The sky hung low with late-afternoon clouds, the kind that promised rain but refused to hurry. The campus grounds looked softer under the gray light — quieter, calmer, as students trickled away after lectures. The noise of midday had faded into pockets of laughter, the rustle of leaves, and the distant thump of music from the student center.
Ava walked beside Recee without really meaning to.
They'd left the lecture hall at the same time, and instead of splitting directions like they usually did, their feet simply… matched paths. It happened slowly, naturally — one step, then another — until it felt strange to say goodbye.
Neither of them pointed it out.
Ava hugged her bag close to her chest. "You know," she said casually, "most partners don't follow each other after class like silent security guards."
"I'm not following you," Recee replied. "This is my route."
She gave him a sideways look. "Your route seems suspiciously similar to mine."
"Coincidence," he said.
She snorted. "Sure."
They walked past the lawn where first-years sat on the grass with open textbooks they weren't reading. A group began recording a TikTok dance nearby; someone else chased their runaway hat across the pavement. A breeze swept across campus, lifting the ends of Ava's ponytail and brushing cool air across her face.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
It wasn't awkward silence. It was the kind that stretched, soft and unhurried, as if both of them were thinking of things they weren't sure they should say.
Recee finally broke it. "You have work today?"
"Yeah," Ava said lightly. "After this, I change into my superhero cape and save the world one annoying customer at a time."
He glanced at her. "You joke a lot about it."
"Because if I don't joke, I'll cry," she replied without thinking — then blinked.
That slipped out.
He didn't laugh. He didn't tease. He just slowed his pace slightly so she wouldn't have to rush.
"You work too much," he said quietly.
"Someone has to pay my bills," she replied in that half-bright tone people use when they're trying to keep conversations from turning heavy. "And last I checked, fairy godmothers are fully booked."
He studied her profile for a second — the defiant lift of her chin, the way her hands tightened on the strap of her bag before relaxing again.
It wasn't self-pity.
It was survival.
They reached the stone benches beside the old oak tree, where the campus always seemed calmer than everywhere else. Leaves whispered above them. Birds hopped across the pavement like they owned the place.
Ava sat first.
Recee sat beside her — not too close, but not far either.
She stared out ahead for a few seconds, chewing on her bottom lip. Something pressed against her chest — a story she rarely told and almost never volunteered. She didn't know why it felt safe right now.
"Have you ever had a place," she began slowly, "that wasn't really where you were from… but still felt like home?"
He didn't answer right away.
"Yes," he said at last.
Their eyes met briefly.
She inhaled. "For me, that place is the orphanage."
He grew still.
She'd said the word simply, not as a confession, not with pain.
Just honesty.
"I grew up there," Ava continued, fingers tracing the line of the bench. "Long halls, mismatched bedsheets, leaky ceilings… but laughter everywhere. The kind that echoes off walls because nobody there pretends to be perfect."
Recee didn't interrupt.
She liked that about him.
"I don't have parents. Not that I remember, anyway." Her voice came out steadier than she expected. "The orphanage isn't sad like people think. It's loud. Messy. The kids argue and steal food and hug too tight and draw on the walls even when we tell them not to."
Her lips curved slightly.
"And yet," she added softly, "it's the warmest place I know."
He watched her as she spoke,the way someone listens when they know the story matters.
"What's it called?" he asked gently.
She told him.
His gaze softened almost imperceptibly at the name.
"The kids there," she went on, "are kind of like… my people. My strange, jumpy, loud little family."
"Your family," he echoed, not correcting it.
Family didn't always mean blood.
She nodded. "Yeah. My family."
For a moment, neither spoke. The breeze picked up again, rustling the leaves above them. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn honked, followed by laughter.
Recee leaned back, his shoulder brushing the bark of the huge oak tree. "You visit often."
It wasn't a question.
"I go every weekend," she said. "Or sooner, if I can. They pretend they don't miss me much, but they wait at the gate like tiny guards whenever they think I'm coming."
She smiled, then swallowed. "Sometimes I worry I'm not doing enough for them."
"You are," he said immediately.
She looked at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice.
"You show up," he continued quietly. "That matters more than anything else."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever said it like that. Not with that calm, steady conviction that made it sound undeniably true.
She cleared her throat lightly and forced a laugh. "Wow. That was dangerously close to emotional support. Careful. You might ruin your cold-and-unbothered reputation."
His lips tilted slightly. "You're the only one who thinks I have one."
"Everyone thinks you do," she said. "You walk around like the world can't touch you."
He didn't reply to that.
If she only knew.
A passing group of students called out to each other, pulling the world back into motion. Ava leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her palms.
"I used to think people would treat me differently if they knew I grew up in an orphanage," she said slowly. "So I didn't talk about it much."
"And now?" he asked.
"Now…" Her eyes softened. "Now I think the right people won't run away just because my story isn't… polished."
Her voice faded.
The wind brushed their hair. A single leaf drifted down and landed between them on the bench.
Recee spoke quietly. "You don't have to polish anything for me."
She didn't answer right away.
Then she smiled, small and real. "I know."
For a few minutes they sat like that — not needing to fill the silence. The world felt slower around the oak tree. Greener. Almost suspended.
Ava eventually stood. "I should go get ready for work."
He nodded, standing too.
She hesitated, then blurted, "Someday… maybe you could…"
He waited.
She blinked rapidly and shook her head. "Never mind."
He didn't push. "Okay."
They began walking again, side by side, steps matching without effort. The pathway ahead curved along the lawn, past tall lamps that would soon blink on.
Just before they reached the main gate, he asked softly, "Ava?"
"Hm?"
"When you said 'someday'…" His voice was careful, almost cautious. "Were you going to say I could visit?"
Her breath caught.
She hadn't expected him to guess.
She hadn't expected the question to sound that gentle.
A hundred images flashed through her mind — children laughing, little hands pulling at sleeves, the worn front gate, the place she loved most being seen by someone who mattered more to her than she wanted to admit.
She swallowed.
"Maybe," she said at last. "Someday. When I'm ready."
He nodded once.
"I'll wait," he said simply.
It was such an ordinary sentence.
It shouldn't have made her heart flutter like it did.
They stopped where their paths finally split.
"See you tomorrow?" he asked.
She pretended to think. "I guess I'm stuck with you."
He almost smiled. "We're partners, remember?"
She turned to leave, taking three steps before stopping again. Something lingered in the air — unfinished, like a sentence not fully spoken.
She didn't look back when she said, "Recee?"
"Yes?"
"Thanks… for listening."
He watched her walk away, ponytail swinging, shoulders squared against the gathering evening breeze.
He slipped his hands into his pockets.
He hadn't just listened.
He'd memorized every word.
And as the clouds finally broke and the first drop of rain hit the ground, one thought refused to leave him:
He wanted to see that place she called home.