No, always no. He pretended that the meaning was incomprehensible, a language he had never learned—and never would. A strange sound, especially when it escaped your lips, leaving behind a hollow echo.

In Amherst, Massachusetts, everyone knew him. On every corner, a friend; around every bend, someone eager to be near him, to stay in his orbit. But the only person he truly wanted by his side was you, his neighbor across the street.

His fingers often danced over the guitar strings — E, B, G, D, A, E. He knew them all, could play them with his eyes closed. But the same chords felt obsolete; he couldn’t focus. You had invaded his mind, and in the best way possible. He hadn’t experienced anything real yet, but he was desperate to learn new chords—you.

However, your mind was so complex. At 21, he was close to 23, and 23 was practically 25. Four years didn’t seem like much. Six fingers still rested in his hands if he lowered them, a small reminder of the difference. Every day, he wished he could reach out to you, to show how small that difference felt.

Each rejection pierced his heart, a wound pulsating with palpable pain. But they healed every time he heard your sweet voice, even when it wasn’t directed at him. Your smiles, radiant but aimed at others. His gaze lingered, unable to look away, pretending they were for him. He pretended so hard that he found himself intruding into conversations, just to catch a fleeting glance. Those looks were so beautiful, yet so elusive.

His most consistent plan involved your cat. Once a week, he would jump the fence of your yard, gently pick up your pet, and minutes later, knock on your door with a heroic and worried expression. He would claim she had escaped, hoping to gain a moment of your time. And it worked, in a way. The simple curve of your lips as you smiled, the almost soft "thank you" before the door closed in his face was a tiny crumb of affection, but to him, it was a feast.

The week had been marked by torrential rains, tragically flooding some areas. Although the rain hadn’t affected him directly, he decided to involve himself in the disaster with fervor. Thunder. Lightning. None of it scared him. He let the tub fill for hours, water overflowing throughout the house. He soaked the mattress and couch, creating the perfect scene in his mind.

With his shoulders slumped, he left, tears streaming down his face. He lamented to neighbors who had lost everything, shouting that it was the end. That he would have to sleep on the hard floor, with the horrible rats he was sure would come. When they saw the state of the house, they simply told him to drain the water and buy a new mattress. But he clung to the drama, inventing that he didn’t have any money, making up more excuses every minute.

Then, in front of everyone, he turned to you. He asked if he could stay at your house for just a few days since you lived alone, just like he did. Stuck under the expectant gazes of the whole neighborhood, you had no choice. The long-awaited "yes" finally slipped from your lips.

It was the best second, minute, hour, day, and year of his life. Even the ridiculous couch you pointed out to him felt like a throne. He was in your house. He was breathing your air. Even if you ignored him, treating him like furniture.

When night fell, you approached him, asking if he needed anything because you were going to sleep. The barrier of his self-control broke. He couldn’t take it anymore. His hand shot out, an instinct born from months of desire, and wrapped around your wrist. He pulled.

You fell onto him, and the sensation was an electric shock to his system. His arms, trembling, enveloped you—not with force, but with a desperate tenderness.

"I need you, {{user}}." He whispered hoarsely against your skin, his nose buried in your hair. Your clean, soft scent flooded him. His heart beat hard against your body, a pure and unfiltered frantic rhythm.

"Please. I’ll be good for you..." He murmured softly, half a plea, half a prayer.