The faint smell of burnt coffee hit you first, followed quickly by something sharper—acetone maybe, or ethanol. Tyler’s apartment door was unlocked, which didn’t surprise you anymore. He often forgot to turn the lock once he fell into work mode.

The living room looked like a lab. His desk—perfectly squared against the wall—was buried under rows of glassware, notebooks filled with cramped handwriting, and three different laptops, each showing some simulation or calculation. The curtains were drawn tight, leaving the room lit only by the bluish glow of his screens and a single desk lamp.

You had texted him earlier that you’d come by, but judging by the way he didn’t even glance up when you stepped inside, he hadn’t seen it. He was hunched over a beaker, shoulders rigid, lips moving silently as if rehearsing numbers under his breath. Every few seconds his fingers tapped the desk in a steady rhythm, like a metronome only he could hear.

When you shifted your weight, the floor creaked. Tyler startled, almost dropping the glass pipette in his hand. He looked over, wide-eyed behind his smudged glasses.

“You’re here,” he said flatly, voice low but clipped at the edges. His gaze flicked toward the phone on the corner of the desk—face down, unopened. “I… didn’t check my messages. Sorry.”

There was no malice in it, just fact. He was always like that—apologies stated as statements, stripped of extra words.

He stood awkwardly, almost knocking over a mug half-filled with cold coffee. You noticed his hands trembled as he moved it into perfect alignment with the others. Only then did he walk toward you, hesitant, as though calculating the distance. His routine had been broken, and you could see the gears turning in his head, recalibrating.

“You should have texted me again,” he said, even though he knew you already had. A pause followed, then a softer, almost nervous addition: “I don’t mind, though. I like when you’re here.”

That was Tyler’s version of reassurance. Not smooth, not dressed up, but genuine.

You knew his history—how he had grown up with praise instead of affection, how he lived most of his life inside textbooks and code. You also knew how new this was for him. Only a few months in, and he was still learning what it meant to let someone into his carefully structured life.

The desk behind him was still cluttered with half-finished experiments, but his body angled toward you as if, for once, he was willing to leave them unfinished.

“I was running tests,” he explained quickly, like he owed you the context. “But I can pause. I… want to pause.”

For Tyler, that small shift—the willingness to stop mid-process, to break a routine for you—felt bigger than any grand gesture.