Lunch at Ridgeway High always felt louder than it needed to be. Chairs scraping, people talking over each other, trays clattering—it all blended into this constant background noise that Noah usually tried to avoid. Normally, he’d be somewhere else. A corner table, maybe outside if the weather wasn’t bad, somewhere he didn’t have to think about where to look or how to sit.

But today, he was at the center of it.

At your table.

He still wasn’t used to that part. Sitting there felt... wrong, in a way he couldn’t fully explain, like he’d accidentally ended up in the wrong place and no one had noticed yet. His posture gave it away too—slouched a little, shoulders slightly tense, one hand loosely wrapped around a soda can he hadn’t really touched. His other hand rested near his tray, fingers tapping lightly against the plastic without him realizing it.

He kept his gaze low most of the time, not in a dramatic way, just... careful. Every now and then he’d glance up, usually toward you, then away again like he didn’t want to get caught staring. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look—it was more that he didn’t know what to do with himself when he did.

The weirdest part was how quiet everything felt around him.

Not literally. The cafeteria was still loud. But the usual comments, the random remarks, the stuff he’d gotten used to ignoring—it wasn’t happening. Not out loud, anyway. The football guys still looked over sometimes, especially Trent. That hadn’t changed. The looks weren’t subtle either, but they stopped there. No comments, no shoving past him in the halls, no casual insults thrown just loud enough to hear.

It should’ve felt like relief.

Instead, it just felt unfamiliar.

Noah shifted slightly in his seat, dragging his thumb along the side of the can before finally glancing over at you again. You were talking to someone else at the table, and for a second he just watched, quiet, like he was still trying to understand how this was his life now.

Dating you.

Even thinking it felt unreal.

A few nights ago, he’d been lying on his bed, phone flipped open, staring at your name on the screen after you’d sent something simple. Nothing important, just a message that shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. He’d typed out a response, erased it, typed again, erased that too, until he finally sent something short that probably sounded way more normal than he felt.

He still wasn’t used to texting you like that. Not as... this.

Before, it had all been distance. Now it was constant in this quiet, steady way.

He let out a small breath through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh to himself, then finally spoke, his voice low enough that it didn’t really carry past you.

“This is still... kinda weird,” he admitted, glancing down again for a second before looking back up, a little more direct this time. “Not—bad weird. Just...” He trailed off, lifting one shoulder slightly in a half shrug. “I don’t know. Didn’t think I’d ever be sitting here.”

His words were simple, but there was something honest in the way he said it, like he wasn’t trying to make it sound better than it was.

His fingers stilled against the can, and after a second, he added, a little quieter, “With you.”

There was a pause after that, not awkward exactly, just him thinking again. He always did that—said something, then went over it in his head like he needed to check if it sounded right.

He shifted slightly in his seat, leaning back just a bit, trying to relax into it even if it didn’t come naturally.

“Last night,” he started again, glancing at you briefly, “that CD I gave you—did you... actually listen to it? Or was it just... background noise?”

There was a faint hint of a smile when he said it, small and a little unsure, like he wasn’t fully confident in teasing you but was trying anyway. His thumb went back to tracing the edge of the can, a quiet habit, grounding himself without thinking about it.

For a second, his gaze flicked past you, toward the other side of the cafeteria where Trent was sitting. It wasn’t obvious, just a quick glance, but the shift in his expression was there—subtle, a little tighter around the edges. Then he looked back at you, and it softened again almost immediately, like the tension didn’t belong in the same space as you.

“Also,” he added, a little more hesitant now, “I was thinking... after school, if you’re not busy or anything, we could go to the mall? I get off early today.” He paused, then corrected himself quickly, “Not like—anything big. Just... walk around or whatever.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back out of his face, even though it fell forward again almost immediately.

“I mean, if you want,” he finished, quieter, like he didn’t want to assume anything.

His gaze settled on you again after that, steadier this time, even if there was still that underlying uncertainty. He didn’t look away as quickly now.

That part was new.

The bell above the door at Vinyl Haven gave its usual dull ring as someone walked in, but Noah didn’t look up right away. He was standing behind the counter, flipping through a stack of CDs that were already sorted, his fingers moving absentmindedly over plastic cases just to have something to do. The store was quiet, just the low hum of whatever indie track was playing overhead and the faint buzz of old fluorescent lights. It was his space—predictable, calm, somewhere he didn’t feel like he had to constantly watch himself.

He pushed one CD back into place, then another, barely paying attention until something made him glance up.

And then he froze.

Just for a second.

It wasn’t dramatic, nothing obvious—just a pause that lingered a little too long before he caught himself. His posture straightened slightly, his hand still resting on the edge of the counter like he forgot what he was doing mid-motion.

“Oh—hey.”

His voice came out a little quieter than he meant it to, like he hadn’t fully adjusted yet. He set the CDs down a bit too quickly, the plastic clacking softly against the counter as he tried to recover without making it obvious he’d been caught off guard.

“You didn’t say you were coming by.”

There was a small pause after that, like he realized how that might’ve sounded, and he shifted his weight, shrugging one shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to play it off.

“Not that it’s, uh... not cool,” he added quickly, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. “It’s cool. Just—unexpected, I guess.”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose, running a hand through his hair out of habit, pushing a few strands back even though they fell right into place again a second later. His fingers lingered there for a moment before dropping, like he needed that second to reset.

There was still something about this—about you being here—that didn’t feel completely real to him.

Not in a dramatic way. Just... unfamiliar.

A few weeks ago, if someone told him you’d walk into his shift like this—like it was normal, like this was just something you did—he wouldn’t have believed it. Honestly, he probably would’ve assumed it was a joke.

And now you were here. His girlfriend. In his space.

He glanced toward the aisles for a second, like he needed something to anchor himself, then gestured vaguely in that direction.

“I just got in some new stuff,” he said, his voice evening out a little as he slipped into something more comfortable. “Like—actual decent shipments for once, not just the same recycled junk.”

He paused again, rubbing the back of his neck briefly before continuing, a little more hesitant this time.

“I, uh... thought of you, actually.”

That hung there for half a second too long.

He winced slightly, more at himself than anything, letting out a quiet, almost awkward breath.

“Which—yeah, I don’t know if that sounds weird out loud,” he admitted, a small, nervous huff of a laugh slipping through. “It wasn’t weird in my head.”

His eyes flicked back to you, a little more steady now, even if there was still that underlying uncertainty in them. He wasn’t looking away as fast as he usually would’ve. That was new. Small, but noticeable.

There was something softer there too, something he didn’t quite know how to hide.

“Um—do you wanna see?” he added after a second, nodding lightly toward the back shelves. “There’s a couple things I think you’d like. Or—at least I think you would. I could be wrong.”

Another small pause.

“...I’m probably not wrong.”

That earned the faintest hint of a smile from him, quick and subtle, like he didn’t mean to show it for that long.

For a second, things settled into something quieter again. Normal, almost.

But even then, there were small details that gave him away.

The way his attention stayed on you a little too consistently, like he was still making sure you were actually there. The way he didn’t drift back into his usual detached routine. The way his shoulders stayed just slightly more tense than usual, like he was trying to get everything right without knowing exactly how.

Being your boyfriend still didn’t feel like something he fully understood.

Sitting with you at school, walking past people who used to treat him like he didn’t exist—or worse—and not hearing anything thrown his way anymore except the occasional look or quiet comment... it still threw him off sometimes. Especially when it came from Trent. That part hadn’t gone away, just changed shape.

But this—this was different.

Here, in this space, with you standing in front of him, none of that really mattered.

He shifted slightly, leaning back against the counter now, a little more settled than before, even if the nerves were still there under the surface.

“...You can hang out, by the way,” he added, a bit quieter again, but more sure this time. “I’m here for a while. It’s not busy or anything.”

He glanced at the empty store, then back at you.

“Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly, like he already knew the answer but wasn’t fully confident enough to assume it.

The mall was louder than it needed to be, the usual mix of music leaking out of different stores, people talking over each other, trays clattering from the food court. It was the kind of place Noah had spent a lot of time in before, but always on the edges—working his shift at Vinyl Haven, cutting through crowds without really being part of them, keeping his head down so no one had a reason to notice him.

Now he was sitting at one of the food court tables, across from you.

That part still hadn’t fully settled in.

The table was slightly sticky under his fingers, the kind that probably got wiped down in a hurry and never completely cleaned. A half-eaten tray of fries sat in front of him, but he hadn’t really touched them much. He’d pick one up every now and then, turn it between his fingers like he was deciding if he actually wanted it, then put it back down again.

His leg bounced faintly under the table, not enough to be obvious unless someone was paying attention, but it was there. Nervous habit. Same as the way he kept running his hand through his hair, pushing it back only for it to fall forward again a minute later.

He glanced up at you, just for a second.

Then immediately looked back down.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to look at you. It was the opposite, if anything. That was kind of the problem. Every time he did, there was this brief, quiet moment where something in his chest tightened, like his brain was still catching up to the fact that this was real—that you were actually sitting here with him, that this wasn’t something he was replaying later in his room wondering if it meant anything.

You were just... here.

With him.

He swallowed slightly, picking up another fry and finally taking a bite, more to give himself something to do than because he was hungry. His eyes flicked around the food court for a second, automatically scanning without meaning to. A group of guys from school sat a few tables over—football team. He recognized them instantly. They weren’t even trying to be subtle about it, the occasional glance in his direction, the low comments that didn’t quite carry over but didn’t need to.

Trent was there too.

Noah didn’t look at him directly. He didn’t need to.

He could feel it anyway.

A couple months ago, that would’ve been enough to make him get up and leave, or at least shut down completely. But now... it was different. Not gone, not comfortable, but different. The comments had mostly stopped. The constant stuff, the loud jokes, the pushing—it wasn’t happening like it used to.

Now it was just looks.

And even that felt... manageable, somehow.

He exhaled quietly through his nose and leaned back a little in his seat, forcing himself to focus on something else. On you. On this.

On the fact that somehow, against every expectation he’d ever had, he wasn’t alone right now.

His shoe nudged lightly against the shopping bag at his feet, and his attention dropped to it for a second.

Right.

That.

He hesitated, fingers tapping once against the edge of the table before he spoke.

“So, uh...” His voice came out a little quieter than he meant it to, and he cleared his throat slightly, trying again. “This is kinda dumb.”

He nudged the bag again with his foot, like he was deciding whether to even bring it up.

“I just—” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair again, pushing it back this time a little more firmly. “I saw something earlier, when I was on break, and it... reminded me of you.”

There was a quick pause, his expression shifting slightly like he realized how that might sound.

“Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, a small, nervous laugh slipping out. “Just—like, you’d probably like it. I think.”

He finally looked up at you properly this time, holding your gaze for a second longer than he usually managed. There was still that hesitation there, but it wasn’t as sharp as it used to be. He was trying, even if it showed.

His fingers tapped lightly against the table again before he nodded toward the bag.

“Do you wanna see it now,” he asked, tilting his head slightly, “or... should I wait and not ruin it?”

There was a brief pause after he said it, like he was already second-guessing whether he’d said it right.

Then, almost as an afterthought, quieter this time, he added, “I mean—I can wait. If you want. I just... didn’t wanna overthink it and then not give it to you at all.”

His gaze dropped for a second, then came back to you, a little steadier this time.

He wasn’t good at this.

Not the talking, not the dating, not any of it.

But he was here anyway.

And he was trying.

Noah’s room wasn’t messy in a chaotic way, just lived-in. Clothes draped over the back of his desk chair, a couple of CDs stacked unevenly near his old stereo, wires from his headphones loosely tangled near the edge of the bed. The faint glow of his computer screen lit up one side of the room, AIM still open from earlier, a few idle chat windows blinking quietly in the background. It smelled like fabric softener and something a little sharper underneath—probably from earlier when he’d stepped outside.

He was sitting on the floor, back pressed against the side of his bed, one knee pulled up slightly while the other leg stretched out. You were right next to him, close enough that your shoulders almost touched if either of you leaned even a little. He hadn’t really moved away from that space since you sat down.

His hands rested loosely in his lap at first, but every few seconds one of them would lift, fingers brushing through his hair before dropping back down again. It wasn’t even something he seemed aware of doing anymore. His knee bounced lightly against the floor, a steady, quiet rhythm that picked up whenever his thoughts got too loud.

For a while, he didn’t say anything.

Not because it was awkward—at least not in a bad way—but because he didn’t really know where to start. He’d glance at you, then look away almost immediately, like holding eye contact too long might give something away he wasn’t ready to explain. Then he’d look back again a few seconds later, like he couldn’t help it.

Being here like this still didn’t feel real to him.

A couple weeks ago, he was eating lunch alone, trying to keep his head down so no one would notice him unless they wanted something from him. Now he was sitting in his room with you—his girlfriend—and the word still felt weird in his head every time he thought it. Not bad. Just... unfamiliar.

Even at school, it hadn’t fully settled. Sitting with you at that table, hearing people talk around him like he belonged there—it didn’t match anything he was used to. The comments stopped, mostly. No more constant shit being thrown his way, no more loud jokes at his expense. Just looks. Side glances. Especially from Trent and his friends.

Noah noticed all of it.

He just didn’t say anything about it.

Because even with that tension still there, it was quieter now. Manageable. And he wasn’t going to risk messing up what he had by bringing attention to it.

His phone buzzed softly beside him on the floor, lighting up for a second before going still again. Probably nothing important. He didn’t even check it.

Instead, he shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing yours for a second before he stilled again like he noticed it too late. His knee kept bouncing, a little faster now.

He exhaled quietly, dragging a hand through his hair again before letting it rest at the back of his neck this time.

“Can I ask you something without it being... weird?” he said finally.

His voice was low, a little rough around the edges like he hadn’t used it in a minute. He didn’t look at you right away after saying it, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead of him instead, like he was giving himself a second to decide if he actually wanted to follow through.

A small, almost nervous breath left him before he continued.

“Why me?”

There wasn’t anything accusing in it. No edge. Just confusion, plain and simple.

He shifted his head slightly, glancing at you now, his eyes softer than usual but still unsure, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real even as he sat right next to you.

“Like—I’m not saying it’s a bad thing,” he added quickly, a quiet, awkward half-laugh slipping out under his breath. “I just... don’t get it.”

His fingers tapped lightly against his knee now, replacing the bounce for a second before it started again anyway.

“I mean, you could’ve... picked literally anyone else,” he went on, not harshly, just matter-of-fact in the way he saw it. “And you didn’t.”

He paused again, this time holding your gaze a little longer, even if it was clearly taking effort.

“And I kinda want to know why.”

There was no dramatic weight behind it, no expectation for a perfect answer. Just something honest, something he’d been sitting on for a while without saying out loud.

He looked away again after a second, a faint, self-conscious smile tugging at his mouth as he rubbed the back of his neck.

“...Sorry, that probably sounded dumber out loud,” he muttered, quieter now, but he didn’t take it back.

Noah’s room looks exactly like someone tried to clean it in a rush and then gave up halfway through. There are clothes folded in uneven stacks on one side of the floor, a couple of empty CD cases scattered near his desk, and a skateboard leaning against the wall like it got dropped there and forgotten. His bed is half-made, sheets pulled straight but the blanket bunched at the end. It’s not gross, just... lived in.

A CD spins quietly from a small stereo on his desk, low enough to blend into the background. Something soft, probably something he picked out on purpose but would never admit he thought about that much.

Noah’s sitting cross-legged on the floor when you step in, a stack of CDs beside him that he’d clearly been sorting through. He looks up almost immediately, like he’d been half-waiting for the sound of the door, and there’s a small, automatic shift in his posture when he realizes it’s you. Not tense, just... more aware.

“Hey,” he says, a little quieter than usual, like he’s not sure how loud he’s supposed to be in his own room all of a sudden.

His eyes flick around briefly, taking in the state of everything like he’s seeing it from your perspective now. He lets out a short breath through his nose, one hand coming up to push his hair back before it falls right back into his face again.

“Sorry, it’s kinda... yeah.” He gestures vaguely around the room, fingers flicking toward the mess without really committing to pointing anything out specifically. “I tried to make it not look like this, but it got worse somehow.”

There’s a faint, awkward smile there, like he knows how it looks but doesn’t really know what to do about it anymore.

He shifts where he’s sitting, scooting a couple inches to the side to clear a space next to him, pushing a hoodie and a few CDs out of the way with the side of his hand. The movement is casual, but there’s hesitation in it, like he’s overthinking whether that’s the right thing to do.

“You can sit, if you want,” he adds, then immediately follows it up, a little quicker, “Or not. I mean—you can do whatever.”

There’s a short pause after that, like he realizes how that sounded, and he glances down for a second, picking at the edge of a CD case before looking back up at you again.

“I’m glad you came.”

That part comes out more honest, less tangled.

For a second, he just looks at you, like he’s still getting used to this being real. It’s subtle, but it’s there in the way his gaze lingers just a little too long before he looks away again, like he doesn’t want to make it weird.

Being your boyfriend still hasn’t fully clicked for him. You can see it in small things. The way he hesitates before doing anything that might feel too familiar, like he’s checking if he’s allowed to. The way he pays attention to you without trying to make it obvious, noticing little things and then acting like it’s nothing.

At school, he’s different. Quieter. More careful. Sitting at your table still feels like he’s in the wrong place, even if no one’s saying anything anymore. The bullying mostly stopped after everything changed, but the looks didn’t. He still catches them sometimes—especially from Trent—and every time it happens, his shoulders tense just slightly before he forces himself to ignore it.

But here, it’s easier.

He picks up one of the CDs beside him, turning it over in his hands like he needs something to do. “I was, uh... trying to make you something,” he says, nodding toward the small pile next to him. “Like a mix. But I keep changing it, so it’s taking longer than it should.”

He lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh, scratching lightly at the back of his neck.

“I don’t know what you’ll actually like, so I keep overthinking it.”

There’s another pause, softer this time, less awkward.

His fingers tap lightly against the plastic of the CD case before he sets it down, glancing back up at you. His expression shifts just a little—still unsure, but warmer, more settled than before.

“You can tell me if it’s bad, by the way,” he adds, like he’s trying to make it easier for you. “I won’t take it personally. Probably.”

That earns a small, crooked smile from him.

Then, after a second, like the thought just crossed his mind, he leans back slightly on his hands, more relaxed now, but still a little careful with the space between you.

“...Do you wanna listen to some of it? Or we could just—” he gestures vaguely between the two of you, the room, everything, “—hang out. I don’t really care.”