Back on campus, back in the rhythm of schedules and expectations, walking toward our first class of the new semester.
Nathaniel walks just a little closer than usual, his hand resting against the small of my back as we walk, his arm brushing my waist when we pause. There’s a new gravity behind these gestures, a silent reinforcement of something neither of us has spoken aloud.
I don’t pull away.
Before, I might have. I might have maintained a little more distance, might have subtly leaned away just enough to establish space between us. But now…
I let myself melt into him a little more. Let myselfwantthis.
Nathaniel notices.
I catch the flicker of satisfaction in his expression, the way the corner of his mouth curls just slightly, as if my quiet acceptance is proof of something he’s always known.
“Caldwell!” someone calls, interrupting the moment.
Nathaniel turns smoothly, his hand not moving from my back as he acknowledges the speaker—a sharply dressed guy I don’t recognize. He looks like someone important, or at least someone who believes he is.
“Nathaniel, good to see you.” The guy glances at me, curiosity flickering across his features.
Nathaniel’s fingers subtly press into my spine as he responds, voice smooth. “You too, Will. Keeping busy?”
The conversation is brief, and I can’t help but notice howeffortlessNathaniel is in this kind of setting. He commands attention without demanding it, his presence enough to make people take notice.
Nathaniel doesn’t introduce me.
Not because he’s embarrassed or dismissive—but because in his mind, I don’t need introducing. My role in his life is self-evident. And while part of me softens at that, another part wonders when exactly he decided that for the both of us.
He simply moves us forward, seamlessly continuing our walk as if the interaction never happened.
The looks from our peers are subtle at first—a few double-takes, glances exchanged between students in passing.
I brush it off initially.
But then, it keeps happening.
There’s an almost imperceptible shift in how people regard us.
I wonder if I’m imagining it, but the weight of Nathaniel’s presence beside me makes me hyper-aware. He doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he leans in closer.
As heads continue to turn, I realize it’s not just that we’re together—people have known that for a while now.
It’s the steady hand at my back, the way he moves like we share the same gravity, the way his nearness tells everyone I’m his.
It’s a claiming.
And what unsettles me isn’t that he does it. It’s how much Iwantto be claimed.
Nathaniel has, unsurprisingly, enrolled in all the same classes as me this semester, just as he did last semester.
I remember how casual he had been about the whole thing during course selection, as if his own academic interests were an afterthought. The only thing that mattered to him was ensuring that wherever I was, he would be too. It should feel suffocating, but it doesn’t.
Because, as always, Nathanielknew. He knew what would happen before I did—how easy it would be to fall into step with him, how much simpler everything feels when he is beside me.
Perhaps it’s the benefit of being a genius—Nathaniel had enough confidence in himself to know he would excel in any subject, whether or not he cared about it. To him, the content of the class was irrelevant.Iwas the priority.
I walk into the lecture hall ahead of him, scanning for a seat before class starts.
A few students glance up, then quickly look away. The low buzz of conversation dips, subtle but noticeable.
