“Why do you overthink everything?” he asks, voice low but sharp.
I glare at him, more out of instinct than real anger, but of course, he doesn’t back down. He never does. Instead, he just sighs and leans a little closer.
“Are you this stubborn with everyone, or just me?”
I shrug, looking away, cheeks burning. He doesn’t understand. I’m not this open, this honest, or even this shy with anyone else. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I only let myself be difficult with him because… he seems to read me like an open book.
“You’re applying for a transfer, right?” he asks. His voice is gentler now, but there’s something underneath it—an urgency, a quiet demand that makes my chest tighten.
I nod, thinking that maybe that’s enough. But apparently it’s not.
His fingers find my chin, tilting my face back toward his. The touch is firm but careful. His gaze holds mine like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this moment.
“I need words, Lucas,” he says. “ Not silence, talk to me.”
Something in me folds.
“Yeah,” I whisper, eyes flicking between his. “I’m applying to transfer. To a College. A good one.”
I pause, swallowing the knot in my throat.
“My advisor said my GPA is strong enough now. She called it remarkable, actually. Some of the schools I want are expensive—one of them stupidly expensive.” I let out a shaky breath. “And I’m applying for scholarships. There’s a financial aid program for DHH students, too.”
“You see?” he says, voice calm but firm. “It’s really not that hard to just tell me, Lucas. Instead of letting your thoughts spin into knots and convincing yourself of things that don’t make sense.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Not when it’s something that’ll benefit you.”
My chest tightens at that because he’s right. And I hate that he’s right.
I look away, swallowing down the ache in my throat. But his fingers are already there, curling under my jaw, holding me steady. He doesn’t let me hide.
“Baby, look at me.”
Baby.
Hell, it always makes something in me stutter. He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’m his to protect, to care for. And even though he’s said it before, I can never seem to get used to it. I lift my gaze to his.
His eyes are soft but steady, like he’s trying to ground me. Like he won’t let me float away from this moment.
“I don’t want you acting this way with me,” he says quietly, thumb brushing along the edge of my jaw. “I don’t want you to feel ashamed. Or small. Or like you have to hide any part of yourself. Not with me.”
It doesn’t sound like a scolding. It sounds like a promise. A vow. As if he’s trying to teach me something I never really learned —how to be seen and not flinch.
I nod, small and unsure.
But that’s not enough for him.
His brow lifts, eyes never leaving mine. He waits.
“Okay,” I whisper, almost too soft to hear. But he hears it. I know he does, because something flickers in his expression—relief, maybe. Or something quieter, something warmer.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just leans in and kisses me. It’s gentle, lingering, and soft like he’s sealing a pact between us. Like he’s reminding me that I’m not alone in this anymore.
Then he pulls back, fixes my seatbelt with a careful touch, buckles his own, and starts the car. The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it’s grounding. I watch the streets pass by through the window, my fingers still loosely gripping the edge of my bag like it’s a lifeline.
“You hungry?” He asks, one hand on the wheel, his voice casual.
I shake my head.
