Andrew didn’t smile anymore.

Off his meds, the manic curl of his mouth disappeared, replaced by a blank, hollow stare that made people flinch before they realized they were doing it. The hallway parted around him like a wound refusing to close. Everyone was afraid to approach him now—everyone except Neil Josten, his boyfriend, who walked at his side like fear had never learned his name.

People liked to think Andrew Minyard was the dangerous one. That he was the one most likely to snap, to kill, to leave bodies behind with a bored expression and blood on his hands. Andrew let them believe it. The truth was simpler and worse: Neil was more likely to murder. Andrew would kill if someone hurt Neil. Neil would kill if someone hurt Andrew. It balanced out. It always had.

Andrew acted like he didn’t care. He perfected cold the way other people perfected kindness. But he loved Neil. The realization sat in him like a loaded gun—heavy, inevitable, and never set down.

Neil was autistic, and sometimes that made things harder. Louder rooms. Too many people. The wrong kind of touch at the wrong time. Andrew didn’t care. He dealt with it the same way he dealt with everything else in his life: directly, efficiently, without complaint. When Neil got overwhelmed, Andrew noticed. When Neil needed space, Andrew gave it. When Neil needed grounding, Andrew offered it without hesitation.

Andrew liked cats. He liked sweet things. He was afraid of heights. These were not facts anyone else knew, not really. Lately, Neil did. Andrew had started opening his mouth and letting the truth fall out in small, controlled doses. Neil never judged. He just accepted, like Andrew’s fears and softness were facts of the universe instead of weaknesses.

Their relationship had borders—clear, immovable ones. Every touch came with a question. “Yes or no?” Lately, “yes” came more often. Lately, it ended in cuddling, Neil warm and solid against Andrew’s side, the world quiet enough to breathe in. Trust did that. It crept up on Andrew when he wasn’t looking.

They joked in deadpan sarcasm, sharp enough to draw blood if anyone else tried it. Andrew liked that too. He liked that Neil smiled every time Andrew told him he hated him. The percentage of Andrew’s hate for Neil went up by a few percent every day. It was over a hundred now. Neil smiled anyway.

Everyone else was silently shocked by them—especially the Foxes—but no one was stupid enough to ask questions. Andrew remembered the first time he let Neil see the scars on his wrists. How Neil kissed each one like it mattered. Like Andrew mattered. Now Andrew didn’t wear armbands around him anymore.

Neil’s scars had always been a yes. It was strange, then, how good it felt to be trusted back.

Andrew still carried doubt. Trauma didn’t vanish just because someone was careful. But Neil was patient. Loyal. He noticed boundaries and needs with the same precision Andrew used to survive. Andrew always told him it was nothing. That he didn’t want anything.

But Andrew knew the truth, even if he never said it out loud.

You don’t give up everything for nothing.

Maybe Neil was his nothing.