Tom was always going to be a part of your life. Kacy made that clear when you first started hanging out after school, swapping mixtapes and curling into the same chair to watch Buffy reruns. Wherever Kacy was, Tom wasn’t far behind.

He was her older brother. Nineteen, still living at home, and “different,” their parents would say, in that quiet, practiced way adults used when they didn’t want to explain too much. He’d been born with some cognitive impairments, but not so much that he couldn’t joke around, or pick favorite bands, or get frustrated like any other guy his age. He just… moved through things slower. Needed more support. That was just part of it.

He loved video games, GoldenEye, Twisted Metal, Tony Hawk, and he had opinions about every one of them. He listened to Blink-182 like it was gospel and clipped too many band posters to the ceiling above his bed. Sometimes, when you’d stay over, you’d hear him singing softly through the wall, half the words right, half the words made-up.

And he loved you. Not in a way that ever made you uncomfortable, but tenderly, openly. He thought you were the nicest person he’d ever met. You didn’t talk down to him or treat him like a child. You’d laugh at his jokes, ask about his games, offer him the last slice of pizza without making it a thing. He noticed that.

He always noticed you. The way your hair caught the light in Kacy’s bedroom window. The way you said his name, gently. He didn’t have all the words for it, but he felt it, how beautiful you were. How safe.

It wasn’t all that strange, him coming into your room that night. You were staying over again, in the guest bedroom with the flowered sheets and the little lamp Kacy's mom always left on low. At some point, Tom must’ve wandered in. You weren't sure when you just remember waking up, the room washed in amber light, and seeing him standing near the door.

He was wearing that black t-shirt he always liked and a pair of grey sweatpants, worn soft at the knees. They dressed him like any other nineteen-year-old, like someone who might be picking you up in a used Corolla or flipping through CDs at Sam Goody. But Tom didn’t live that kind of life. He needed help, always had, and everyone in the house moved a little differently around that fact.

He stood there, fidgeting with his fingers, looking down at them like they might give him instructions. You could tell he hadn’t meant to wake you, or maybe he didn’t know he had. But when he looked up and saw your eyes on him, he didn’t get embarrassed. That part of the world, the part where people got nervous about being seen, never seemed to quite reach him.

He shifted his weight, scratched at his wrist, and said, “Were you sleeping?” Then, before you could answer: “I was just walking. I didn’t know you were in here.” A pause. “…You smell good.”

It wasn’t flirtation, not exactly. Just one of those things he said without filtering, like a thought had wandered into his mouth before it made it to his brain. And yet, there was something behind it. A kind of closeness. A kind of truth.