“It’s too much,” he says, voice firm. “All of this. The money. The apartment. The car. It’s—”
He drops his hands, jaw tightening.
“It’s overwhelming. It’s too fast.” He says quietly.
I watch him for a long moment. Let the silence stretch before I speak.
“I don’t think it is,” I say, calm but direct. “I’m going at your pace, Lucas. I always have.”
His hand trembles slightly as he shoves the envelope toward me, as if to throw it back, but I don’t take it.
“I don’t want this,” he says. Voice flat, sharp. “I don’t want to owe you.”
I stay still. Let him say it. Let him breathe.
“You don’t owe me,” I say evenly. “That’s why I set it up the way I did. It’s anonymous. It’s irrevocable. I don’t have access to a single cent of it. Only you do.”
He laughs, it’s bitter and quiet, but there’s no real humor in it.
“And how does that help how I feel?” he asks, and his voice breaks. Just for a second. “You think knowing you cut yourself out of it makes me feel better?”
I blink slowly, watching him carefully.
He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps staring down at the envelope like it’s a weight he can’t put down.
“I’ve never had anything like this,” he says, voice tight. “Never had anyone just… hand me something without wanting anything in return.”
“I don’t want anything in return,” I say.
“That’s the part I don’t get!” he snaps, looking up at me, a fierce look in his eyes. “Why would anyone do this for someone they barely know?”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest tighten.
I stare at him for a moment, then lean forward slightly, my voice low and steady.
“Barely know?” I repeat, almost with a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “Lucas… I know you.”
His eyes narrow, skeptical, like he’s waiting for me to prove it. So I do, firmer this time.
“I know you bite your bottom lip when your thoughts get too loud. I know your brows scrunch when you’re trying to lip-read and the words slip past you, even with your hearing aids on — and how you pretend you understood, just so you don’t have to ask them to repeat it.”
His mouth parts slightly; they always do when he’s taken aback about something. But I’m not done yet.
“I know you prefer vanilla over floral — your skin smells like it all day, even after you shower. I know you hate ketchup, but drown your fries in that chili garlic sauce like your life depends on it.”
His eyes are wide now, and I see how his hands twitch slightly, like they do when he’s holding back emotions.
“I know what you taste like, Lucas,” I say, softer now, heat threading into my voice. “And I know how much you love it when I kiss your neck… when I leave hickeys across your skin like I’m staking a claim.”
His breath catches. Brown doe eyes staring at me like he’s seeing something he doesn’t know how to hold.
I lean back slightly, voice dipping.
“You can fight me on it. Tear the papers up. Burn them if you want. But none of that changes why I did it.”
“And why is that?” he asks softly, like he’s scared of the answer.
“Because you deserve it,” I say firmly. “Because I can. Because I want you to walk across that stage and get your degree. And because I have you in my life, I am not going to watch you drown.”
