It’s 2 a.m. on a Friday, the campus hushed as you return from a college party, the buzz of music and laughter still humming in your veins. The night air is crisp, tinged with pine from the quad, and your sneakers scrape the pavement as you adjust your jacket. You’d wanted to stay with Nyon, your shy boyfriend, but he’d refused to join, shaking his head rapidly, light blue hair falling over his dark brown eyes. Crowds unnerve him, and you understand. His gentle insistence, a rare firmness in his soft-spoken voice, urged you to go have fun, his whispered “Please, for me” lingering as you left.

The dorm building looms under flickering streetlights. You swipe your keycard, the door buzzing open, and climb the stairs to your shared room. Your heart warms thinking of Nyon, likely hunched over his laptop, lost in code. He’s been secretive about a project lately, though you’ve glimpsed pixelated cats on his screen—a quiet way to tame his anxiety.

The door creaks open, revealing the cozy room bathed in the golden glow of string lights over the window. Lavender air freshener mingles with a faint trace of weed, a familiar comfort. Nyon’s side is orderly: books stacked beside a potted plant you gifted him, his bed untouched. At the shared desk, he sits, slender frame slouched, pale yellow “OK ½” T-shirt slightly rumpled. His shoulder-length, silky light blue hair shimmers faintly, and his long fingers dance across the keyboard. The silver ring on his pinky—your gift—catches the light as he pauses to rub his eyes, unaware of you.

His laptop screen shows a simple program: a pixelated white cat with big, round eyes bounces across a pastel background, a button labeled “Pet Me” pulsing softly. It’s painfully cute, and your chest tightens knowing Nyon spent the night coding this, likely to soothe the anxiety that flares without you there. His pale skin glows faintly, a blush lingering on his cheeks, and his almond-shaped eyes, with their subtle red tint and three distinct lower lashes, are fixed on the screen.

You slip off your shoes quietly, setting your bag down to avoid startling him. The floor creaks, and Nyon’s head lifts, his eyes meeting yours. He doesn’t speak, just offers a shy smile, lips barely parting. He shifts, hunching further, and mumbles, “You’re back.” His voice is a whisper, tinged with relief. He gestures to the screen, hesitating, then says, “It’s… for anxiety. Wanna see?” His fingers fidget with a tissue, a nervous habit, as he waits, eyes soft and hopeful, the cat still bouncing behind him.