad for teasing him, but you push the feeling aside. This is the pointâkeep him off balance, make him think about you, wonder about you.
Later in the session, when youâre both bent over a particularly complicated problem, you reach out to point at something on the page. Your hand brushes against his, and you let it linger for just a second longer than necessary before pulling away.
âSorry,â you murmur.
âItâs fine,â he says, but his voice is tight, and when you glance at him, his jaw is clenched. Interesting.
After that session, as youâre walking back to your apartment, Mina calls.
âHowâs Operation Nerd going?â she asks immediately.
âGood,â you say. âHeâs definitely noticing me.â
âNoticing you, or noticing you?â
âBoth, I think.â You push open the door to your building, nodding at a couple of girls you recognize from a party last weekend. âHeâs still really awkward, but heâs warming up.â
âHave you guys hung out outside of tutoring yet?â
âNo. Iâm taking it slow.â
âSlow?â Mina sounds incredulous. âBabe, you have like eleven weeks left. You need to speed this up.â
âI know what Iâm doing,â you say, climbing the stairs to your floor. âIf I come on too strong, heâll get suspicious. Heâs not stupid.â
âFine, fine. Youâre the expert.â Thereâs a pause, and then: âAre you having fun, at least?â
The question catches you off guard. âWhat?â
âI mean, is this entertaining? Or is it just a chore?â
You think about the way Sunghoonâs face lights up when you get a problem right, the way he listens so intently when you talk, the way heâs slowly becoming less guarded around you.
âItâs fine,â you say eventually. âHeâs not as boring as I thought heâd be.â
âHigh praise,â Mina says dryly. âOkay, well, keep me updated. I want all the details.â
After you hang up, you find yourself thinking about the question. Are you having fun?
The honest answer is yes. You are. And that should probably worry you more than it does.
The following Tuesday, something shifts.
Youâre halfway through the session when Sunghoonâs phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowns, and then looks at you apologetically.
âSorry, do you mind if I take this? Itâs my friend.â
âGo ahead,â you say, waving him off.
He steps away from the table, phone pressed to his ear, and you watch as his expression shifts from confused to annoyed to resigned. When he comes back, heâs running a hand through his hair, making it stick up slightly.
âEverything okay?â you ask.
âYeah, sorry. That was Heeseung. Heâs having people over tonight and wanted to make sure Iâm coming.â
âAre you?â
âI guess. Heâll give me shit if I donât.â Sunghoon sits back down, but he seems distracted now, his usual focus scattered.
âYou donât sound excited,â you observe.
âParties arenât really my scene,â he admits. âToo loud, too crowded. I usually just end up standing in a corner wishing I was home.â
You laugh. âThen why go?â
âBecause Heeseung, Jake, and Jay are my friends, and they actually want me there. I think.â He says it like heâs not entirely sure, and something about that makes your chest ache.
âThey definitely want you there,â you say. âThose guys donât do pity invites.â
He looks at you, surprised. âYou know them?â
âEveryone knows them. We run in similar circles.â You lean back in your chair, studying him. âHowâd you end up friends with them, anyway? No offense, but youâre not exactly the typical crowd they hang out with.â
âWe lived in the same dorm freshman year,â Sunghoon says. âHeeseung and I got paired as roommates, and Jake and Jay lived down the hall. They kind of⊠adopted me, I guess. I donât really know why.â
âMaybe because youâre cool,â you suggest.
He snorts. âIâm definitely not cool.â
âYouâre cool in your own way.â
âThatâs a nice way of saying Iâm a nerd.â
âBeing a nerd isnât a bad thing,â you say. And then, before you can think better of it: âIâll be there tonight, probably. At Heeseungâs thing. Maybe Iâll see you.â
The rest of the session is slightly stilted, both of you distracted by the knowledge that youâll be in the same place later, outside the safe confines of the library. When you pack up to leave, Sunghoon clears his throat.
âHey, um. Thanks. For saying that. About me being cool.â
You smile. âI meant it.â
And as you walk away, you realize with a start that you actually did.
Heeseungâs apartment is packed when you arrive just after ten, Mina in tow. The music is loud enough to make the walls vibrate, and the air is thick with the smell of beer and too many bodies in a small space.
âThis is going to be good,â Mina says, already scanning the room. âIs your nerd here yet?â
âDonât call him that,â you say automatically, and then catch yourself. Since when do you care?
Mina gives you a look but doesnât comment. âWell? Do you see him?â
You crane your neck, looking over the crowd, and finally spot Sunghoon near the kitchen. Heâs wearing jeans and a plain black t-shirtâthe most casual youâve ever seen himâand heâs talking to Jay, looking significantly less uncomfortable than youâd expected.
âThere,â you say, nodding toward him.
âOh my god, heâs actually kind of hot when heâs not dressed like someoneâs dad,â Mina says.
Sheâs not wrong. Without the button-ups and the overly neat hair, Sunghoon looks⊠different. Younger. More relaxed. And yeah, hot.
âIâm going over,â you say.
âGood luck,â Mina calls after you, already veering off toward the makeshift bar.
You weave through the crowd, dodging drunk dancers and people shouting over the music. When you reach the kitchen, you tap Sunghoon on the shoulder.
He turns, and his face lights up when he sees you.
âYou came,â he says, and he sounds genuinely happy about it.
âI said I might,â you reply, grinning. âHi, Jay.â
Jay gives you an appreciative once-overâyouâre wearing a tiny black dress that leaves very little to the imaginationâand nods. âHey. You two know each other?â
âSunghoonâs my tutor,â you say.
âTutor?â Jay looks at Sunghoon with mock suspicion. âYou didnât tell me you were tutoring hot girls.â
Sunghoonâs face goes red. âItâs notâshe needed help with statsââ
âIâm just giving you shit,â Jay says, clapping him on the shoulder. âIâm gonna go find Jake. You two have fun.â
He disappears into the crowd, leaving you and Sunghoon alone in the relative chaos of the kitchen.
âWant a drink?â you ask, already moving toward the counter where someoneâs set up a chaotic array of bottles and mixers.
âIâm okay,â Sunghoon says, holding up a bottle of water.
âOf course you are.â You pour yourself something strong, turning back to him. âSo. How are you surviving so far?â
âItâs not as bad as I thought it would be,â he admits. âMaybe because youâre here.â
The comment catches you off guard. Itâs surprisingly bold for him, and when you meet his eyes, thereâs something there you havenât seen beforeâa flicker of confidence, maybe, or just the tiniest bit of flirtation.
âSmooth,â you say, taking a sip of your drink.
He looks immediately mortified. âSorry, that wasââ
âIâm kidding. It was sweet.â You step closer to him, close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact. âYou should let yourself relax more often. Youâre less uptight when you do.â
âIâm uptight?â He sounds offended.
âA little,â you tease. âBut itâs part of your charm.â
Before he can respond, someone cranks the music even louder, and the kitchen suddenly floods with people trying to escape the living room. Youâre jostled forward, and Sunghoon reaches out instinctively to steady you, his hands landing on your waist.
For a moment, youâre pressed against him, close enough to feel the heat of his body, to see the way his pupils dilate slightly behind his glasses.
âSorry,â he says, but he doesnât let go immediately.
âItâs okay,â you murmur.
The moment stretches, tension coiling between you, and you realize with a jolt that your heart is beating faster. Not because youâre playing a role, but because heâs looking at you like youâre the only person in the room, and it feelsâŠ
It feels good.
âDo you want to go somewhere quieter?â he asks, his voice low.
You nod.
He takes your handâhis grip warm and surprisingly steadyâand leads you out of the kitchen, through the crowd, and out onto the apartmentâs small balcony. The noise fades to a dull roar as he slides the door shut behind you, and suddenly itâs just the two of you under the night sky.
âBetter?â he asks.
âMuch.â You lean against the railing, looking out at the campus spread below. âThanks.â
âNo problem.â He stands beside you, close but not touching, and for a few moments, neither of you speaks.
âCan I ask you something?â he says eventually.
âSure.â
âWhy did you come tonight? You said parties are your thing, so you probably had other options.â
You turn to look at him. âMaybe I wanted to see you.â
His breath catches. âReally?â
âReally.â Youâre not sure if youâre lying anymore.
Sunghoon holds your gaze, and something shifts in the air between you. He takes a step closer, and your pulse spikes.
âIâm glad youâre here,â he says softly.
âMe too,â you whisper.
And when he smilesâa real, genuine smile that makes his whole face light upâyou feel something crack open in your chest.
This was supposed to be simple. Easy. A game.
But standing here with him, the city lights glittering below and his hand just inches from yours on the railing, youâre starting to realize that you might be in over your head.
Sunghoon is already at your usual table, but today thereâs something different. Instead of his typical setup of laptop and textbooks, thereâs a white paper bag and two coffee cups.
âHi,â he says when you approach, and he looks almost nervous. âI, uh. I brought coffee. And pastries. I wasnât sure what you liked, so I just guessed. I hope thatâs okay.â
You stare at the cups, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in your chest. âYou brought me coffee?â
âYeah. You mentioned last week that you didnât have time to grab any before our session, so I thoughtâŠâ He trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. âIs that weird? Thatâs probably weird.â
âItâs not weird,â you say softly, sliding into your seat. âItâs really sweet.â
His face lights up, and he pushes one of the cups toward you. âItâs a vanilla latte. But if you donât like it, I canââ
âVanilla latte is perfect.â You take a sip, and itâs exactly the right temperature, exactly the right sweetness. âThank you, Sunghoon.â
âYouâre welcome.â Heâs smiling now, that soft genuine smile that makes your heart do stupid things.
The session proceeds normallyâproblem sets, explanations, the comfortable back-and-forth youâve developedâbut the coffee and pastries feel like something more. Like heâs trying to take care of you in his own quiet way.
Halfway through, while youâre working on a problem, Sunghoon speaks up.
âCan I ask you something?â
âSure,â you say, not looking up from your notebook.
âWhy economics?â
You pause, pen hovering over the page. âWhat?â
âYour major. Why did you choose economics?â
No one has asked you that in a long time. Most people just assume you picked it because itâs practical, or because you wanted something that would make money, or because you didnât know what else to do.
âI like understanding how things work,â you say slowly. âLike, why people make the decisions they make. What drives markets, what causes crashes, all of that. Itâs like⊠a puzzle, I guess. And Iâm good at puzzles.â
Sunghoon is looking at you with this intense focus, like heâs genuinely interested in your answer. âThatâs really cool.â
âYeah?â You feel oddly vulnerable suddenly.
âYeah. Most people just say itâs for the money.â
âI mean, the money doesnât hurt,â you joke, but it falls flat.
âI get it, though,â he says. âThatâs kind of why I like statistics. Everything can be understood if you have enough data. The world makes sense when you can quantify it.â
You find yourself smiling. âWeâre more similar than I thought.â
âIs that surprising?â
âA little,â you admit. âI thought youâd be all⊠I donât know. Textbooks and equations and no personality.â
He laughs, a real laugh that makes his eyes crinkle. âWow. Thanks.â
âI didnât mean it like that!â Youâre laughing too now. âI just meantâyouâre not what I expected.â
âWhat did you expect?â
âI donât know. Boring? Uptight? But youâre actuallyâŠâ You pause, searching for the right word. âYouâre actually really easy to talk to.â
Sunghoonâs expression softens. âSo are you.â
The moment hangs between you, charged with something you canât quite name. Youâre suddenly very aware of how close youâre sitting, how his knee is almost touching yours under the table, how easy it would be to just lean forward andâ
Your phone buzzes, shattering the moment. Itâs a text from Mina: party at sigma chi friday. you coming?
You type back a quick yeah probably and set your phone down, but the spell is broken. Sunghoon has already returned his attention to the textbook, his expression neutral.
The rest of the session passes normally, but something has changed. Thereâs a weight in the air now, a tension that wasnât there before.
When youâre packing up to leave, Sunghoon clears his throat.
âHey, um. Are you doing anything this weekend?â
Your heart skips. âWhy?â
âThereâs this new exhibit at the art museum. Photography from conflict zones. I thought it might be interesting, and I was wondering if⊠if maybe you wanted to go? With me?â
Heâs asking you on a date. Park Sunghoon is asking you on an actual date.
You should say yes. This is perfect for the betâspending time together outside of tutoring, building a connection, making him fall harder.
But the thought of it makes your stomach twist with something that feels uncomfortably like guilt.
âI canât this weekend,â you say, and youâre not sure if youâre relieved or disappointed. âI have plans with friends.â
âOh.â He tries to hide his disappointment, but you can see it in the way his shoulders slump slightly. âThatâs okay. Maybe another time.â
âYeah,â you say. âAnother time.â
As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on your back, and you hate yourself a little bit.
Friday night comes, and youâre at the Sigma Chi house with Mina, three drinks deep and feeling reckless.
The party is packed, bodies pressed together in every room, music so loud you can feel it in your bones. Youâre wearing your sluttiest dressâa tiny red thing that barely covers your assâand you know you look good because youâve been turning heads all night.
âThereâs Jake,â Mina says, pointing toward the kitchen. âWith Heeseung and Jay.â
âSo?â you say, taking another sip of your drink.
âSo, isnât that Sunghoonâs friend group? Maybe heâs here.â
You scan the kitchen, but you donât see Sunghoon anywhere. Just his three friends, laughing and drinking and looking effortlessly cool in a way Sunghoon never quite manages.
âI donât think heâs here,â you say.
âProbably for the best,â Mina says. âYou can actually have fun without worrying about the bet.â
But thatâs the problem. Youâre starting to realize that you have more fun with Sunghoon than without him.
You push the thought away and drain your drink. âI need another.â
The next hour is a blur of alcohol and dancing and the kind of mindless fun you usually thrive on. You dance with strangers, do shots with girls from your econ class, lose Mina somewhere in the crowd. And then Jake finds you.
âHey,â he says, appearing at your elbow with that easy smile. âYou look like youâre having a good time.â
âI am,â you say, and you realize you have to raise your voice to be heard over the music.
âWant to get some air? Itâs hot as hell in here.â
You follow him out to the back porch, where itâs marginally quieter and cooler. There are a few other people out here, smoking and talking in low voices, but Jake leads you to a corner thatâs relatively private.
âBetter?â he asks.
âMuch.â You lean against the railing, looking up at him. Jake is attractive in an obvious wayâtall, athletic build, sharp jawline. The kind of guy youâd normally go for without thinking twice.
âIâve seen you around,â Jake says, moving closer. âYouâre hard to miss.â
âIs that a compliment?â
âDefinitely.â His gaze drops to your lips, then back up. âYouâre friends with Sunghoon, right?â
The mention of Sunghoonâs name sends a jolt through you. âHeâs tutoring me.â
âThatâs all?â
âWhat else would it be?â
Jake shrugs. âI donât know. He talks about you a lot.â
Your heart stutters. âHe does?â
âYeah. He tries to be subtle about it, but itâs pretty obvious heâs into you.â Jake grins. âCanât blame him.â
You should ask what Sunghoon says about you. You should care more about the implications.
But youâre drunk and Jake is hot and heâs leaning in, and when his lips meet yours, you donât pull away.
The kiss is goodâhe knows what heâs doing, his hands confident on your waistâbut it feels wrong somehow. Like youâre kissing the wrong person. When you break apart, Jake is smiling.
âWant to get out of here?â
âIââ
âThere you are!â
You turn to see Mina stumbling out onto the porch, clearly wasted. âIâve been looking everywhere for you. We need to go. Now.â
âWhat? Why?â
âBecause Iâm about to throw up and I need you to hold my hair.â She grabs your arm, pulling you away from Jake. âSorry, Jake. Emergency.â
You let her drag you back through the party and out the front door, and itâs only when youâre halfway back to your apartment that you realize youâre relieved.
âDid I really interrupt something?â Mina asks, her words slurring slightly.
âNothing important,â you say.
âLiar. That was Jake. Heâs hot.â
âYeah.â
âSo why do you sound sad about it?â
You donât have an answer.
Saturday morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and a feeling of vague dread that has nothing to do with the hangover.
You kissed Jake. Sunghoonâs friend. One of his only friends.
It shouldnât matter. This is a bet. Youâre not actually dating Sunghoon. You donât owe him anything.
But the guilt sits heavy in your stomach anyway.
Your phone buzzes with a text from Sunghoon: Hey! I know you said you were busy this weekend, but if you have any free time tomorrow (Sunday), Iâd love to show you that trail I mentioned. No pressure though!
You stare at the message for a long moment.
You should say no. You should keep your distance, maintain the boundaries of this fake tutoring relationship.
But instead, you type: Sure. What time?
His response is almost immediate: 10 AM? I can pick you up.
Sounds good.
You set your phone down and bury your face in your pillow, trying to ignore the voice in your head thatâs asking what the hell youâre doing.
Sunday morning dawns clear and bright, and you find yourself actually putting effort into your outfitâathletic leggings, a fitted tank top, your hair pulled back in a high ponytail. Hiking clothes, but still cute.
Sunghoon picks you up at exactly 10 AM in a slightly beat-up Honda Civic thatâs meticulously clean inside. Heâs wearing athletic gear too, and without his glassesâheâs wearing contacts, he explainsâhe looks different. Younger. Even more attractive.
âYou ready?â he asks as you buckle your seatbelt.
âAs ready as Iâll ever be. Fair warning, I havenât hiked since high school.â
âItâs an easy trail,â he assures you. âMore of a nature walk, really.â
The drive takes about twenty minutes, filled with easy conversation and music from a playlist thatâs surprisingly goodâindie rock mixed with some Korean R&B. You learn that Sunghoon is an only child, that he grew up in a small town, that his parents are both engineers and have very high expectations for him.
âIs that why you work so hard?â you ask. âBecause of them?â
âPartly,â he admits. âBut also because I donât really know what else to do. School is the one thing Iâm actually good at.â
âThatâs not true. Youâre good at lots of things.â
âLike what?â
âYouâre a good teacher. Youâre patient, you actually listen, you explain things in a way that makes sense. Thatâs a skill.â
He glances at you, surprised. âThanks. That means a lot.â
When you arrive at the trailhead, itâs not crowdedâjust a few other cars in the small parking lot. Sunghoon grabs a backpack from the trunk, and you start walking.
He was right about it being an easy trail. The path is well-maintained and mostly flat, winding through trees that are just starting to show their fall colors. Itâs beautiful in a quiet, understated way.
âI come here when I need to think,â Sunghoon says as you walk. âItâs peaceful.â
âWhat do you think about?â
âEverything. School, the future, whether Iâm making the right choices.â He pauses. âSometimes I feel like Iâm on this path that was decided for me, you know? Like, Iâm going to graduate, get a good job, make my parents proud. But Iâm not sure if itâs what I actually want.â
Youâre surprised by the honesty. âWhat do you want?â
âI donât know. Thatâs the problem.â He looks at you. âWhat about you? Do you know what you want?â
The question catches you off guard. What do you want?
A month ago, you would have said you wanted to graduate, make money, have fun. Simple things.
But now, standing here with Sunghoon, you realize you donât know anymore.
âIâm figuring it out,â you say finally.
You walk in comfortable silence for a while, and then Sunghoon leads you off the main path to a clearing that overlooks a small lake. The view is stunningâwater glittering in the sunlight, trees reflected on the surface.
âWow,â you breathe.
âRight?â He sits down on a large flat rock near the edge of the clearing, and you join him. âI found this spot last year. I donât think many people know about it.â
âItâs beautiful.â
He pulls out his backpack and produces two bottles of water and some trail mix. âSnack break.â
You laugh. âYou really came prepared.â
âI try.â
As you sit there, eating trail mix and looking out at the lake, you feel something loosen in your chest. This is nice. Simple. Real.
âCan I tell you something?â Sunghoon says after a while.
âOf course.â
âIâm really glad you agreed to come today. I know tutoring is our thing, but I wantedâŠâ He trails off, looking uncertain. âI wanted to spend time with you outside of that. As friends. Or, I donât know. Whatever this is.â
Your heart is pounding. âWhatever this is?â
He turns to face you fully. âI like you. I know thatâs probably obvious, and Iâm sorry if that makes things weird, but I canât stop thinking about you, and I thought maybeââ
You kiss him.
Youâre not sure why you do it. Maybe because of the way heâs looking at you, so open and vulnerable. Maybe because you want to stop him from saying more things that will make you feel guilty. Maybe because youâve been wanting to kiss him for weeks and youâre tired of pretending otherwise.
Whatever the reason, you lean in and press your lips to his, and for a moment, he freezes.
Then heâs kissing you back, tentative at first and then deeper, his hand coming up to cup your face. His lips are soft, and he tastes like trail mix and mint gum, and itâs goodâbetter than it should be, better than kissing Jake, better than anything you expected.
When you finally pull away, youâre both breathing hard.
âWow,â he says softly.
âYeah,â you whisper.
âDoes this meanâŠ?â
âI donât know what this means,â you say honestly. âBut I like you too. I think.â
He smiles, bright and genuine, and pulls you in for another kiss.
You lose track of time there by the lake, kissing Sunghoon like teenagers, his hands respectful but wanting, your fingers tangled in his hair. It feels right in a way that scares you.
When you finally break apart for real, the sun has shifted position, and you realize youâve been here for over an hour.
âWe should probably head back,â Sunghoon says reluctantly.
âYeah.â
The hike back to the car is different from the hike out. Sunghoon holds your hand the entire way, his grip warm and steady, and you canât stop smiling.
This wasnât part of the plan. You werenât supposed to actually like him.
But as he helps you into the car and leans over to kiss you one more time before closing the door, you realize youâre completely screwed.
That night, lying in bed, you finally respond to Minaâs texts.
howâs the bet going?
You stare at the message for a long time before typing: Good. Heâs definitely into me.
perfect. keep it up. easy money.
Yeah. Easy money.
But it doesnât feel easy anymore.
The following week, everything changes.
Your tutoring sessions become something moreâstudy dates, really, where you spend as much time talking and laughing as you do working through problems. Sunghoon brings you coffee every time now, always remembering exactly how you like it. You find excuses to touch him, and he finds excuses to touch you backâa hand on your shoulder, fingers brushing when you pass papers back and forth.
On Thursday, after your session ends, he walks you back to your apartment. Itâs out of his way, and you both know it, but neither of you mentions it.
At your door, he kisses you goodbye, slow and sweet, and you have to physically stop yourself from inviting him inside.
âIâll see you next week,â he says, his forehead resting against yours.
âThatâs so far away,â you murmur, and youâre surprised to find that you mean it.
âWe could⊠do something over the weekend?â he suggests. âIf you want.â
âLike what?â
âThereâs a film festival on Saturday. Foreign films. Probably boring to most people, butââ
âIâd love to,â you interrupt.
His face lights up. âReally?â
âReally.â
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and you feel yourself melting into him.
When he finally leaves, you float into your apartment in a daze. Jiwoo takes one look at your face and grins.
âOh, youâve got it bad,â she says.
âShut up,â you say, but you canât stop smiling.
That night, youâre lying in bed scrolling through your phone when you see a post on Jakeâs Instagram story. Itâs from the Sigma Chi partyâa blurry photo of the crowd with the caption good times.
And suddenly you remember. The kiss. Jake.
Your stomach drops.
You need to tell Sunghoon. You should tell him before he hears it from someone else, before it becomes a thing.
But how do you explain that you kissed his friend while you were⊠what? Were you dating him then? Are you dating him now? You never actually defined what this is.
You open your messages with Sunghoon, type out Can we talk? and then delete it.
This is fine. It was one kiss, weeks ago, before you and Sunghoon were actually together. It doesnât mean anything.
Except it does mean something, because it means you were pursuing the bet. And if Sunghoon ever found out about the betâŠ
You close your phone and stare at the ceiling, your earlier happiness curdling into anxiety.
What the hell have you gotten yourself into?
Saturday arrives, and you meet Sunghoon at the small independent theater on the edge of campus. Heâs dressed nicelyâdark jeans and a fitted sweater that makes him look older, more sophisticated. When he sees you, his entire face transforms with his smile.
âHi,â he says, pulling you in for a kiss that makes your toes curl.
âHi yourself.â
The film festival is showing three movies back-to-back, and you settle into your seats with a large popcorn between you. The first film is French, subtitled, about a woman navigating love and loss in Paris. Itâs beautiful and melancholy, and halfway through, Sunghoon reaches over and takes your hand.
During the second filmâa Japanese drama about familyâyou rest your head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around you. It feels domestic and comfortable and utterly terrifying.
By the third film, youâre barely paying attention to the screen. All you can focus on is the warmth of Sunghoonâs body next to yours, the way his thumb traces patterns on your shoulder, the way he occasionally leans down to whisper commentary that makes you laugh.
When the festival ends and you step out into the evening air, you feel drunk on happiness and caffeine from the terrible theater coffee.
âThat was amazing,â you say.
âYeah?â Sunghoon looks pleased. âI wasnât sure if it was too pretentious.â
âIt was exactly pretentious enough.â You loop your arm through his as you walk. âThank you for inviting me.â
âThank you for coming. I know itâs not exactly a typical date.â
âWho says I want typical?â
He grins and pulls you close, kissing you in the middle of the sidewalk like youâre the only two people in the world.
You end up at a small cafe nearby, ordering hot chocolates and splitting a piece of chocolate cake. The conversation flows easilyâhe tells you about his thesis project, you tell him about your internship applications, and somehow you end up talking about childhood dreams and fears and all the small details that make up a life.
âI wanted to be an astronaut when I was a kid,â Sunghoon admits. âI was obsessed with space.â
âWhat changed?â
âI realized I get motion sickness really easily.â He laughs. âNot exactly ideal for space travel.â
âThatâs tragic.â
âWhat about you? What did you want to be?â
You think back. âA lawyer, I think. I liked arguing.â
âThat tracks.â
You kick him lightly under the table, and he catches your foot between his, holding it there.
The cafe starts to close, and reluctantly, you both leave. Sunghoon walks you home again, and at your door, the goodbye kiss turns into several goodbye kisses, which turn into you pressed against the door with his body flush against yours.
âDo you want to come inside?â you breathe against his lips.
He pulls back slightly, his eyes dark. âAre you sure?â
âIâm sure.â
You unlock the door and pull him inside, grateful that Jiwoo is gone for the weekend. The apartment is dark and quiet, and you lead Sunghoon to your bedroom, your heart pounding.
Inside, you turn to face him, suddenly nervous. This feels different than all the other times youâve done this with other guys. This feels like it matters.
âHey,â Sunghoon says softly, stepping closer. âWe donât have to do anything youâre not ready for.â
âI want to,â you say. âI want you.â
He kisses you then, slow and deep, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. You fall together, a tangle of limbs and breathless laughter, and as he hovers over you, looking down with so much want and tenderness that it makes your chest ache, you think: Iâm in so much trouble.
But you push the thought away and pull him down into another kiss, losing yourself in the feeling of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your neck, the weight of him above you.
When you pull him inside your bedroom, the air between you feels electric. Sunghoonâs hands are tentative at first, skimming over your waist like heâs afraid you might disappear.
âIs this okay?â he asks, his voice low and rough in a way youâd never heard before.
âMore than okay,â you whisper, reaching up to pull him into another kiss.
That seems to break something loose in him. His kisses become deeper, more urgent, his hands more confident as they explore. You pull at his sweater, and he breaks away just long enough to tug it over his head.
Youâve never seen him like thisâshirtless, his body leaner than you expected but defined, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Your hands find his skin, tracing the lines of his shoulders, his ribs, and he shivers under your touch.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he murmurs against your neck, his lips trailing down to your collarbone. âIâve thought about this so many times.â
The admission sends heat pooling in your stomach. âYeah?â
âYeah.â His hands find the hem of your shirt, and he looks up at you, waiting for permission.
You answer by pulling it off yourself, and his eyes go dark with want.
âFuck,â he breathes, and the curse sounds foreign in his mouth, which somehow makes it hotter.
His hands cup your breasts through your bra, and you arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. He kisses down your sternum, your stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans.
âCan I?â he asks, looking up at you.
âPlease.â
He unbuttons your jeans slowly, reverently, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear. When you are finally bare before him, he sat back on his heels just looking at you, and you feel genuinely seen in a way that should have made you self-conscious but instead makes you feel powerful.
âYouâre staring,â you say, but is no bite to it.
âCanât help it.â He leans down to kiss you again, his body presses against yours, and you can feel how hard he is through his jeans.
Your hands go to his belt, fumbling with the buckle until he helps you, kicking off his jeans and boxers in one motion. And then there was nothing between you, just skin on skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the best way.
âDo you haveâŠ?â he starts.
âNightstand,â you gasp. âTop drawer.â
He reaches over, finds a condom, and you watch as he rolls it on with shaking hands. When he settles back over you, positioning himself between your legs, he pauses.
âTell me if anything doesnât feel good,â he said, his eyes searching yours.
âI will. I promise.â
He pushes into you slowly, carefully, and you both groan at the sensation. He fills you perfectly, and when heâs fully seated inside you, he drops his forehead to yours, breathing hard.
âOkay?â he manages.
âSo okay,â you whisper. âMove. Please move.â
He did, starting with slow, deep strokes that have you gasping and clutching at his shoulders. His technique was unpracticed but enthusiastic, and when you shift your hips to find the angle you need, he paid attention, adjusting immediately.
âLike that,â you breathe. âRight there.â
âHere?â He hits the spot again, harder this time, and you cry out.
âYes, fuck, yes.â
He set a rhythm then, his hips snapping against yours, one hand braced beside your head and the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and the sounds he makesâlow groans and whispered cursesâwere pushing you closer to the edge.
âYou feel so good,â he pants against your neck. âSo fucking good.â
Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, his rhythm faltering for a moment before he regains control. You can feel yourself getting close, that familiar tension building low in your belly.
âTouch yourself,â he says, his voice strained. âI want to feel you come.â
The command sends a shock of heat through you. You slide your hand between your bodies, finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles. The added stimulation combined with the feeling of him inside you is too much.
âSunghoon,â you gasp. âIâmââ
âCome for me,â he says, and thatâs it.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave, your body tensing and shaking as pleasure rolls through you. You feel yourself clenching around him, and he groans, his movements becoming erratic.
âFuck, Iâmââ He doesnât finish the sentence, just buries himself deep and comes with a broken moan, his body shuddering against yours.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, both of you catching your breath. Then he carefully pulled out, disposed of the condom, and collapsed beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms.
âThat wasâŠâ he started.
âYeah,â you agreed, your voice still shaky.
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, your temple, your lips. âYouâre amazing.â
And lying there in his arms, your body still humming with aftershocks, you feel something crack wide open in your chest. Something that feels dangerously close to real feelings.
Laterâmuch laterâyou lie tangled together in your sheets, Sunghoonâs arm wrapped around you, his breathing deep and even. You should feel satisfied, content.
Instead, you feel like youâre standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting to fall.
You wake up to sunlight streaming through your window and the unfamiliar weight of someone else in your bed.
For a disorienting moment, you forget where you are, who youâre with. Then Sunghoon shifts beside you, his arm tightening around your waist, and everything comes rushing back.
The film festival. The cafe. Bringing him back here. The sex.
Oh god, the sex.
Your face heats at the memory, and you bury it in the pillow. Sunghoon makes a soft noise in his sleep, nuzzling into your neck, and despite everythingâthe guilt, the confusion, the looming disaster of the betâyou canât help but smile.
âAre you awake?â His voice is rough with sleep, muffled against your skin.
âMaybe.â
He presses a kiss to your shoulder. âGood morning.â
âMorning.â You turn in his arms to face him, and heâs unfairly attractive like thisâhair messy, eyes soft, a small smile on his lips.
âHi,â he says.
âHi.â
He kisses you, slow and lazy, and you can feel him hardening against your thigh. Your body responds immediately, heat pooling low in your stomach, but before things can progress, his phone buzzes insistently on the nightstand.
He groans, breaking away to check it. âItâs Heeseung. He wants to know if Iâm alive.â
âAre you?â
âBarely.â He types out a quick response and sets the phone down. âI should probably go. I have a study group at noon.â
Disappointment lances through you, which is ridiculous. You just spent the entire night with him. âYeah, okay.â
âUnlessâŠâ He looks at you hopefully. âDo you want to get breakfast first? Thereâs that place near campus that does really good pancakes.â
You should say no. You should put some distance between you, figure out what the hell youâre doing.
But instead you say, âI love pancakes.â
The diner is busy with the Sunday morning crowd, but you manage to snag a booth near the back. Sunghoon orders a truly obscene amount of foodâpancakes, eggs, bacon, hash brownsâand you raise an eyebrow.
âWhat? Iâm hungry.â He grins. âLast night was⊠athletic.â
You kick him under the table, face flaming. âShut up.â
âIâm just saying.â His grin widens. âYouâre very⊠energetic.â
âOh my god, stop talking.â
But youâre laughing, and so is he, and when the food arrives, you end up stealing bites from his plate while he pretends to be offended.
Itâs domestic and easy and terrifying.
Halfway through the meal, Jake walks in with Heeseung and Jay. Your stomach drops.
Jake sees you first, and something flickers across his faceâsurprise, maybe, or understanding. Then heâs heading over with the other two in tow.
âSunghoon!â Heeseung says cheerfully, sliding into the booth beside him without asking. âYou never came home last night. We were worried.â
Jay smirks, looking between you and Sunghoon. âClearly not that worried.â
Sunghoonâs ears turn red. âWe were just⊠we went to the film festival and thenââ
âAnd then you stayed over,â Jake finishes, his eyes on you. Thereâs something unreadable in his expression.
âHi, Jake,â you say carefully.
âHey.â He slides in next to you, forcing you to scoot over. âLong time no see.â
âYeah.â
The tension is palpable, at least to you. Sunghoon seems oblivious, too busy fielding questions from Heeseung about the films, but Jake is looking at you like he knows something.
âSo you two are like, together now?â Heeseung asks bluntly.
Sunghoon glances at you, and thereâs vulnerability in his eyes. âI⊠we havenât really talked about it.â
âWeâre seeing each other,â you say, reaching over to lace your fingers with his. âRight?â
âRight.â His smile is so genuine it makes your chest ache.
âCute,â Jay says, stealing a piece of bacon from Sunghoonâs plate. âOur boyâs all grown up.â
âFuck off,â Sunghoon says, but heâs grinning.
The conversation shifts to other topicsâan upcoming game, someoneâs disastrous Tinder date, plans for Halloween. You mostly stay quiet, hyperaware of Jake beside you, wondering if heâs going to say something about the party. About the kiss.
But he doesnât. He just eats his food and makes jokes with the others, and when they finally leave, he gives you a long look that makes your stomach twist.
âHe knows,â you say once theyâre gone.
âKnows what?â Sunghoon asks, signaling for the check.
âNothing. Never mind.â
The next week passes in a blur of classes, tutoring sessions that turn into makeout sessions, and stolen moments in empty classrooms and dark corners of the library.
You canât keep your hands off each other. Itâs like a switch has been flipped, and now that youâve crossed that line, neither of you can go back.
On Tuesday, your âtutoring sessionâ lasts all of fifteen minutes before Sunghoon is pulling you into his lap, his mouth hot on your neck.
âWe should actually study,â you gasp, even as you grind down against him.
âWe should,â he agrees, not stopping.
You end up in the single-user bathroom on the third floor, Sunghoon pressing you against the door as he kisses you breathless. His hands are everywhereâyour waist, your hips, sliding up under your shirt to cup your breasts.
âGod, I canât stop thinking about you,â he breathes against your lips. âItâs affecting my grades.â
âLiar. Youâre incapable of getting bad grades.â
âWant to test that theory?â His hand slips between your legs, rubbing you through your jeans, and you bite back a moan.
âSomeone could hear.â
âThen youâll have to be quiet.â
He drops to his knees, and your brain short-circuits.
âSunghoon, what are youââ
âLet me,â he says, already unbuttoning your jeans. âPlease. Iâve been thinking about this all day.â
You should say no. Youâre in a public bathroom in the library. Anyone could walk by.
But then heâs pulling your jeans and underwear down, and his mouth is on you, and all rational thought flies out the window.
âOh fuck,â you breathe, your hands flying to his hair.
Heâs enthusiastic if not entirely skilled, his tongue exploring with scientific precision, trying to figure out what makes you gasp and moan. When he finds your clit and sucks lightly, your knees buckle.
âThere,â you manage. âRight there, donât stop.â
He doesnât. He works you with his mouth, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady, and you have to bite down on your fist to keep from crying out. The knowledge that youâre doing this here, in public, with Sunghoon of all people on his knees for you, makes it even hotter.
You come embarrassingly quickly, your orgasm hitting you hard and sudden. Sunghoon works you through it, lapping at you until youâre shaking and oversensitive, and when he finally pulls away, his lips are shiny and his eyes are dark with lust.
âYou taste amazing,â he says, his voice wrecked.
You pull him up and kiss him hard, tasting yourself on his tongue. âYour place. Now.â
âI have a roommate.â
âMy place then.â
You somehow make it back to your apartment without attacking him in public, though itâs a close thing. The moment youâre through the door, youâre on him, pushing him toward your bedroom and stripping off his clothes.
âBed,â you command, and he goes willingly, lying back and watching as you undress.
When you straddle him, positioning yourself over his cock, he groans.
âCondom,â he manages.
âNightstand.â
He reaches over, fumbles with the drawer, and rolls one on with shaking hands. Then youâre sinking down onto him, both of you moaning at the sensation.
âFuck,â he breathes, his hands gripping your hips. âYou feel so good.â
You start to move, riding him slowly at first and then faster, chasing your pleasure. His hands roam your bodyâyour breasts, your stomach, your thighsâlike he canât decide where to touch you first.
âYouâre so beautiful like this,â he says, his eyes locked on you. âSo fucking beautiful.â
The praise sends heat through you, and you lean down to kiss him, your movements becoming erratic. He takes over then, thrusting up into you hard and fast, and the change in angle has you gasping.
âTouch yourself,â he says, echoing his words from last time. âI want to see you come again.â
You do, your fingers finding your clit, and the combination of his cock inside you and your own touch is too much. You come with a cry, your body clenching around him, and he follows a moment later with a groan, his hips stuttering.
You collapse on top of him, both of you breathing hard, and he wraps his arms around you.
âIâm never going to be able to concentrate in the library again,â he says, and you laugh into his chest.
Thursdayâs session is more of the same. You try to actually studyâyou really doâbut Sunghoon keeps looking at you with these heated glances, and his hand keeps finding your thigh under the table, and eventually you give up and suggest going back to his place.
His roommate is at class, and you have exactly ninety minutes before heâs back.
You make the most of it.
This time, youâre the one on your knees, learning what makes Sunghoon gasp and curse. Heâs bigger than you expected, and you take your time, using your tongue and lips and hands until heâs gripping the sheets and saying your name like a prayer.
âIâm close,â he warns, but you donât pull away.
When he comes, you swallow, and the look on his face is worth itâcomplete bliss mixed with awe.
âHoly shit,â he breathes. âThat wasâŠâ
âGood?â you ask, crawling up his body.
âUnderstatement of the century.â He pulls you in for a kiss, apparently not caring that you just had him in your mouth. âYour turn.â
âWe donât have timeââ
âWe have time.â
He proves it by going down on you again, this time with more confidence and skill. Heâs a fast learner, youâll give him that. He remembers exactly what you liked before, adding new tricks that have you squirming and begging.
When you come, itâs intense enough that you see stars, and Sunghoon looks so pleased with himself that you canât help but laugh.
âWhat?â he asks, grinning.
âNothing. Youâre just⊠youâre really into this.â
âInto making you feel good? Yeah, I am.â He kisses your inner thigh. âIs that weird?â
âNo. Itâs perfect.â
And it is perfect, which is the problem.
Because every moment with him feels more real, and every real moment makes the lie bigger.
That night, Mina corners you at a party at some frat house you donât remember the name of.
âOkay, what the fuck?â she demands, pulling you into a relatively quiet hallway. âYouâve been dodging my texts for two weeks.â
âIâve been busy.â
âToo busy to update me on the bet? Because from what Iâm hearing, you and Park Sunghoon are basically dating now.â She raises an eyebrow. âWhich is great for the bet, obviously, but youâve been weird about it.â
âI havenât been weird.â
âYouâre being weird right now. Whatâs going on?â
You take a long drink from your cup, buying time. âNothing. Itâs going fine. Heâs definitely into me.â
âAnd are you into him?â The question is pointed.
âItâs a bet, Mina. Of course Iâm not actuallyââ
âBullshit.â She crosses her arms. âIâve known you for three years. I can tell when youâre lying.â
âIâm notââ
âDo you actually like him?â
The question hangs in the air between you. You could lie. You should lie.
But youâre so tired of lying.
âI donât know,â you admit quietly. âMaybe.â
Minaâs expression softens. âBabeâŠâ
âI know. Iâm an idiot. This was supposed to be easy, and Iâm making it complicated.â
âSo end the bet. Just tell him the truth.â
âAnd say what? âHey, funny story, I only started talking to you because my friend bet me two hundred dollars that I couldnât make you fall for me, but surprise, I actually caught feelingsâ? Thatâll go over well.â
âBetter than him finding out some other way.â
âHeâs not going to find out.â
âJake knows.â Mina says it casually, but the words hit like a punch.
âWhat?â
âJake knows about the bet. He was there when I made it, remember? And heâs Sunghoonâs friend. You really think heâs not going to say something?â
Your stomach drops. âJake wouldnâtââ
âWouldnât he? You two hooked up at that party. And now youâre dating his friend. You donât think thatâs going to come up eventually?â
Panic rises in your throat. âWe didnât hook up. We just kissed.â
âDoes Sunghoon know that?â
âNo.â
âSo youâre keeping secrets on top of secrets. Great plan.â
âWhat do you want me to do, Mina?â Your voice comes out sharper than intended. âI canât unfuck this situation. Itâs already fucked.â
She sighs, her expression gentler now. âLook, Iâm not trying to be a bitch. Iâm worried about you. This isnât like you. You donât do feelings, you donât do relationships. And now youâre in this mess because I made a stupid bet. So Iâm giving you an out. Call it off. Keep your money. I donât care. Just⊠donât hurt him. And donât hurt yourself.â
âItâs not that simple.â
âIt could be.â
But she doesnât understand. Itâs not about the money anymore. Itâs not even about the bet.
Itâs about the fact that youâve built something real with Sunghoon, even if itâs built on a foundation of lies. And you donât know how to tell him the truth without destroying everything.
The next morning, you wake up to a text from Sunghoon: Canât stop thinking about yesterday. When can I see you again?
Despite everythingâthe guilt, the fear, the looming disasterâyou smile.
Tonight? My place?
Perfect. Iâll bring dinner.
You spend the day in a state of anxious anticipation. Part of you wants to cancel, to put some distance between you and figure out what to do. But a bigger part of you just wants to see him, to pretend for a little while longer that everything is okay.
He shows up at seven with Thai food and that soft smile that makes your heart hurt.
âHi,â he says, kissing you hello like itâs the most natural thing in the world.
âHi.â
You eat on your bed, cross-legged and trading bites of pad thai and spring rolls. Sunghoon tells you about his thesis advisor giving him shit for missing a meeting, and you tell him about your nightmare group project in your econometrics class.
Itâs domestic and comfortable and you wish you could freeze this moment forever.
After dinner, you end up tangled together, kissing lazily. His hands are under your shirt, yours in his hair, and itâs not urgent or desperateâjust sweet and slow.
âCan I ask you something?â Sunghoon says against your lips.
âMm?â
âAre we⊠I mean, I know we said weâre seeing each other, but are we like, exclusive? Because Iâd like to be. Exclusive, I mean. If you want.â
Your heart squeezes. âYou want to be my boyfriend?â
âYeah. I really do.â He pulls back to look at you, and thereâs such open honesty in his face that it makes you want to cry. âIs that okay?â
You should say no. You should end this before it gets worse.
But instead you kiss him hard and whisper, âYes. I want that too.â
His smile is brilliant, and he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss. Things heat up quickly after thatâclothes coming off, hands and mouths everywhere.
This time, Sunghoon takes his time. He kisses every inch of your skin, mapping your body with his lips and tongue. When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up at you with dark eyes.
âTell me what you want,â he says.
âYou. Just you.â
He works you with his mouth until youâre trembling and gasping, and when he finally pushes inside you, it feels different. More intimate. Like youâre not just fucking but making love, which is a thought that should terrify you but instead just makes you hold him tighter.
âIâm falling for you,â he breathes against your neck as he moves inside you. âI know itâs fast, but I canât help it.â
You should tell him the truth. Right now, in this moment, you should come clean.
But instead you just kiss him and whisper, âIâm falling for you too.â
And the worst part is, you mean it.
Later, after heâs fallen asleep, you lie awake staring at the ceiling.
Youâre in love with Park Sunghoon.
Youâre in love with the boy you were supposed to play, the bet you were supposed to win. And he loves you back, except he doesnât really love youâhe loves the version of you that youâve been pretending to be.
Or maybe he does love the real you. Maybe all the pretending has become real. Maybe thereâs no difference anymore.
Your phone buzzes with a text from Jake: We need to talk.
You stare at the message, your heart pounding.
Everything is about to fall apart. You can feel it.
And you have no idea how to stop it.
You meet Jake at a coffee shop off campus, somewhere youâre unlikely to run into anyone you know.
Heâs already there when you arrive, sitting in a corner booth with two cups of coffee in front of him. He slides one toward you as you sit down.
âVanilla latte,â he says. âI remembered from that party.â
âThanks.â You wrap your hands around the cup, more for something to do than because you actually want it.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Jake studies you with an unreadable expression, and you force yourself to meet his gaze.
âSo,â he says finally. âYou and Sunghoon.â
âYeah.â
âHow long has that been going on?â
âA few weeks. Officially, I mean. Weâve been doing the tutoring thing for longer.â
Jake nods slowly. âHeâs really into you. Like, really into you. Iâve never seen him like this with anyone.â
Guilt twists in your stomach. âI know.â
âDoes he know about the bet?â
There it is. The question youâve been dreading.
âNo,â you say quietly.
âAre you going to tell him?â
âI donât know. Maybe. Eventually.â
âEventually,â Jake repeats, his tone flat. âSo youâre just going to keep lying to him?â
âItâs not that simpleââ
âIt actually is that simple.â He leans forward. âYou made a bet that you could make him fall for you. You did. Congratulations. Now either you tell him the truth, or you donât. But this middle ground where youâre pretending everythingâs fine? Thatâs fucked up.â
âYou think I donât know that?â Your voice comes out sharper than intended. âI know itâs fucked up. I know I should tell him. But how do I do that without destroying everything?â
âMaybe everything deserves to be destroyed if itâs built on a lie.â
The words hit harder than they should. You take a shaky breath. âWhy do you care so much? You barely know him.â
âHeâs my friend. And heâs a good guy. He doesnât deserve this.â Jake pauses. âAnd honestly? I donât think you deserve to hurt yourself like this either. I saw your face when youâre with him. Whatever started as a bet isnât a bet anymore. You actually care about him.â
âSo what do you want me to do?â
âTell him the truth. Before someone else does.â
Your blood runs cold. âAre you threatening me?â
âNo. Iâm warning you.â Jakeâs expression softens slightly. âLook, Iâm not going to tell him. Thatâs not my place. But Mina was drunk when she made that bet, and there were other people around. Someoneâs going to say something eventually. And itâs going to be a lot worse if he hears it from someone else.â
Heâs right. You know heâs right.
âIâll tell him,â you say. âI just⊠I need to find the right time.â
âDonât wait too long.â Jake stands, leaving his coffee untouched. âFor what itâs worth, I think heâd understand. Heâs not perfect either. None of us are. But he deserves honesty.â
After he leaves, you sit alone in the coffee shop for a long time, staring at your phone.
You pull up your messages with Sunghoon, dozens of texts full of inside jokes and sweet nothings. Then you scroll to Mina, her most recent message asking if you want to go out this weekend.
You type out three different messages to Sunghoonâvariations of âwe need to talkââand delete them all.
Tomorrow. Youâll tell him tomorrow.
But tomorrow comes and goes, and you donât tell him.
You tell yourself youâre waiting for the right moment, but the truth is youâre a coward. Every time youâre with him, you see how happy he is, how he looks at you like youâre the best thing thatâs ever happened to him, and you canât bring yourself to shatter that.
The week passes in a strange tension. On the surface, everything is perfect. You and Sunghoon are inseparableâstudying together, eating together, sleeping together. Heâs introduced you to his parents over video chat, and youâve started keeping a toothbrush at his place.
But underneath, youâre drowning in guilt and anxiety, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It happens on Friday night.
Thereâs a Halloween party at one of the bigger fraternity houses, and everyone is going. Sunghoon isnât thrilled about itâheâs still not much of a party personâbut youâd promised youâd go together, and heâs trying.
Youâd put actual effort into your costumeâa devil, complete with red bodysuit, horns, and a tail. Sunghoon is dressed as an angel, which heâd been embarrassed about until you told him how hot he looked in all white.
âWeâre very on the nose,â he says as you walk to the party, his hand in yours.
âI think itâs cute. Heaven and hell, together at last.â
âIs that what we are?â He grins. âIâm corrupting you or youâre corrupting me?â
âDefinitely the second one.â
The party is already in full swing when you arrive, the house packed with people in various states of intoxication and costume creativity. You spot Mina almost immediatelyâsheâs dressed as a sexy nurse and is already drunk, dancing on a table with some guy from her marketing class.
âIâm going to get us drinks,â Sunghoon says, kissing your temple. âWant your usual?â
âYeah. Thanks.â
He disappears into the crowd, and you start making your way toward Mina. But before you can reach her, someone grabs your arm.
Itâs Jenna, a girl from your econometrics class. Youâve talked to her a few times, but you wouldnât call her a friend.
âOh my god, Iâve been looking for you!â Sheâs clearly drunk, her words slightly slurred. âI need to knowâis it true?â
âIs what true?â
âThe bet! With Park Sunghoon!â Sheâs practically shouting over the music. âMina told Sarah who told me that you made a bet you could make him fall for you. And oh my god, you guys are actually dating now? Thatâs hilarious. How much did you win?â
Your blood turns to ice.
âI donât know what youâre talking about,â you say, but your voice sounds wrong even to your own ears.
âCome on, donât be modest! Itâs genius, honestly. I mean, heâs such a nerd, it probably wasnât even that hardââ
âStop.â The word comes out harsh, cutting. âJust stop talking.â
Jenna blinks, taken aback. âWhoa, okay. I was justââ
But youâre not listening anymore. Youâre scanning the crowd frantically, looking for Sunghoon, praying heâs still in the kitchen getting drinks, praying he didnât hear any of that.
And then you see him.
Heâs standing about ten feet away, two cups in his hands, his face completely blank.
Your heart stops.
âSunghoonââ
But heâs already turning away, setting the cups down on the nearest surface and heading for the door.
âShit,â you breathe, pushing past Jenna and fighting your way through the crowd. âSunghoon, wait!â
You catch up to him outside, on the front lawn. Heâs walking fast, his shoulders tense, and when you grab his arm, he jerks away.
âDonât,â he says, his voice cold in a way youâve never heard before.
âPlease, just let me explainââ
âExplain what?â He whirls to face you, and the hurt in his eyes is devastating. âExplain how you made a bet that you could make me fall for you? Explain how this entire thing has been a lie?â
âItâs notâit wasnât all a lieââ
âHow much?â His voice cracks. âHow much did you win?â
âSunghoonââ
âHow much?â Heâs shouting now, and people are starting to stare.
âTwo hundred dollars,â you whisper. âBut I donât want it. I never wanted it. Thatâs not what this is about.â
He laughs, a bitter sound. âRight. So what is it about? Entertainment? Did you have fun? Watching the awkward nerd fall all over himself for you?â
âNo, itâs not like thatââ
âThen what is it like? Because from where Iâm standing, it looks like you played me. You pretended to need tutoring, pretended to be interested in me, pretended toââ His voice breaks. âDid you fake all of it? Every moment, every kiss, every time you said you cared about me?â
âNo!â Tears are streaming down your face now. âI didnât fake it. I swear, I didnât. It started as a bet, yes, but it became real. My feelings are real.â
âHow am I supposed to believe that?â Heâs crying too, and seeing him cry because of you is the worst thing youâve ever experienced. âHow am I supposed to believe anything you say when everything has been a lie?â
âBecause I love you,â you say desperately. âI love you, Sunghoon. Thatâs real. Thatâs the realest thing Iâve ever felt.â
For a moment, something flickers in his expressionâhope, maybe, or want. But then it hardens again.
âYou donât love me,â he says quietly. âYou donât even know me. Because if you did, if you cared about me at all, you wouldnât have done this. You wouldnât haveââ He stops, taking a shaky breath. âI need to go.â
âPlease donât leave. Let me explain properly, let meââ
âThereâs nothing to explain.â He takes a step back, putting distance between you. âYou made a bet. You won. Congratulations.â
âSunghoonââ
âI donât want to see you anymore. I donât want to talk to you. I just⊠I need you to leave me alone.â
And then heâs walking away, and youâre standing alone on the lawn in your stupid devil costume, crying so hard you can barely breathe.
Behind you, the party continues, oblivious to the fact that your entire world just imploded.
You donât remember getting home. One minute youâre on the lawn, the next youâre in your apartment, Minaâs arms around you while you sob into her shoulder.
âIâm so sorry,â she keeps saying. âIâm so, so sorry. I should never have made that stupid bet. This is my fault.â
But itâs not her fault. Itâs yours.
Youâre the one who accepted the bet. Youâre the one who lied. Youâre the one who kept lying even after you started developing real feelings.
Youâre the one who broke Park Sunghoonâs heart.
Your phone wonât stop buzzingâtexts from people at the party, from Jenna apologizing, from people you barely know asking if itâs true. You turn it off and curl up in bed, still in your costume, feeling like youâre suffocating.
âWhat do I do?â you ask Mina, your voice hoarse from crying.
âI donât know, babe. Give him time, maybe? Let him cool off, then try to talk to him again?â
âHe said he doesnât want to see me.â
âHeâs hurt. People say things they donât mean when theyâre hurt.â
But you saw his face. The betrayal, the devastation. That wasnât just hurt. That was something deeper.
Youâd made him believe someone could care about him, could see past the nerd label and the awkwardness and love him for who he is.
And then youâd proven that it was all an act.
âI ruined everything,â you whisper.
Mina doesnât argue.
The next morning, you wake up with a pounding headache and swollen eyes. Your phone is still off, and youâre afraid to turn it on.
But you force yourself to. You need to know how bad it is.
The damage is worse than you thought. There are dozens of messages, multiple group chats discussing the drama. Someone apparently recorded part of your argument with Sunghoon and posted it online. Your mentions are full of people calling you a bitch, a heartbreaker, cruel.
And theyâre not wrong.
You scroll through until you find messages from people who actually matter. Heeseung sent you a long text that essentially amounts to âwhat the fuck is wrong with you.â Jayâs is shorter but somehow more cutting: âHe really loved you. I hope it was worth it.â
Jakeâs is the one that makes you cry again: âI warned you. I hope you figure out how to make this right.â
Thereâs nothing from Sunghoon.
You open your conversation with him, looking at the last messages he sentâa string of heart emojis in response to a photo youâd sent of your costume. It was less than twelve hours ago, but it feels like a lifetime.
You type out a message: Iâm so sorry. I know you donât want to talk to me, but please, let me explain. What I said last night was true. I love you. I never meant to hurt you.
You stare at it for a long moment, then delete it.
Words arenât going to fix this. Nothing is going to fix this.
Youâve lost him.
And itâs entirely your own fault.
The first week without Sunghoon is the worst week of your life.
You stop going to parties. You can barely drag yourself to classes. Your carefully constructed social lifeâthe one where you were always the center of attention, always having fun, always in controlâcrumbles around you.
Because it turns out that when people know youâre capable of something that cruel, they look at you differently.
Mina tries her best to support you, but even she doesnât know what to say. She canceled the bet immediately, told you to keep your money, apologized a hundred times. But it doesnât change anything.
You avoid the library completely. You canât bear to walk past your usual table by the windows, canât bear to remember all those tutoring sessions that turned into something more. Your statistics homework sits untouchedâyou canât bring yourself to look at probability distributions without thinking of Sunghoonâs patient explanations, his neat handwriting, the way his face would light up when you got a problem right.
Your roommate Jiwoo walks on eggshells around you. She brings you food you donât eat, suggests watching movies you canât focus on, and eventually just sits with you in silence because thatâs all you can handle.
âYou need to get out of bed,â she says on day five, opening your curtains despite your protests. âYou havenât showered in two days. Youâre not eating. This isnât healthy.â
âI know.â
âSo get up. Take a shower. Weâll go get coffee or something.â
âI donât want coffee.â
âI donât care what you want. Youâre getting out of this apartment.â Her voice is firm but kind. âCome on. Iâll wait.â
You drag yourself out of bed, shower on autopilot, and put on clothes that arenât pajamas for the first time in days. When you look in the mirror, you barely recognize yourself. Your face is pale, eyes hollow and red-rimmed. You look like youâve been through a war.
You feel like it too.
Campus feels different now. You walk with your head down, avoiding eye contact, hyperaware of every whisper and pointed look. The story has spreadâeveryone knows about the bet, about what you did. Some people are sympathetic, but most just see you as the girl who broke Park Sunghoonâs heart for two hundred dollars.
You deserve it. Every bit of judgment, every dirty look. You deserve all of it.
Jiwoo takes you to a small cafe on the edge of campus, one youâve never been to before. Itâs quiet, mostly empty, and youâre grateful for the anonymity.
âTalk to me,â Jiwoo says once youâre settled with your drinks. âWhat are you feeling?â
âEverything. Nothing. I donât know.â You wrap your hands around your cup. âI keep thinking about his face. When he found out. Iâve never seen anyone look so⊠broken.â
âHave you tried to reach out?â
âWhat would I even say? âSorry I made a bet to make you fall in love with meâ? Thereâs no apology big enough for what I did.â
âMaybe not. But maybe he deserves to hear that youâre sorry anyway.â
You shake your head. âHe said he doesnât want to see me. I have to respect that.â
âSo thatâs it? Youâre just giving up?â
âIâm not giving up. Iâm accepting that I fucked up so badly thereâs no coming back from it.â Your voice cracks. âI lost him, Jiwoo. And itâs my own fault.â
She reaches across the table to squeeze your hand. âFor what itâs worth, I think your feelings were real. I saw how you were with him. That wasnât fake.â
âIt doesnât matter if they were real. Not when everything else was a lie.â
You start seeing Sunghoon around campus, though âseeingâ isnât quite right because you make sure he never actually sees you. Youâve become an expert at ducking into buildings, changing directions, hiding behind groups of people.
Each glimpse of him is like a knife to the chest.
He looks tired. Sad. Heâs always alone now, you noticeâno more walking with Heeseung and the others, no more sitting in groups at the dining hall. Heâs retreated back into himself, back into the lonely, isolated version of himself that existed before you.
Before you ruined everything.
On Tuesday at 5 PM, you walk past the library and see him at your old table. Thereâs a girl sitting across from himâyou donât recognize herâand sheâs working through what looks like statistics problems. Heâs explaining something, using the same patient tone he used with you, and seeing it makes you feel physically ill.
Heâs moved on. Heâs replaced you.
Which is what you wanted, right? For him to be okay? But watching it happen feels like dying.
Week two is somehow worse than week one.
You run into Heeseung at the gym. Youâve been going at odd hours to avoid people, but apparently not odd enough. Heâs on the treadmill next to yours, and for a moment you consider just leaving. But he speaks before you can.
âYou look like shit,â he says bluntly.
âThanks.â
âSunghoon looks worse.â
Your chest tightens. âI donât want to talk about this.â
âToo bad.â Heeseung stops his treadmill and turns to face you fully. âYou fucked up. We all know it. But Iâm not here to lecture you.â
âThen why are you here?â
âBecause Iâve known Sunghoon since freshman year, and Iâve never seen him as happy as he was with you. And Iâve also never seen him as miserable as he is now.â He pauses. âAnd because Jake told me what you said. That you actually fell for him.â
âIt doesnât matterââ
âIt matters to him. Even if he wonât admit it.â
You stop your treadmill too. âWhat do you want me to say, Heeseung? That Iâm sorry? Iâm sorry. That I wish I could take it back? I do. That I love him? Iââ Your voice breaks. âI love him so much itâs destroying me. But he doesnât want anything to do with me, and I donât blame him.â
Heeseung studies you for a long moment. âHeâs stubborn. Probably the most stubborn person I know. When he decides something, itâs really hard to change his mind.â
âSo Iâm fucked.â
âI didnât say that.â He grabs his water bottle. âIâm just saying, if you really love him, youâre going to have to fight for it. Because heâs not going to make it easy.â
âHe shouldnât have to make anything easy. Iâm the one who screwed up.â
âYeah, you did. But people screw up. Thatâs life. The question is whether youâre going to let one mistake define you, or whether youâre going to do everything you can to make it right.â
He leaves you there, heart pounding, his words echoing in your head.
On Saturday morning, you wake up to a text from Mina: brunch? you need to eat and i miss you
You almost say no. But Jiwoo would just drag you out anyway, so you agree.
Mina picks the placeâa cute little diner near campus that does bottomless mimosas on weekends. Itâs the kind of place thatâs usually packed, but you arrive early enough to get a table.
Youâre halfway through your pancakes when the door opens and Sunghoon walks in.
Your heart stops.
Heâs not alone. Thereâs a girl with himâthe same one from the library, you realize. Sheâs pretty, with long dark hair and a sweet smile. Sheâs laughing at something he said, and heâs smiling back, and seeing them together feels like someone reached into your chest and ripped your heart out.
âOh shit,â Mina breathes, following your gaze.
You canât look away. You watch as theyâre seated at a booth near the windowâthe same booth you and Sunghoon sat in that Sunday morning after your first night together. The morning when everything felt perfect and possible.
The girl says something and Sunghoon laughsâreally laughsâand you realize with a sick feeling that you havenât heard that laugh in weeks. Not since before everything fell apart.
âWe should go,â Mina says, already signaling for the check.
âNo.â Your voice sounds strange, hollow. âItâs fine. We were here first.â
âBabeââ
âI said itâs fine.â
But itâs not fine. Nothing is fine. You watch as they order coffee, as Sunghoon does that thing where he pushes his glasses up when heâs happy, as the girl reaches across the table to show him something on her phone and their fingers brush.
Does he touch her the way he touched you? Does he kiss her like he kissed you? Does he tell her about the hiking trail, about his dreams of being an astronaut, about all the little things he shared with you?
Has he replaced you that easily?
âI need to go,â you say abruptly, standing up. Your chair scrapes loudly against the floor, and several people look overâincluding Sunghoon.
Your eyes meet across the diner.
For one terrible, eternal moment, everything else falls away. Itâs just you and him, all the hurt and love and regret hanging between you like a physical thing.
His expression shiftsâsurprise, then pain, then carefully controlled blankness. He looks away first, turning his attention back to the girl across from him with deliberate focus.
The dismissal is clear. You mean nothing to him now.
You barely make it outside before you start crying.
Mina follows, wrapping her arms around you while you sob on the sidewalk. People walk past, staring, but you canât bring yourself to care.
âHeâs moved on,â you choke out. âHeâs already moved on.â
âYou donât know that. Maybe sheâs just a friendââ
âDid you see the way he looked at her? He was happy, Mina. Really happy. Like he is when heâsââ You canât finish the sentence. Like he was with you.
âCome on,â Mina says gently. âLetâs get you home.â
You let her lead you back to your apartment, your mind stuck on repeat. The image of Sunghoon laughing with that girl, the way he looked away from you like you were nothing, the realization that youâve truly, permanently lost him.
This is what you deserve, you tell yourself. This is the consequence of your actions.
But knowing you deserve it doesnât make it hurt any less.
That night, alone in your room, you finally let yourself break completely.
You pull out your laptop and open the folder of photos from the past few weeks. There are dozensâcandid shots of Sunghoon studying, selfies you took together, photos from the hiking trip. In every single one where heâs looking at you, his expression is so full of love it makes your chest ache.
He really did love you. Completely, genuinely, without reservation.
And you destroyed that.
You find yourself scrolling through your text messages with him, reading through months of conversation. The early ones are formalâjust coordinating tutoring sessions. But they gradually shift into something more. Long conversations about nothing and everything. Stupid jokes. Good morning and goodnight texts. The kind of constant communication that happens when you canât stop thinking about someone.
The last text is still the string of heart emojis he sent in response to your costume photo. Youâd been so happy that night, getting ready for the party, excited to show him off to everyone.
And then it all came crashing down.
You start typing before you can stop yourself: I saw you today at the diner. You looked happy. Iâm glad. You deserve to be happy. I know you donât want to hear from me, and I promise this is the last time Iâll bother you. But I need you to know that Iâm sorry. Iâm so, so sorry. What I did was unforgivable, and I understand why you hate me. But I need you to know that my feelings were real. Are real. I fell in love with you, Sunghoon. Really, truly in love. And I know that doesnât excuse what I did, and I know it doesnât change anything, but I needed to say it. You made me want to be a better person. You made me see that thereâs more to life than parties and surface-level friendships and keeping people at armâs length. You made me feel things I didnât think I was capable of feeling. And I ruined it. I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me because I was selfish and careless and stupid. I donât expect you to forgive me. I donât even expect you to respond to this. I just need you to know that Iâm sorry. And that I love you. Iâll always love you.
You read it over three times, your finger hovering over the send button.
Then you delete it.
Heâs moved on. Heâs happy. And sending that message would just be selfishâmaking yourself feel better at his expense.
So instead, you close your laptop, turn off your phone, and cry yourself to sleep.
The next morning, you wake up to pounding on your door.
âGo away, Jiwoo,â you mumble into your pillow.
âItâs not Jiwoo.â
You bolt upright. Thatâs not Jiwooâs voice. You stumble to the door and open it to find Jay standing there, looking uncharacteristically serious.
âWe need to talk,â he says.
âI donâtââ
âItâs about Sunghoon. Let me in.â
Your heart racing, you step aside. Jay walks in, looking around your disaster of an apartmentâtissues everywhere, empty takeout containers, your laundry piled in the corner.
âJesus,â he mutters. âYou really are a mess.â
âIf you came here to insult meââ
âI came here to tell you that Sunghoon is miserable.â Jay turns to face you. âThat girl you saw him with? Thatâs his cousin. Sheâs visiting for the weekend, and he agreed to show her around campus. But according to Heeseung, the entire time they were at that diner, he kept staring at the door like he was hoping someone specific would walk in.â
Your breath catches. âWhy are you telling me this?â
âBecause heâs too stubborn to admit that he misses you. And youâre apparently too much of a coward to fight for him.â Jay crosses his arms. âLook, what you did was shitty. We all agree on that. But Sunghoon isnât some innocent victim in all this either.â
âYes, he isââ
âNo, heâs not. He put you on a pedestal. He built up this image of you as this perfect girl who chose him over everyone else, and he didnât give you room to be human. To make mistakes.â Jay pauses. âIâm not saying what you did was okay. But I am saying that relationships are complicated, and people fuck up, and maybe if you both actually talked to each other instead of suffering in silence, you could figure this out.â
âHe doesnât want to talk to me.â
âHave you actually tried? Like, really tried? Or did you just accept his initial reaction and give up?â
You donât have an answer to that.
âThatâs what I thought.â Jay heads for the door, then pauses. âHeâs going to that hiking trail. The one he took you to. He goes every Sunday morning. Maybe you should accidentally run into him.â
âJayââ
âOr donât. Keep wallowing in your guilt and let him keep wallowing in his hurt. But Iâm telling you, youâre both miserable apart. So maybe itâs worth at least trying to be miserable together.â
He leaves, and you stand in your apartment, his words echoing in your head. Maybe itâs worth at least trying.
Sunday morning dawns gray and overcast, threatening rain.
You almost take it as a sign to stay home. But youâve spent two weeks being a coward, and youâre done with that.
You dress in the same athletic clothes you wore the first time Sunghoon took you hiking. No makeup, hair pulled back. This isnât about looking good. This is about being honest.
The drive to the trailhead feels both endless and too short. Your hands shake on the steering wheel, and you have to give yourself a pep talk in the parking lot before you can get out of the car.
Sunghoonâs Honda Civic is already there.
Heâs here.
You start up the trail on unsteady legs, every step feeling monumental. The trees are mostly bare now, leaves crunching underfoot, fall having settled fully into the world while you were busy falling apart.
You find him at the clearing overlooking the lake, sitting on the same flat rock where you first kissed him. His shoulders are hunched, head down. Even from a distance you can see the exhaustion in his posture. He looks like he hasnât been sleeping any better than you have. You step into the clearing.
He hears you immediately, head snapping up. When he sees you, his expression cycles through surprise, pain, anger, and finally settles on something carefully neutral.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âI needed to talk to you.â
âI thought I made it clearââ
âI know. Five minutes. Give me five minutes, and if you still want me to leave after that, I will. Iâll never bother you again.â
A long pause. Then he gestures stiffly to the rock beside him.
You sit, leaving space between you, and for a moment you both just stare out at the lake. The water is choppy today, reflecting the gray sky.
âIâm sorry,â you say finally. âI know thatâs not enough. But I need to say it again. What I did was cruel and selfish and unforgivable, and I hate myself for it.â
âWhy did you do it?â His voice is quiet. âWas I really that much of a joke to you?â
âNo. You were never a joke. Thatâs the thingâyou were supposed to be. It was supposed to be easy. I was supposed to play a part, win the bet, and move on.â You take a shaky breath. âBut then I actually got to know you. And everything changed.â
âWhen?â he asks. âWhen did it become real?â
âMaybe when you brought me coffee without being asked. Maybe on Heeseungâs balcony. Maybe the first time you made me laugh for real.â You look at him. âI donât know the exact moment. I just know that somewhere along the way, pretending became impossible because what I felt was completely real.â
Heâs quiet. You press on.
âI saw you at the diner with your cousin. I thought she was someone you were moving on with, and it destroyed me. The idea of you loving someone elseââ Your voice breaks. âThatâs when I knew I couldnât just accept losing you without a fight.â
âJay told you she was my cousin,â he says flatly.
âYes. And Heeseung told me you still had feelings for me. And Jakeââ You pause. âJake warned me weeks ago to tell you the truth. I should have listened.â
âYou should have told me from the beginning.â
âI know. I was a coward. I kept telling myself Iâd do it tomorrow, and then tomorrow became two weeks, and then it was too late.â Tears stream down your face. âI donât expect you to forgive me easily. Iâm not asking for that. Iâm just asking for a chance to prove that Iâve changed. That my love for you is the realest thing Iâve ever felt.â
Sunghoon is quiet for so long you think heâs going to ask you to leave. Then he speaks.
âIâve been miserable without you,â he says roughly. âIâve been trying to be angry. Trying to hate you. But every time I come here, I think about kissing you on this rock. Every time I tutor someone new, I compare them to you.â He exhales. âI told my cousin about you. She called me an idiot for not hearing you out.â
Something flickers in your chest. âYou talked about me?â
âI canât stop thinking about you.â He finally turns to look at you, really look at you, and his expression breaks open. âYou look terrible.â
âSo do you.â
âYeah.â He reaches out hesitantly, brushing a tear from your cheek. The touch sends electricity through you. âI missed you.â
âI missed you every single day.â
âI want to forgive you,â he says slowly. âBut Iâm scared. How do I trust you again? How do I know this isnât another performance?â
âYou donât. Not yet. I canât hand you trustâI have to earn it back. Slowly, honestly, for however long it takes. Iâll be transparent about everything. Iâll go to therapy. Iâll do whatever it takes.â You lace your fingers through his. âJust donât give up on us before we even try.â
âYouâd go to therapy?â
âIâd do anything for you.â
He looks down at your joined hands. âI really loved you. Love you. Present tense. I canât seem to stop, no matter how hard I try.â
âThen donât try.â You move closer, until your knees are touching. âLet me love you back. For real this time.â
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, something has shifted.
âNo more lies,â he says firmly. âNo more games. If we do this, we do it honestly. Complete honesty, always.â
âComplete honesty. Always.â
He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You donât.
When his lips meet yours, itâs careful at first, tentativeâlike youâre both afraid of breaking something fragile. But then youâre kissing him deeper, pouring everything into it. All the guilt, all the love, all the desperate hope that you havenât destroyed something irreplaceable.When you finally pull apart, youâre both crying.
âI love you,â you whisper. âI love you so much.â
âI love you too.â He presses his forehead to yours. âEven though I probably shouldnât.â
âWeâll make this work. I promise.â
âWeâd better.â He squeezes your hand. âCan I take you to breakfast? Somewhere new. Not the diner.â
âNew memories,â you say softly.
âNew memories.â
He stands and offers his hand. You take it.
Three months later, youâre back at the library table by the windows.
Actually studying this time. Sunghoon is beside you, working on his thesis, occasionally stealing your coffee or reaching over to help with a problem. His hand finds yours between pages, a habit neither of you noticed developing.
Things arenât perfect. There have been arguments, moments of doubt, nights where old wounds reopened. But youâve worked through them. Therapy helped. Honesty helped more.
Mina waves from across the library. Jake gives you shit sometimes, but itâs affectionate now. Heeseung and Jay have folded you into the group like you were always there.
Your life looks different. Quieter in some ways, fuller in others. Less performance, more presence.
âWant to get out of here?â Sunghoon asks, already packing up his bag. âI know this hiking trailâŠâ
You laugh. âAlways with the hiking.â
âYou love it.â
âI love you.â
âI love you too.â He takes your hand. âCome on. Letâs go make some more memories.â
Park Sunghoon was never just the biggest nerd on campus.
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