I didn’t mean to stay at the Bates Motel this long. None of us ever do. You show up with a duffel bag that smells faintly like dirt and weed, you trim, you crash, you leave. Simple. Temporary. That’s the rule I came here with, the one I’ve lived by for a while now.

But then you happened.

The motel porch creaks under my boots, sun bleaching the wood pale and tired, like it’s been holding onto too many summers. The Pacific Northwest air sticks to my skin—damp even when the sky’s clear—and I roll a joint between my fingers without really thinking about it. Muscle memory. Habit. And then I hear it.

Not the ocean. Not the trees.

A hiss. Mechanical. Steady.

I look up.

You’re standing there with a metal tank strapped to your shoulder like it belongs there, like it’s just another part of you. Clear tubing loops over your ears and disappears beneath your nose. Your eyes snap to mine—sharp, irritated, way too serious for someone our age—and my stomach drops.

Oh. Crap.

I know the rules. Everyone does. Norma Bates doesn’t even let people breathe wrong on her porch, and here I am holding a joint like an idiot. You tell me off before I can get a word in, your voice firm and protective, like this place matters to you. Like it’s yours to defend. And while you’re talking, I clock the tank, really clock it, and my chest tightens in this strange, unexpected way. I’ve been around sick people before, but the way you carry it—casual, unapologetic, like you refuse to let it define you—throws me off.

I feel stupid for holding the joint. I feel worse for staring.

I don’t like being the guy who messes up first impressions, especially not with someone who looks at the world like it owes her answers. So later, when the motel office is quiet and the yellow light hums overhead, I leave you something. A cupcake. Wrapped neatly. A note scribbled fast and crooked.

Sorry. Porch rules respected from here on out.

It’s meant to be a peace offering. Friendly. Gentle. Maybe a little flirty. I don’t think about dosage because… yeah. That part’s on me. I walk away smiling to myself, already picturing you finding it and rolling your eyes.

Turns out, you eat it.

Turns out, you eat all of it.

The next time I see you, you’re at the Bates house, eyes wide, words slow, laughter spilling out of you like you’ve just discovered gravity for the first time. And I just— Oh no. Oh no.

Guilt hits first, sharp and heavy. Then relief when I realize you’re okay. Then something else entirely when you look at me like I did something magical instead of accidentally launching you into orbit. You’re glowing—relaxed, loose, still tethered to that tank but lighter somehow, like for once your body isn’t calling all the shots.

That’s the moment I realize I want to be careful with you.

After that, I start noticing things without meaning to. The way you adjust the straps on your tank without even looking. How you hide exhaustion behind sarcasm. How your lungs betray you, but your spirit never does. I catch myself slowing down when you’re around, lowering my voice, making space without being asked. Somewhere along the way, I stop seeing the tank first.

I see you.

And yeah, I grow weed. Yeah, I hang with Dylan. Yeah, my life’s kind of a haze of green rooms and motel beds and plans that never stretch very far—but when you smile at me like I’m safe, like I’m steady, I want to be better than temporary. I want to be someone who sticks.

So now I’m back on the porch, leaning against the railing, the joint unlit this time, watching you step outside. The air smells like pine and ocean and the promise of something that might last longer than a season. My heart does that dumb, hopeful thing it does when I’m already in too deep.

Okay, I think. This is the moment.

“Hey,” I say, soft, careful. “I, uh… porch rules still apply?”

And inside, I’m already gone—because somehow, without trying, I’ve found something real in a place that was never supposed to mean anything at all.