[Editing]

"I see you love puzzles too," I said, nodding toward the collection of Rubik's cubes lined in perfect rows across Winston's desk. "Have you ever seen a giant one?"

"You mean the world's largest Rubik's Cube?" he asked.

I nodded.

He shook his head. "No."

"Do you think you could solve it?"

He looked down at his hands, small and pale against the hardcover of his book. "With my small frame, it'd probably be difficult... but yes. I think I can."

My smile widened. "Great. Then let's solve it together one day, shall we?"

He finally put down his book and turned to me fully, but his smile disappeared just as fast as it came. His shoulders sagged, and he looked down at his lap.

"I'm not allowed to go out alone," he said, voice barely more than a whisper.

My gaze darted to Wallace.

"But you wouldn't be alone," I said gently. "We'll go together."

Winston looked at me then, like he didn't quite believe me. "Really? You'll come with me?"

"Of course," I said, softening my tone. "But... your brother takes you outside sometimes, right?"

Winston's face dropped. He turned to Wallace with something in his eyes and shook his head.

"He never takes you out to play?" I frowned and turned sharply to Wallace. "What have you been doing these past months since you came back?"

Wallace shifted on his feet. "I mean... I asked him to go to the museum with me once. He said no."

"So, nothing?" My voice came out flatter than I intended, but I didn't take it back.

Wallace scratched the back of his neck and avoided my eyes.

I thought he came back to reconnect, to mend things. But he couldn't even take his little brother to the park? To breathe beyond the walls of this house?

Winston wasn't complaining, but I recognized the silence of a child who had already learned not to ask for too much.

Deciding Wallace didn't deserve my attention right now, I turned fully to Winston and asked about his favorite books and how he solved his puzzles.

Wallace tried to chime in a few times, but I steered the conversation away each time.

And with each time I did, Winston grinned a little more.

I didn't care if it made Wallace feel left out. Maybe he needed to sit with that discomfort.

It might not be my business but Winston reminded me too much of myself. The way joy only peeked out in small, stolen moments. I had lived that silence. I wasn't going to let him stay in it.

A few minutes passed. Then Wallace loudly cleared his throat.

"Des," he said with mock impatience. "Aren't you going to tutor me?"

I had just reached for another book from the mini bookshelf. My hand froze midair.

A strange warmth pulsed through me then. Comfort. Belonging. It settled over the room like a soft quilt.

The realization made me pause, a small smile tugging at my lips before I even noticed it. And for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was part of something small—but meaningful.

As I turned toward them, I caught Wallace shaking his head with a quiet chuckle, his lips twitching into a smile.

"Well, this is new," he muttered.

I cleared my throat, then helped Winston place some of the books back on the shelf. I crouched down to face him one more time.

"Alright, we'll leave you to your reading now," I said, brushing a bit of lint off his shoulder.

"I'll tell you when we'll see that giant Rubik's Cube, okay?" he replied, wide-eyed and earnest.

My smile stretched wider. "Sure. I'll be waiting."

Though I had no idea how he'd contact me...

Wallace walked over and ruffled his little brother's hair. It was the most brotherly thing I'd seen him do. Then he turned to me, offering his hand.

I hesitated, then let him help me to my feet. His hand was warm and steady.

"Just come to my room if you need me, okay?" he told Winston.

The boy gave a small nod, then glanced at me again. I smiled once more before Wallace led me out.

As the door clicked shut behind us, a slant of light from the hallway spilled across Wallace's face, casting soft amber against the shadows of his jaw. There was something unreadable in his eyes.

"He likes you," he said quietly.

"I like him too."

His mouth tugged into a smile but mine didn't. Because the image of Winston's disappointed face still lingered like an imprint on my mind.

I stopped walking and turned, stepping in front of him.

"How could you?" I asked, my voice low but firm.

Wallace blinked, caught off guard.

"I did invite him to play though—" he began.

"Still! You didn't even try after he said no?" My voice came sharper than I intended, cracking at the edge. "You left for half a year, Wallace. Half a year. You can't just show up and expect him to fall back in step like nothing's changed."

He looked past me, down the hallway, exhaling as he dragged a hand through his hair, messing it up like that could somehow shake the guilt loose.

"I just..." He hesitated. "I don't know how to get close to him again. He doesn't like the stuff we used to do. He won't laugh at my jokes. He barely even talks to me unless he has to."

My anger softened, dimmed by the ache in his voice.

"This is why you can't disappear on a kid," I murmured, quieter now. "They don't stay the same. And when they grow up without you, they learn how not to need you anymore."

A beat passed.

Wallace looked at me, and this time there was only something raw in the way his eyes settled on mine.

"Thank you," he said. "For making him smile."

I looked away, heart thudding far too loud for the silence between us.

One smile from him, and the butterflies in my stomach stirred again.

Was that why he brought me here? To meet Winston?

I slid my hand into my bag, pulled out my phone, and tapped quickly.'

"You should really thank me," I muttered, then turned the screen toward him. "I just booked two tickets to the Supersized Toy Museum. You're taking him. No excuses."

He stared at the screen for a second, then at me. His grin came slowly, curling at the corners like it couldn't help itself.

Without a word, he reached over and patted my head, maddeningly gentle.

"Come on," he murmured, inclining his head down the hallway. "My room's this way."

He turned and walked ahead without waiting.

I stood still for a moment, pressing a hand lightly to my chest, trying to steady whatever he had stirred awake inside me.

Then I followed him.

We reached the end of the hall, and Wallace stopped in front of a door. Without a word, he pushed it open and stepped aside, one hand still on the handle. He angled his body toward me, head slightly tilted, eyes steady and unreadable.

I froze.

It hit me suddenly and embarrassingly that I was about to enter a boy's room.

Which was absurd, considering I had just come from Winston's. But this wasn't Winston. This was Wallace.

And somehow, his room felt like crossing a far more intimate line.

Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way he was watching me—quiet, patient, not saying a single word as if waiting for me to make the choice.

My heart thudded with a soft kind of panic, the flutter in my stomach getting harder to ignore.

It's just a room, Desiree. Just a room. Just Wallace.

I'm about to step into Wallace's room...!!

My hand grazed the doorframe for balance as I finally stepped inside.

The unfamiliar surroundings grounded me, pulling me out of my head.

It was a simple room, though surprisingly spacious—wider, more open than I expected. No gold trim or overdone luxury. Just clean lines, natural wood, and the kind of space that whispered influence without needing to shout it.

Just... quietly his.

A queen-sized bed rested against the left wall, the navy sheets creased and rumpled at the corners, like he only ever half-tried to fix them. A tall window stretched along the right side, letting in long blades of afternoon light that spilled across pale wooden floors, dust motes floating lazily in the beams.

The walls were mostly bare, with only three posters clinging to the space—an old rock band, a boxing legend mid-punch, and a solar eclipse caught in perfect darkness.

The desk beneath the window was cluttered, papers and notebooks splayed open as though they'd been wrestled with rather than written on. A pen without its cap. A huge shale-green water tumbler. A pair of earphones tangled in the mess.

To the side stood a shelf filled with books—mostly about music—and trophies shoved to the back like he didn't want to look at them anymore.

I slowly approached the bed, where a guitar rested lazily against the footboard, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the light.

I wondered if I'd ever hear him play it for me.

Then my eyes drifted back to the desk.

Notebooks lay scattered in a kind of organized chaos, pages open. I picked one up without thinking, flipping through its contents. Problem sets. Diagrams. Formulas lined the paper in ink—many of them crossed out with thick strokes, rewritten and circled, like he was trying to wrestle the right answer into place.

Mistakes. Lots of them. But the kind that came from effort.

I glanced over my shoulder.

Wallace was hunched near the bed, tugging the corners of his sheets straight with a scowl of concentration. His movements were quick, almost agitated.

A small smile crept onto my lips before I could stop it.

So, he did study on his own.

Once he finished fussing over the bed, he moved on to his desk. Wordlessly, he gathered the messy stack of notebooks and placed them neatly to the side. Then he looked at me and nodded toward the desk chair.

"Here," he said.

I sat down while he crossed the room to grab a small, armless chair from the corner. He brought it over and settled beside me. Close, but not too close.

Still, the space between us felt charged.

There was silence, but not the empty kind. It buzzed with everything unspoken.

"So... where were we?" I asked, trying to sound casual, even as my skin prickled with awareness.

I was alone in a boy's room. His room. And it was Wallace sitting next to me, currently doing a terrible job hiding a smirk.

He sighed dramatically and snatched a pencil, twirling it between his fingers before tapping it against the desk.

"The same place we always are—me struggling, and you patiently teaching."

I chuckled. "You make it sound like you're cursed."

"I am cursed," he said solemnly. "Cursed with charm. Cursed with good looks. But tragically—tragically—doomed to fail algebra for eternity."

I gave him a flat look, even as a grin fought its way to the surface.

"Let's dive back in, shall we?" I said, flipping open the workbook to the last page we left off.

The pencil tapping stopped. His theatrics dimmed—for all of three seconds.

Then the page flipped to a word problem, and Wallace squinted at it like it had personally offended him.

"What kind of sadist writes this stuff?" he muttered. "Who in their right mind cares how long it takes for Train A and Train B to meet?"

I bit down a smile and started sketching a timeline in the margin, dragging my pencil in a slow, straight line.

"Someone who believes in the beauty of motion and math," I replied. "And maybe someone who just wanted to see students suffer."

"Mission accomplished, then." He leaned in, tapping the question like it owed him an apology. "Personally, I say crash the trains together and end the problem—and my misery—in one go."

"Grim," I said, suppressing a laugh. "But weirdly poetic."

"I'm a man of many depths."

"Mostly shallow ones," I added.

He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest like I'd wounded him. "Rude."

I kept explaining, letting the numbers guide my voice. But partway through the second equation, his frown darkened.

Then—thud.

He threw his pencil down and leaned back in his chair with a groan so dramatic it might've echoed in the hallway.

"I'm not cut out for this," he grumbled, rubbing his temples.

I stared at him, resisting the urge to smack some sense into him with the workbook.

And then—like a blessing from the petty gods—Franko's voice echoed in my mind.

"Why don't I just hack into his socials and post, 'Dad, I am truly sorry, but I am G-A-Y.' With the capital letters. Problem solved."

Honestly? At this point, I was seconds from texting Franko and giving him the green light.

But I took a breath instead, fighting to keep my tone calm.

"Remember what I said last time? You're not incapable, Wallace. Just lazy."

He narrowed his eyes at me like I'd just insulted his entire lineage. "You wound me."

"I can live with that." I looked him straight in the eye. "You think I'm a genius? I'm not. I just put in the hours. It's not magic. It's not talent. It's work. You could do it too—if you'd stop giving up before you start. So come on. Suck it up before I feed you this entire book."

He blinked. Then grinned. "You threaten violence so easily. It's honestly kind of hot."

I paused. "Wallace—"

"No, no, carry on. Don't let me distract you." He waved at the book. "Go on. Teach me, terrifying queen of quadratic equations."

I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly left orbit. "Seriously. Stop fighting yourself. Get comfortable with the subject. You always seem so uncomfortable with me."

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Why the hell did I even say that?

His smirk vanished. Silence stretched between us—soft, but heavy.

I stared down at the workbook, my heartbeat thudding like it had something to say too.

I shouldn't have said it. But the air between us had shifted, and pretending it hadn't wouldn't make it any lighter.

Still, I kept my voice even, gentler this time. "I'm here because I want to help. But if you don't want that... just say so. And I'll go."

Another pause. Longer than I liked.

"Fine," he finally said. "Let's try again."

Relief eased the tightness in my chest. I reached for the pencil again, ready to steer us back toward equations and timelines, when his chair suddenly scraped against the floor.

"Wha—?"

Before I could finish the thought, his arms wrapped around me. One slid under my knees, the other behind my back. With a single, fluid motion, he lifted me like I weighed nothing and sat back down, settling me directly onto his lap.

Time stopped. My breath caught somewhere between my ribs.

My side leaned awkwardly against his torso, my shoulder brushing his chest—firm and warm beneath his shirt. His body radiated heat. Both knees angled to one side, draped over his lap, my feet dangling slightly above the floor.

I sat stiffly, unsure where to place my hands—until I gripped the pencil tighter, as if it might keep me from unraveling entirely in his arms.

"What are you doing?" I managed, my voice barely more than a gasp.

He looked far too pleased with himself.

"Getting comfortable," he said smoothly, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

...

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