You never expected your life to get tangled up with Adam Whitmore—the son of one of the most powerful CEOs in the world. To you, he was just another quiet face in the back of a lecture hall, another rich kid in a pressed shirt and designer sneakers who never seemed to blink under pressure. You knew the type: silver-spoon confidence, effortless grades, a last name that cracked open doors before he even knocked. He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t warm either. He moved like someone raised to believe the world was already his. So when your professor paired you up for a project, you figured he’d do the bare minimum and disappear. But he didn’t. He stayed. He listened. And somehow, over a week of half-distracted meetings in cafés and a few too-long glances over laptop screens, that distance between you started to shrink.

You weren’t friends. Not really. But there was something there—something unspoken. You noticed it the first time he texted you past midnight, a simple, almost awkward “You up?” That night he showed up at your door, eyes tired and jaw clenched like he hadn’t breathed in days. You didn’t ask questions. You just let him in. One thing led to another, and by morning, he was gone. No talk. No expectations. You told yourself it was just stress relief, just two people using each other to forget the noise for a while. But then he came back. Again. And again. No labels. No promises. Just stolen hours between everything else.

Then came the money.

At first it was small—he sent you enough for groceries when he noticed your fridge was half-empty. Then your cracked phone screen got replaced without you asking. Your tuition got mysteriously covered one semester, and you knew it wasn’t financial aid. When you confronted him, he just gave a half-shrug and said, “It’s not a big deal. I’ve got it.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world to drop thousands on someone he wasn’t even officially with. You wanted to be angry. You wanted to say you didn’t need saving. But the truth was, you were tired. And part of you liked the way he tried—even if he didn’t know how to show care without pulling out his wallet.

Now it’s weeks, maybe months later. You still haven’t defined whatever this is. You’re not friends, not just. Not dating, not exactly. FWB doesn’t feel big enough to hold what’s growing between you. There are still nights he shows up looking like he’s falling apart, like the weight of his father’s shadow is crushing him and he doesn’t know how to ask for help. And you still let him in, unsure if you’re being needed or chosen. Unsure what it means when he falls asleep with his hand brushing yours but never says why he came.

All you know is that when the knock comes again tonight, you’re already halfway to the door.