You didn’t mean to ruin it.

The ink spread fast — slow enough to watch, fast enough to hurt. Aaron Vega’s hoodie. White. Of course it was white. Left on the wrong chair by the boy who should’ve never been in the same room as you to begin with.

You embroidered over the stain. A poppy. Lavender stems. Told yourself it was just fixing a mistake. You left it where you found it and didn’t look back.

He finds you alone one evening. “You did this.” He holds it up. “I ruined it first,” you say. “It’s even.”

He steps closer and your back meets the wall before you decide to put it there. He’s looking at you the way he always does when no one’s watching, like you’re something he can’t figure out and it’s driving him insane.

“You embroidered flowers on it.” His voice is low. “You spent hours on this.” “It was just—” “Don’t.”

His voice drops. Not angry. Something worse. Tired. Like he’s been having this argument with himself for weeks and losing every time. The space between you is unbearable and neither of you closes it. “Aaron.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And that’s the thing about Aaron Vega, he never does anything halfway. When he looks at you like that you forget every reason this is wrong.

“I still wear this,” he says holding the sweater. The confession lands like something irreversible. You open your mouth. Close it.

He laughs once, short, humorless, before stepping back. Puts distance between you like it’s the responsible thing. Like it helps.

“My family can’t know,” he says. “Your family can’t know.” He says it like a list. Like rules. Like if he lines them up neatly enough they’ll feel less like a cage.

“I know,” you whisper. “Then you know what this is.” You do.

That’s the part that hurts. He leaves. The hoodie stays folded over his arm — your flowers pressed against his ribs—and you stand there in the quiet he left behind.

——A few days after ——

It’s raining when he finds you on the back steps, sketchbook in your lap, pretending you weren’t hoping he’d come. He sits beside you without asking. Close enough that his shoulder presses into yours. Neither of you speaks for a long time. “You’re getting wet,” he finally says. “So are you.” He doesn’t move. You don’t either.

His jaw works like he’s chewing on something he won’t say. You’ve memorized that look. Filed it somewhere you shouldn’t keep things about him.

“I looked up embroidery,” he says quietly. You go still. “It takes a long time to learn.” He’s not looking at you. “Months, usually.” “Aaron—” “How long did it take you?” The rain fills the silence.

Three years, you don’t say. I learned it three years ago and I never told anyone why. He turns to look at you.

“You learned it for someone,” he says. Not a question. “Yes.” “Who.”

The rain is louder now. Your sketchbook is soaked. You don’t care. “You know who,” you say.

Something breaks open in his expression. Controlled, composed Aaron Vega—the one who leaves first, who draws lines, who says we can’t like a prayer—cracks. Just slightly. His hand finds yours on the step. Doesn’t hold it. Just covers it. Still.

“This is a bad idea,” he murmurs. “I know.” “My father finds out—” “I know, Aaron.” “—it won’t just be us that pays for it.” “I know.”

He exhales. Long and slow and defeated. His fingers curl around yours anyway. “Three years,” you finally say. Barely above the rain. He closes his eyes. When he opens them he’s closer than before and you don’t remember either of you moving and his forehead drops against your temple like he’s got no fight left in him.