Cold Pond Water

The water is cold. Not unbearably so—but enough to sting against skin that wasn’t expecting it. For a moment, everything is quiet beneath the surface. The muffled distortion of sound, the slow drift of movement as Welliam’s body settles before instinct finally kicks in. He resurfaces with a quiet inhale, water dripping from his hair, running down his face and shoulders in steady streams. His clothes cling to him, heavy, darkened, completely soaked.

He doesn’t move right away. Just stands there in the shallow edge of the pond, blinking slowly as if trying to process what just happened. “...I was in the way,” he says after a moment, voice low and calm, more like he’s confirming it to himself than accusing anyone. There’s no anger in it. No raised voice. No tension. If anything, he sounds... thoughtful. His hand lifts slightly, brushing wet hair back from his face, only for it to fall right back into place. A small pause follows as he looks down at the water around him, watching the ripples settle.

“...You pushed me,” he adds, quieter this time. Another pause. Then—unexpectedly—A faint shift in his expression. Not upset. Not offended. Just... something softer. Something a little more confused. He steps forward, water shifting around him as he moves toward the edge, slower than expected for someone his size. There’s no urgency, no frustration—just quiet, deliberate movement. When he reaches solid ground again, he doesn’t immediately step away.

Instead, he stands there—soaked, dripping, clearly aware of the situation... and yet not reacting the way most would.

“...Most people don’t touch me,” he says, almost absently. His gaze flickers—not quite direct eye contact, but close enough to feel like it. “...Not like that.” There’s a slight hesitation in his posture now, like he’s unsure what to do next. His hand lifts again, then drops, like the motion didn’t have a clear purpose to begin with. The cold doesn’t seem to bother him much. Or maybe he just isn’t paying attention to it. “...It wasn’t careful,” he continues, voice soft, steady. “You didn’t hesitate.” Another pause. His shoulders shift slightly, water still dripping steadily from him onto the ground below.

“...I thought I would be angry,” he admits. He doesn’t sound angry. “...I’m not.” That seems to confuse him more than anything else. A longer silence settles in this time. Then, quieter—almost uncertain. “...Do you do that often?”

He tilts his head just slightly, studying—trying to understand something he doesn’t quite have the words for.

“...Push people into water.”

The ground is a mess.

Crumbs scattered, a few broken pieces of what were clearly meant to be something whole—small, uneven cookies, slightly overbaked at the edges, now crushed beneath careless movement. Welliam is very still. Too still. His head is tilted slightly from where his hair had just been yanked, strands still out of place, the faint tension lingering in his posture like his body hasn’t fully caught up yet.

“...I didn’t think it would go like that,” he says quietly. Not defensive. Not upset. Just... honest. There’s a pause as he looks down at the cookies on the ground, his gaze lingering there longer than it should. One of his hands lifts slightly, like he’s about to reach down and pick them up—He stops. “...I made those,” he adds after a second, voice softer now.

Another pause.

“I wanted to give them to you.” It’s said plainly. No dramatics, no attempt to guilt—just a simple statement that feels heavier than it should. He shifts his weight slightly, water not involved this time, but there’s still that same grounded stillness to him. His fingers curl faintly at his side, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. “...I thought if I got your attention first,” he continues, slower, “then it would make sense.” A small exhale leaves him—not frustrated, just... thoughtful. “...It didn’t.” His eyes flick back down to the broken cookies again. “...They’re not very good,” he admits. “I tried to follow something I read.”

Another quiet pause. Then, almost absentmindedly. “...I wanted you to have them anyway.” There’s a subtle shift in his posture now—less confusion, more awareness of what just happened. His hand lifts again, this time brushing lightly at his hair where it had been pulled, not wincing, just acknowledging it. “...You were angry,” he says, like he’s piecing it together step by step. “That was expected.” A beat. “...I think I did that on purpose.” That part seems to settle heavier. Not regret exactly. Just realization. He looks back toward you—not fully meeting your eyes, but close enough.

“...I don’t know how to ask for attention,” Welliam admits quietly. There’s no embarrassment in his tone. Just truth. Another pause stretches between the two of you, the broken cookies still sitting there untouched.

Then, softer—almost uncertain.

“...Was that too much?”

It’s quieter here. Away from the main campus, away from the noise and constant movement. Just a small spot near the water’s edge—familiar, calm, and a little out of the way. Welliam chose it on purpose. He’s already sitting when everything settles, large frame slightly hunched forward like he’s trying to take up less space than he actually does. In front of him is a small, carefully packed meal—simple, but clearly thought out. Nothing’s burnt this time. He keeps glancing over. Not directly—just enough to check, then look away again.

“...You complained the whole way here,” he says quietly. There’s no irritation in it. If anything... he sounds a little relieved. A pause. “...But you still came.” That part seems to matter more. His hands rest near the food for a moment before he finally moves, opening one of the containers with a bit more care than necessary. The motion is slow, deliberate—like he’s making sure he doesn’t mess it up this time. “I made this again,” he adds, softer. “I did it differently.”

Another small pause.

“...I checked it twice.” He nudges the container slightly forward—not pushing it, just placing it within reach. His fingers linger there for a second before pulling back. “...We’re dating,” he says after a moment. Flat. Blunt. Like he’s still getting used to the sentence. There’s a brief silence after that, his gaze dropping to his hands. “...You said yes.” Another pause. “...After I asked a lot.” That earns the faintest shift in his expression—something almost like embarrassment, though it’s subtle. His shoulders move slightly as he adjusts where he’s sitting, one knee drawing up just a bit, grounding himself.

“...I didn’t think you would,” he admits quietly. A breeze moves through, light, carrying the faint scent of water and grass. Welliam doesn’t seem to notice it much—his attention is elsewhere. “...I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” he continues, voice just as steady, just as honest. No attempt to hide it. No attempt to play it off. “...But I wanted to be here with you...So I think this is right.” His hand shifts again, this time resting a little closer than before—not touching, just there. Close enough to close the distance if needed.

“...If it isn’t,” he adds quietly, “you can tell me.”

Another pause.

“...I’ll fix it.”