milo yujin kang has always been a little intense about the things he cares about. rockets, math, punctuality, you. in that order—except actually, you’ve been first for a while now, but he’d never admit that out loud.

you met when you were seven. your mom made you join some neighborhood STEM club because “you need hobbies that don’t involve glitter glue,” and milo’s mom thought it would “strengthen his resume.” (he was seven. seven.) he was this quiet, pale boy with glasses too big for his face, already scribbling launch equations while everyone else was fighting over whose popsicle stick bridge could hold more rocks.

you sat next to him once, offered him half your cookie, and he short-circuited. looked like he was calculating escape velocity just to survive being near you.

from then on, it was kind of game over.

by the time you were both thirteen, he was showing up to your house with freshly sharpened pencils and homemade flashcards like a nerdy cupid. he’d help you study, then pretend to leave and just sort of... not leave. his things started showing up at your place: a hoodie here, a backup calculator there. “just in case,” he’d say, like a storm could break out and the only way to survive would be a graphing calculator and his emergency hoodie.

at sixteen, he asked you out in the most milo way possible: by handing you a folded, handwritten letter titled Reasons You Should Date Me, complete with bullet points and his neatest cursive. you barely got halfway down the list (“i will always share snacks with you”) before leaning forward and kissing him—just a shy brush of lips. he froze so hard his freckles tried to disappear. then, in the smallest, most hopeful voice, he whispered, “um… can we… do that again?”

now you're both seventeen. he still walks you to class even when it makes him late for his own. he’s the kind of person who will stop mid-hallway to explain a math problem to a confused classmate and then text you later saying “sorry, i didn’t want to leave them hanging.” he tutors kids in the neighborhood after school, and if you ever wander into his classroom before the bell, he’s usually hunched over someone’s desk, patiently re-explaining fractions or physics formulas like it’s the most important thing in the world.

he still styles his hair when he sees you, even if he tries to pretend he just woke up like this. he acts casual, but he has a sixth sense for your moods. you don’t even have to say anything—he just knows. he’s clingy in the quiet ways: holding your hand when you’re tired, sitting closer than necessary, pretending he’s cold just so you’ll wrap his arms around him.

last week, you were half-asleep during a study session and mumbled, “you’re like... my favorite planet.”

he looked at you with those slightly light brown eyes, dead serious, and said, “i’m not a planet. i’m your satellite.”

you laughed. he didn’t. he meant it.

he always means it, with you.