The library felt unnaturally bright against the night outside, its lights washing the rain-dark windows in a pale glow. Liam's math notebook lay open in front of him, untouched, numbers blurring together as his attention drifted elsewhere. He watched rain run down the glass, each drop leaving a trail that he didn't bother following all the way to the end.
He became aware of someone beside him before he heard them.
Jordan stood there quietly, holding a cup of bubble americano, as if he'd already decided to stay.
"Oh... Jordan... Thanks," Liam said, the words arriving a second later than his thoughts.
Jordan smiled and sat in the chair closest to him, close enough that Liam could feel the shift in space, subtle but undeniable.
Silence settled again, the kind that belonged to libraries after hours. Pages turned somewhere behind them. Liam's phone vibrated against the desk once, then again. He stared at it without moving. The idea of looking at the screen made something tight and dull press against his chest. After a moment, he flipped it face down and powered it off, as if that could make the messages stop existing.
Jordan noticed. He didn't comment.
Instead, a small piece of chocolate appeared beside Liam's notebook, placed carefully, as if it had always belonged there.
"It helps," Jordan said softly. "When things feel heavy."
Liam hesitated longer than he meant to. Then he nodded.
Jordan hadn't asked what was wrong. He never did. The realization settled slowly, unsettling not because it was sudden, but because it wasn't. This wasn't new. It had been happening for a while, quietly, without drawing attention to itself.
Liam broke the chocolate in half and offered one piece back. Jordan accepted it without a word. Their fingers brushed briefly. Neither of them moved away.
Jordan smiled, small and unguarded.
Liam focused on the warmth of the chocolate melting in his palm, on the steady quiet around them. His heart was still beating too fast, but his breathing had slowed, as if his body had decided something his mind hadn't caught up to yet.
This felt steadier than what he'd had before. Not louder. Not brighter. Just present, in a way that didn't ask him to perform or explain.
The thought unsettled him.
He didn't know what it meant yet. Only that he noticed it now, and that noticing felt like crossing a line he hadn't known was there.