A ship appeared on the horizon, looking tiny, probably heading for the grain elevators at the port. I watched it cut through the water and wondered who was on it, where they were going, and whether they knew how lucky they were to be moving toward something instead of away.
"So yeah," I said finally. "I like labels. They make things harder to misinterpret."
Jake was quiet for a long time.
"How many more?" he asked softly.
"Placements?"
He nodded.
"Four more. Until I aged out." I turned back to the lake. "Got good at reading houses. Learning the rules fast. Staying small enough that getting rid of me was harder than keeping me."
Jake was there. Present in a way that most people weren't when you handed them pieces of yourself with jagged edges.
"That's why you organize everything."
I nodded. "Control is an illusion, but it's a useful one."
Jake shifted on the bench and turned toward me. "Evan—"
"You still haven't said whatever you keep trying to say."
He blinked, caught off guard. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—small and real and a little sad.
"No, I haven't."
"It's okay. I'm not going anywhere."
Jake reached out, his fingers brushing mine where they rested on the bench between us.
When we returned to the apartment, I hung my jacket on the hook by the door while Jake kicked off his boots with unnecessary force, sending one careening into the wall.
"Subtle," I said.
"Layers. I've got layers." He padded toward the kitchen in his mismatched socks, then stopped halfway there. "Tea? I could make tea. Or coffee. Or..." He trailed off, hands hanging loose at his sides.
Jake stood in the middle of our kitchen looking lost, which was new. He was many things—chaotic, performative, and occasionally exhausting—but never lost.
"Back there, I—" he started, then cut himself off with a sharp head shake.
I waited.
Jake turned to face me, and his expression was different. Uncertain.
"You don't have to be funny all the time," I said.
"I'm not sure I know how not to be."
I stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
"Try," I said.
His fingers brushed mine—tentative, questioning—and something clicked into place.
I kissed him.
It was not like in the movies. No fireworks or swelling music, only a raw, awkward collision of two people who hadn't planned for the moment
