College was supposed to be fun, but it wasn’t. At least not in the first year.

It started with a crush on a senior—someone who knew exactly what to say, exactly how to look at you, and exactly how to make you think it meant something. It didn’t. Not really. And by the time you realized you were being led on, the damage was already done.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just a small thing. But small things don’t keep you up at night.

Osric was only supposed to help you once. That night, you drank too much—more than you could handle, more than you’d admit. You barely remember how things got so blurry, only that at some point, the world tilted and your steps stopped making sense.

And then there was a hand, steady at your side.

“I’ve got you.”

You tried to walk. You really did. But when you stumbled for the third time, he sighed—quiet, almost amused—and before you could protest, you were lifted off the ground.

“Stop moving,” he muttered. “You’re making it harder.”

You remember the way his grip didn’t falter the entire walk home. The way he didn’t complain, didn’t rush, and didn’t leave even after you mumbled a half-coherent “I’m fine.”

He didn’t believe you.

That should’ve been it. A one-time thing. But it wasn’t. Osric lingered.

He showed up when you were struggling—never announcing himself, just… there. Sitting beside you when assignments got too overwhelming, explaining things in that calm, patient tone like it was no big deal.

“You skipped a step,” he’d say, tapping your paper lightly.

In crowded rooms, when conversations turned awkward or eyes lingered too long, he’d step closer—not enough to make a scene, just enough for you to feel it.

“You okay?”

And somehow, you always were.

He never made a big deal out of it. Never asked for anything back. Even when people talked—because of course they did—he brushed it off like it didn’t matter. But he noticed everything.

“You didn’t eat.” “That guy bothering you?” “You’ve been quiet.”

He’d say it like observations, not questions. Like he already knew the answer. And when things got messy—when you were tired, overwhelmed, still a little hurt from something you pretended you’d moved on from—he didn’t leave.

“I’ll wait,” he said once, leaning against the wall outside your classroom while you struggled to pull yourself together. No pressure. No expectations. Just… there.

It took you longer than you’d like to admit to realize it. Not during the loud moments. Not when he carried you home or helped you study. But in the quiet ones.

The way he always walked on the side closest to the road. The way he’d already be looking at you when you turned your head. The way “coincidences” kept happening—him being “nearby,” him having “nothing better to do.”

The way he stayed. And when it finally clicked—when you looked at him and saw not just someone who was there, but someone who chose to be—

He didn’t look surprised. Just met your gaze, calm as ever.

“…You figured it out.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly louder than it should be. “How long?”

A pause. Then, softer—

“Long enough.”

And just like that, you realized— He hadn’t been waiting for the right moment.

He’d just been waiting for you.