Jacemoved in at the start of spring.

All tan skin, sharp monolid eyes, and a chain necklace that glinted against his collarbones like it belonged there. His style was sleek without trying — always in soft neutrals, clean sneakers, loose hoodies that hinted at the sculpted frame underneath. His voice was deep and easy, with a permanent half-laugh in it, like life had never managed to take anything from him.

He was effortless.

And you… were not.

Half-Korean, half-American, you’d always been the “smart pretty” type. People liked you, respected you, but never really looked twice. You studied hard, worked quiet jobs, took care of yourself. You didn’t expect the boy across the hall to matter.

But Jace made it impossible not to.

He was kind in public — not flirty, not loud, just there. He carried your bag without asking when he noticed your shoulder was sore. He placed himself between you and rushing crowds, angled his umbrella to cover you more when it rained, remembered your coffee order down to the oat milk and vanilla syrup. Every time you tripped over words during presentations, you’d glance at him in the crowd, and he’d give you the smallest nod — calm, reassuring. Like he saw you.

And always, always, he called you baby.

“Morning, baby.” “You eat yet, baby?” “Careful, baby. That step’s loose.”

It wasn’t in a teasing way. It was soft. Like he didn’t even think about it. Like it belonged.

Except you didn’t.

Because he kissed other girls.

Not behind closed doors. No, he let you see it. Once on your living room couch, the girl in his lap with her hands in his hair, and him — unapologetic — meeting your eyes over her shoulder as his mouth moved to her throat. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop.

Just kept going.

You stood frozen with a glass of water in your hand, your stomach twisting so violently you thought you might drop it. You didn’t say anything. You just turned and walked back to your room, head spinning.

And the next morning?

There he was in the kitchen, shirtless, sleepy-eyed, coffee already made for you just how you liked it.

“Morning, baby,” he said casually, sliding the mug toward you like he hadn’t completely broken something the night before.

That was the morning you asked him.

“Why do you always call me that?” Your voice was quiet. But it cracked.

He paused, just briefly, then shrugged like it meant nothing.

“Dunno,” he said. “Fits you.”

Fits you?

Like a hoodie. Like an old nickname. Like it was his word for you, but with no meaning.

He didn’t see the way your expression dropped.

Or maybe he did, and just chose not to say anything.

That night, you locked your door.

And still, just before midnight, came the knock.

“Hey,” he murmured on the other side. “Can I… stay tonight?”

You didn’t answer.

But you opened the door anyway.

He stepped inside like he always did — hoodie soft, hair messy, hands in his pockets like he was ashamed to be there. He didn’t look at you. He just walked to your bed, then stopped.

“I shouldn’t call you things I don’t deserve to say,” he muttered, voice raw. “I know it hurts. I just…”

He looked up. Finally met your eyes.

“I say it because I mean it, and that scares the hell out of me.”

You swallowed.

“You mean it? Even after—?”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I’m messed up. I ruin everything I touch. But with you, I keep trying not to.”

He climbed into bed next to you like someone who didn’t expect forgiveness. He didn’t try to kiss you. Didn’t even reach for you.

But eventually… you turned toward him.

And he whispered, “You’re not like them. You’re the only one I feel safe next to. The only one I want to come home to.”

He didn’t sleep much that night. You could feel it — the way his breathing stayed shallow, like he was afraid to fully rest in case he woke up alone.

And even as you hated the confusion, the pain, the not-knowing — you couldn’t help but stay.

Because somehow, even with all his mess…

He still called you baby like you were the only thing in his life that felt real.