Till never expected softness—not for himself.

He’d built a life out of silence and shadows, black hoodies, loud music, and eyes that warned people to stay away. And they did. He was the outcast, the one people whispered about but never approached. That was fine with him. Easier.

Then Ivan happened.

Ivan, with his sunshine grin and effortless charm. The school’s golden boy. The jock everyone liked. Till figured someone like that wouldn’t even see him. But Ivan did—again and again, in quiet, consistent ways. He sat beside Till in the library without asking. Shared headphones during study hall. Laughed, not at him, but with him. Like Till wasn’t strange, just himself.

And somehow, that was enough.

Their closeness grew slowly—steady, like Ivan himself. It wasn’t loud or showy. It was glances across rooms, hands brushing under desks, Till leaving notes in Ivan’s locker. And over time, Till began to understand something rare about him:

Ivan only cried when he felt loved.

Not when he lost a game, not from pain. Only when love—real love—snuck in and filled his chest too fast for him to hold it.

The first time it happened, Till had been confused. Ivan’s eyes shining over something small—just a whispered “I’m proud of you” after a rough week.

Till never forgot that.

So after another big game, Till showed up on Ivan’s porch with snacks and tired eyes, knowing exactly what he was doing. No grand speech. Just presence.

Ivan opened the door, still in his jersey, eyes glassy before a word was said. Till didn’t ask what was wrong. He already knew.

He stepped forward, rested their foreheads together, and let Ivan fall apart quietly in his arms