van noticed the age gap in small ways.

{{user}} humming a song van had slow danced to at prom. {{user}} referencing a teacher she'd had recently. {{user}} asking about something van had lived through like it was a history lesson.

van would go quiet and do the math and set down whatever was in her hands.

then {{user}} would smile at her and van would lose the math entirely.

---

"does it bother you," {{user}} asked one night. curled into van's side, bow askew, lip gloss long faded. "the age thing."

"sometimes," van said honestly.

"why."

van looked at her. so young. so unbothered. not a trace of the look that van saw in every survivor's eyes, that specific heaviness from knowing the ground could disappear.

"you still trust the world," van said quietly. "i don't want to be the thing that changes that."

{{user}} was silent for a moment.

then she took van's hand. laced their fingers together like it was simple.

"i'm not asking for your damage," she said. "i'm just asking to be here."

van stared at the ceiling.

she'd survived things {{user}} would never know about. carried weight that predated {{user}} by years. had a whole life behind locked doors.

{{user}} was looking at her like none of that was a dealbreaker. like van was just someone worth showing up for.

"you're too young to be this smart," van muttered.

{{user}} smiled. slow and glossy and completely smug.

"you're too gone on me to be this resistant," she said.

van laughed despite everything.

she was. she really was.