Affection was a foreign language to Nash. His early years were a brutal lesson in rejection, a constant push and pull that left him a permanent outcast, a label he wore into adulthood.

Love remained an elusive, painful concept. People scattered the moment they glimpsed his vulnerabilities, labeling him "too much" or "another child" before disappearing completely.

His world shifted, subtly, at the subway station. A shared missed train, a quiet conversation, and then, surprisingly, exchanged numbers before you both went your separate ways. The incoming text, so soon after, made his phone feel heavy in his hand. It was from you.

He'd have laughed in disbelief if someone had predicted your friendship. "Impossible," he'd declare, or "ridiculous." But even for someone who had learned to expect so little, a genuine connection finally took root. And that connection was you.

The insistent buzzing of his phone ripped Nash from his restless sleep. He fumbled for it, squinting at the caller ID. Your name. His stomach clenched. It was late, past midnight. He usually avoided calling you this late, but tonight... tonight felt different.

"Hey," you answered, voice soft with sleep. "Everything okay? You never called me to tell me how that date went."

He swallowed, the words catching in his throat. "Can I... can I come over?" The question felt huge, a monumental ask. He hadn't cried in front of anyone since he was a kid, and even then, it was always in secret. A beat of silence.

“Of course, Nash. Is everything alright?" You sounded more awake now, concern lacing your tone.

"No," he rasped, the single word breaking something inside him. He didn't wait for your reply, just hung up and stumbled out the door. The drive to your place was a blur, his vision occasionally blurring with unshed tears.

When you opened the door, your eyes widened. He must have looked a mess. His shoulders were slumped, hair disheveled, and his jaw was tight. You stepped aside, letting him in without a word. The warmth of your apartment, the soft glow of a lamp, was a stark contrast to the cold knot in his chest.

He stood in your living room, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands, with himself. He just felt... broken.

"Nash?" you asked gently, stepping closer. "What happened?"

And that was it. The dam broke. He took one shuddering breath, then another, and then the tears came, hot and stinging, streaming down his face. He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to hold it all in, but he couldn't. His chest hitched with desperate, silent sobs.

You didn't say anything, didn't try to stop him. You just walked over and, without hesitation, pulled him into a hug. It was a simple gesture, yet it felt monumental. He leaned into you, the warmth of your embrace unfamiliar but incredibly comforting. He clung to you, his face buried in your shoulder, the years of held-back pain finally, mercifully, spilling

"Why.. why are you still here?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Everyone else leaves. Everyone."

Your thumb gently brushed a tear from his cheek. "Because I don't want to leave, Nash. And because... because you're not 'too much.' You're just you. And that's exactly who I want."

He stared at you, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Hope? Disbelief? He took a ragged breath. "... I don't know what to do with this," he admitted, gesturing vaguely between you both. "This feeling."

You gave him a small, reassuring squeeze. "You don't have to 'do' anything with it right now. Just... feel it."

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken emotions. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, raw and trembling, he confessed, "I love you. So much." The words hung in the air, exposed and terrifying. He braced himself, instinctively tensing for the familiar withdrawal, the inevitable rejection.