Chapter Text
Scott almost missed him the first time.
Not because Butters Stotch had learned to blend in—he hadn’t, not remotely—but because campus moved like a living thing between classes, a tide of backpacks and coffee cups and half-heard conversations. Bodies flowed around Scott in a hurry, and for a few minutes he was just another person in the stream, head down, mind full of syllabus dates and the sticky-note list in his phone titled “Don’t Forget Or You’ll Cry.”
He’d just come from Intro to Early Childhood Education, a lecture hall that smelled faintly of dry-erase markers and other people’s citrus gum. His notebook was still warm under his arm. He could hear the professor’s voice lingering in his head—developmental milestones, attachment theory, play as language—like it had lodged itself between his ribs and decided to camp there.
Scott liked it, though. Liked how the subject sat in him. Liked how it made the world feel a little less random and sharp-edged. Babies didn’t do things to be difficult; toddlers weren’t tiny villains. They were just… learning. Trying. Reaching for the light switch because the world was full of switches and nobody had explained which ones mattered.
He’d been thinking about that—about learning, about gentle hands, about little voices—when someone shoulder-checked him hard enough to jostle his bag and his mood.
“Sorry—sorry!” a guy blurted, already halfway past.
Scott did the automatic smile thing, the one that lived on his face like a default setting. “It’s okay,” he called, even though the guy wasn’t listening, even though it wasn’t actually okay in the sense that it had hurt.
He adjusted his strap, tugging it back into place. The afternoon air was thin and cold, winter pretending to be polite. Somewhere nearby, a leaf blower whined like an offended mosquito. A group of students laughed too loudly on purpose, their voices bright and brittle.
Scott turned the corner by the student union—past a bulletin board drowning in flyers and promises—and nearly walked straight into a wall of leather.
He stopped so fast his sneakers squeaked.
The “wall” stopped, too.
For a second, Scott’s brain did that stupid buffering thing where everything is clear and unclear at the same time. He registered a jacket first—black leather, worn like it had stories stitched into the seams. Then the heavy boots. Then the broad shoulders that looked like they belonged on someone who got into fights for fun.
And then—
Butters.
Butters Stotch, standing under the weak winter sun like he’d been cut out of a different movie and dropped into this one by mistake. Hair the same pale blond, eyes the same startling blue. He had that familiar expression on his face, the one that made people give him space without even realizing they were doing it: a kind of hard-set, don’t-talk-to-me glare. The aggressive look. The biker-gang look. The I will bite look.
Except it faltered the second his gaze landed on Scott.
Not gone—Butters didn’t do “gone,” not fully—but softened, the way snow softens when it starts to melt at the edges. The lines around his mouth eased. His eyes did something warmer. Less weapon, more window.
Scott felt it in his chest first: a small, startled thump, like his heart had tripped over a curb.
“Oh,” Scott said, because all the clever words had apparently evacuated his body.
Butters blinked, like he wasn’t sure he was seeing him. Then his eyebrows lifted. “Scott?”
The way he said his name—quiet, almost careful—made Scott’s throat go tight. It shouldn’t have. It was just a name. Just six letters. But it landed like a hand placed gently on the back of his neck.
“Yeah,” Scott breathed, then laughed a little because his voice had come out too thin. “Yeah. Hi.”
They stared at each other while the campus kept moving around them. People brushed past, a passing tide, and for a moment Scott felt like he and Butters were standing in the eye of a storm—stillness in the center, chaos swirling at the edges.
Butters’ gaze flicked over Scott in a quick, assessing sweep, the way he used to look at him in high school when Scott came in with a bruised knee from P.E. or a new bandage on his finger from the kitchen lab. Not judgmental. Just… noticing. Cataloguing. Like Scott was a problem he intended to solve.
Scott shifted his weight, suddenly aware of his own body in a way that made his skin prickle—his backpack strap digging into his shoulder, his hair falling into his eyes, the cold sneaking in under his hoodie. He tucked a strand behind his ear.
“How—” Scott started, then stopped because there were too many hows. How are you here? How long have you been here? How did I not know you were here? How did we go from talking almost every day to… nothing?
Butters saved him, oddly enough. “I didn’t know you went here,” he said, voice low. He sounded like he’d been holding the sentence in his mouth for a while.
Scott huffed, half amused, half incredulous. “I didn’t know you went here.”
Butters’ mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to make Scott’s stomach do a small, undignified flip.
“I mean,” Scott added quickly, because silence always made him nervous and he tended to fill it with words the way people filled awkward space with furniture, “I knew you were going to college. Obviously. You’re not—” He waved a hand vaguely, as if the idea of Butters not going to college was absurd. “But I thought maybe… somewhere else.”
Butters shifted, leather creaking softly. The sound had always reminded Scott of an old door in a haunted house—only Butters wasn’t a ghost. He was annoyingly real.
“Yeah,” Butters said. “Somewhere else.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and for just a flash, the aggressive mask slipped again, revealing something young underneath. “I… changed my mind.”
Scott tried to picture Butters changing his mind about anything and failed. But he didn’t call him on it. Instead he said, “So you’re here. Like… here here.”
Butters looked around, as if needing proof the campus wasn’t a hallucination. “Yeah. Here here.”
Scott laughed again, more genuine this time, and it warmed the air between them. “Wow.”
Butters’ gaze returned to him, steady. “Yeah.”
They stood there too long. Or maybe not long enough. Time did weird things when you ran into someone who used to be part of your daily orbit and then became… a memory you didn’t touch because it hurt a little, like a bruise you weren’t ready to press.
Scott cleared his throat. “So… what’s your major?”
Butters’ eyes narrowed slightly, as if bracing for judgment. “Automotive technology. Mechanics.”
Scott’s face softened before he could stop it. “That makes so much sense.”
Butters blinked. “It does?”
“Yeah.” Scott nodded, earnest. “You were always good with your hands.”
The second the words left his mouth, Scott wished he could snatch them back out of the air and shove them into his bag next to his notebook. The phrase hung there, ambiguous in the cold, like breath you could see. Scott’s ears went hot.
Butters didn’t laugh, though. Didn’t tease him. His expression didn’t sharpen into something mocking the way other people’s might.
Instead, Butters’ gaze dropped, briefly, to Scott’s mouth, then back up again. He swallowed.
“Thanks,” he said, rougher than before.
Scott pretended not to notice anything about that. He pretended lots of things, sometimes. It was a skill. A survival tactic. A small, quiet kind of cowardice.
“What about you?” Butters asked.
Scott’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Early childhood education.”
Butters’ face did something strange—softened, again, but with a different shade to it. Like the thought of Scott in a classroom with tiny kids made something in him settle, click into place.
“That’s…” Butters started, then seemed to lose the word.
Scott smiled, gentle. “Yeah. I want to work with kids.”
Butters’ eyes flicked away for a beat, then back. “You’d be good at that.”
It shouldn’t have mattered. It did.
Scott’s fingers tightened around the edge of his notebook. He could feel the slight indent of the spiral binding against his palm. “You think so?”
Butters’ voice went quieter. “You’re… patient.” He paused like he was testing the word for accuracy. “And you don’t… you don’t get mad at people for not understanding stuff right away.”
Scott’s throat tightened again, because it wasn’t just praise. It was observation. It was Butters seeing him, the way Butters always had—like Scott was a person worth keeping track of.
Scott looked down, smiling to himself before he could stop it. “Thanks.”
A gust of wind pushed through, sharp and nosy. Scott shivered. Butters’ gaze immediately snapped to the movement.
“You cold?” he asked.
“It’s fine,” Scott said automatically, which was his version of “yes.”
Butters’ jaw tightened a little. He glanced at Scott’s hoodie, then at his own jacket, and for a second Scott thought he might offer it—Butters did big gestures sometimes, bold and reckless like a match striking.
He didn’t. Instead, he shifted closer, subtle but deliberate, blocking a portion of the wind with his body. It was such a small thing. Such a stupidly tender thing. Scott felt it anyway, like warmth bleeding into him through his sleeve.
They fell quiet again.
Scott’s brain kept trying to build bridges. He’d known Butters in high school. Not best friends, exactly, but… close in the way two people could be when they weren’t sure where else to put their attention. Scott remembered Butters showing up to things even when he didn’t have to. Sitting beside him at lunch when the table felt too loud. Walking him home once after a rough day, silent but present, like a guard dog pretending to be a boy.
And then college happened, and the summer after graduation turned into a slow fade. Texts that got shorter. Replies that came later. And Scott told himself it was normal, that people drifted, that life was busy, that it wasn’t personal.
Standing here now, looking at Butters like this, he wasn’t so sure.
“So,” Scott said, because he couldn’t stand the weight of the unspoken. “How long have you been here?”
Butters hesitated.
Too long.
Scott’s brows knit. “Butters?”
Butters exhaled, a visible puff of breath. “Since August.”
Scott stared. “Since August?”
Butters nodded once.
Scott couldn’t help it—his laugh came out sharp, incredulous. “Are you serious?”
Butters’ eyes narrowed again, defensive. “What?”
“You’ve been here since August and you didn’t say anything?”
Butters’ jaw worked. He looked like he was chewing on something hard. “We weren’t… talking.”
“We could’ve been,” Scott shot back before he could filter it. Then, quieter, because the honesty stung, “I would’ve talked to you.”
Butters went still.
In the small silence that followed, Scott could hear the campus again—the faint roar of distant traffic, the flap of a flyer in the wind, someone’s ringtone chirping the same three notes on repeat. Life, insisting.
Butters’ gaze locked onto Scott’s, intense in a way that made Scott’s pulse jump.
“I didn’t think you wanted to,” Butters said.
Scott’s mouth parted, then closed. He swallowed. “Why would you think that?”
Butters’ expression flickered—something raw, something almost boyish. “Because you’re… you.” He said it like that should explain everything. Like Scott was sunshine and Butters was a person who’d learned not to stand in it too long.
Scott’s chest ached, a strange dull ache. He hated misunderstandings. Hated how quickly life could turn into a series of missed chances.
“That’s dumb,” Scott said softly, not cruelly. “You’re not— you’re not bothering me.”
Butters’ eyes narrowed, but not in anger—more like focus, like he was trying to read the sincerity in Scott’s face.
Scott held his gaze, steady.
Slowly, Butters’ shoulders eased. The tension didn’t vanish, but it loosened, like a fist unclenching.
“Okay,” Butters murmured.
Scott’s phone buzzed in his pocket. The vibration startled him, yanking him back into the present. He fished it out and glanced at the screen: a text from Sophie.
Sophie: are u alive
Sophie: heidi says u forgot ur lunch again 🙄
Scott snorted, warmth blooming in his chest. He typed quickly with cold fingers.
Scott: i’m alive
Scott: tell heidi she’s mean
Scott: also. ran into someone.
He paused before sending that last part. Then sent it anyway.
Scott looked up. Butters was watching him.
“What?” Scott asked, tucking his phone away.
“Nothing.” Butters’ eyes flicked to the student union doors, then back. “You got somewhere to be?”
Scott glanced at the clock on his phone. “Uh. I have… a lab in like forty minutes.” He winced. “I should probably eat before then.”
Butters’ gaze sharpened. “Did you not eat?”
Scott raised his hands in surrender. “I was going to.”
Butters didn’t look amused. Not angry at Scott, exactly. Just… displeased at the universe for being careless with him.
“I’m fine,” Scott insisted gently.
Butters’ mouth twitched again—almost a smile, but more like frustration disguised as affection. “You always say that.”
Scott blinked. “Do I?”
“You do,” Butters said, and there it was: familiarity, slipping into the space between them like it had never left.
Scott’s cheeks warmed, though he couldn’t tell if it was the cold or the attention. “Okay, well. I’m saying it now. I’m fine.”
Butters held his gaze a second longer than necessary, then jerked his chin toward the student union. “Come on.”
Scott blinked again. “Come on where?”
Butters looked at him like he was slow. “Food.”
Scott laughed, breathy. “You’re just ordering me around now?”
Butters’ eyes flashed, but his voice stayed even. “You said you needed to eat.”
Scott opened his mouth to argue. Then he closed it, because honestly, he was hungry, and the idea of walking into the student union with Butters beside him—leather jacket, boots, that aggressive aura that softened only for Scott—made something flutter low in his stomach.
“Okay,” Scott said, surrendering with a smile. “Fine. But you’re not paying.”
Butters snorted, a sound like a scoff dressed up as humor. “We’ll see.”
They started walking.
Scott matched Butters’ stride easily, surprised by how natural it felt. The air smelled faintly of fried food and coffee as the doors swung open, warm heat spilling out like a welcome. Inside, the student union buzzed—chairs scraping, voices overlapping, a cappuccino machine hissing like a contented cat.
Butters paused just inside the entrance, scanning the room with the wary attention of someone used to watching for threats. His posture was loose but ready, a coiled spring under leather. It was ridiculous, in this bright little cafeteria full of freshmen and their glittery laptops.
And yet, standing beside him, Scott felt… safer.
Which was also ridiculous.
Butters glanced down at Scott. The aggressive set of his face softened again, just slightly, like a shadow stepping out of the way.
“What do you want?” Butters asked.
Scott lifted a brow. “Are you— are you asking me on a lunch date right now?”
Butters’ ears went pink. It happened fast, like a sudden flare of color. “No.”
Scott grinned. “Uh-huh.”
Butters scowled, but it didn’t have teeth. “Just pick.”
Scott’s grin widened, and he pointed toward the sandwich counter. “That.”
Butters nodded once. “Okay.”
They fell into line, shoulder to shoulder. Scott could feel the warmth of Butters’ presence, the faint smell of leather and something clean underneath—detergent, maybe. Soap. A hint of motor oil lingering like a ghost at the edges.
Scott glanced sideways.
Butters was already looking at him.
Scott looked away too fast and almost laughed at himself. He felt fourteen again for a split second, awkward and bright and too aware of everything. The past pressed close, then eased back, like a wave.
“So,” Scott said, because apparently his mouth couldn’t stay quiet when he was nervous. “Mechanics, huh?”
Butters’ gaze slid back to the menu board. “Yeah.”
“What made you pick that?”
Butters shrugged, but it wasn’t casual. It was loaded. “Stuff makes sense. You take it apart, you see what’s wrong, you fix it. It either works or it doesn’t.”
Scott hummed, thoughtful. “That’s kind of poetic.”
Butters shot him a look. “It’s not.”
“It is,” Scott insisted, amused. “You’re like… a mechanic philosopher.”
Butters’ mouth twitched again, and this time it was a smile—small, reluctant, but real. Scott felt it like a flicker of sun through clouds.
“And you,” Butters said, a beat later, voice quieter. “Kids.”
Scott nodded, eyes softening. “Yeah.”
“Why?” Butters asked, and the question wasn’t casual. It was careful. Curious. Like he genuinely wanted to know.
Scott swallowed. He could’ve given a simple answer. I like kids. I want to teach. But the truth was bigger and stranger and more personal.
“Because,” Scott said slowly, choosing his words like stepping stones, “I think a lot of people don’t remember what it feels like to be small. To not have control. To just… need someone to be there.”
Butters went still beside him.
Scott kept his gaze on the menu board, but he could feel Butters’ attention like heat. Like a hand hovering near his shoulder, not touching but close.
Scott cleared his throat, trying to lighten the moment. “Plus, toddlers are hilarious.”
Butters huffed a laugh under his breath—short, surprised.
“Yeah,” Butters murmured, and the word sounded like agreement and something else, too. Something softer. Something like relief.
They reached the counter. Scott ordered, hands shoved in his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. Butters ordered too, and Scott caught the cashier doing a double-take at Butters’ jacket and boots, then relaxing when Butters’ voice came out polite. Almost shy.
They found a table near the windows, where winter light pooled on the floor in pale rectangles. Scott set his tray down, unwrapped his sandwich, and took the first bite like it was a religious experience. The bread was warm. The cheese was salty. The world steadied.
Butters watched him eat like Scott was proving something just by existing. Scott tried not to let that get under his skin. Tried not to like it. Tried not to—
“Well,” Scott said around a bite, “this is weird.”
Butters’ brows drew together. “What is?”
“Running into you.” Scott gestured vaguely between them. “Here. Like the universe is doing a callback episode.”
Butters stared at him, then snorted. “A what?”
Scott grinned. “Never mind.”
Butters’ gaze dropped, then lifted again. “It’s not weird.”
Scott tilted his head. “It’s not?”
Butters looked away, jaw tightening like he didn’t want to admit anything out loud. “It’s… fine.”
Scott smiled, slow and small. “Okay.”
Scott stole another glance at him.
Butters’ aggressive look had returned, faintly, as he watched the room. Guard-dog posture. But when Scott’s gaze caught, Butters’ eyes softened again, like he couldn’t help it.
Scott’s chest did that thing again. The small, startled thump.
And somewhere deep in Scott’s gut, something uncoiled. Not fear. Not exactly excitement.
Recognition.
Because whatever this was—this sudden collision on a cold afternoon, this lunch, this warmth in the middle of campus noise—it felt like the start of something.
And Scott wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. But it was a real thing.
He took another bite, letting the warmth settle in him, and listened to the winter wind tap at the windows like it wanted in.
The food disappeared gradually, not in a rush. Scott took small bites, the kind you take when you’re half-focused on the taste and half on the person across from you, when you’re trying not to stare but failing in quiet, sideways glances. The sandwich steamed faintly in the cool air from the window; outside, branches scraped against glass like knuckles asking permission.
Butters ate with more intent—slow, deliberate, like he was grounding himself in the act of chewing. He kept his shoulders squared, posture alert even seated, one boot hooked around the rung of the chair. Anyone watching might’ve thought he was guarding the table.
Scott found that thought… oddly comforting.
“So,” Scott said eventually, wiping his fingers on a napkin and folding it into something vaguely rectangular. “Do you, uh… live on campus?”
Butters nodded. “Dorms. Automotive wing’s on the far side.” He tilted his head. “You?”
“Off campus,” Scott replied. “Apartment. With Heidi and Sophie.”
Butters’ gaze sharpened slightly at the names—not suspicion, exactly, but interest. “Your roommates.”
“Yeah.” Scott smiled. “They’re… good.”
Butters hummed, a sound low in his throat. “Good.”
It wasn’t possessive. Just thoughtful. Like he was filing the information away somewhere safe.
They ate a little more. The cafeteria noise ebbed and surged around them—laughter rising like birds startled from a wire, then settling again. Someone dropped a tray. Someone swore quietly. A coffee grinder screamed its displeasure.
Scott leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “So,” he said, drawing the word out. “How’d you end up here, anyway?”
Butters hesitated.
Scott noticed this time. Not the hesitation itself—people paused all the time—but the way Butters’ hand stilled around his fork, the way his jaw tightened like he was bracing for impact.
“I needed… distance,” Butters said finally.
Scott nodded, slow. “From?”
Butters’ eyes flicked to Scott’s face, then away again. “My parents.”
The word parents landed heavy between them, a dull thud. Scott felt it in his chest like a remembered bruise.
“Oh,” he said softly.
Butters snorted, humorless. “Yeah.”
Scott didn’t press right away. He knew better. Instead, he asked, gently, “They still…?”
Butters shook his head. “No.” A beat. “I mean. Not really. I cut them off.”
Scott’s eyebrows lifted. “You did?”
Butters nodded once, decisive. “Got a new phone. New number. Didn’t want them tracking me.”
Something warm and fierce bloomed in Scott’s chest, like pride mixed with relief. “That’s… good,” he said, meaning it. “That’s really good.”
Butters studied him, searching for judgment and not finding it. “You don’t think it’s… wrong?”
Scott shook his head immediately. “No. No, I—” He stopped himself, then smiled a little, rueful. “I remember what they’re like.”
Butters’ mouth tightened. He looked down at his hands. “Yeah.”
Memory rose up uninvited, sharp as cold air in the lungs.
Scott remembered standing at the edge of the Stotch driveway one afternoon, backpack slung low, waiting for Butters to come out. He remembered the sound before he remembered the sight—the crack of it, sudden and unmistakable. A hand. A face turning. Butters’ shoulders curling in instinctively, like an animal that knew the pattern of pain.
Scott remembered freezing. Remembered the way his feet felt rooted to the concrete, like the ground itself had grabbed him and said don’t move. He remembered Mrs. Stotch’s voice shrill and spiraling, words tumbling over one another, nonsense wrapped in venom. He remembered thinking, This isn’t normal. This is wrong. He remembered thinking, Someone should do something.
Someone did.
Scott did.
He remembered marching home afterward, heart pounding so hard he thought it might break his ribs from the inside. Remembered telling his dad in a rush, words tripping over themselves—Butters’ dad hit him, I saw it, we should tell someone, that’s not okay, that’s not—
He remembered the way his father’s face hardened, like a door slamming shut.
“You need to stop sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“You don’t know the whole story
“You’re too sensitive, Scott, that’s your problem.”
“That’s why kids mess with you.”
Grounded. Phone taken. Lectured until his ears rang. And somehow—somehow—Butters’ dad had spun it. Had called Scott’s father. Had talked circles until Scott was the problem. The troublemaker. The liar with a bleeding heart.
Scott swallowed, the taste of the memory bitter on his tongue.
“I’m glad you got away,” Scott said quietly.
Butters looked up at him then, eyes sharp and searching. “You remember.”
Scott nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
For a moment, Butters’ aggressive look flickered, fractured by something raw underneath. His jaw clenched, then unclenched. “You were the only one who tried to do anything.”
Scott shrugged, uncomfortable with the praise. “I didn’t… I mean. It didn’t help.”
“It mattered,” Butters said, firm. “Even if it didn’t work.”
Scott looked down at his hands, fingers worrying the edge of the napkin. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—”
Butters cut him off. “You don’t get to apologize for that.”
Scott glanced up, startled.
Butters’ gaze was steady, intense in that familiar way, but there was no anger in it. Just certainty. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Scott exhaled, slow. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been holding that breath.
“Okay,” he said.
They sat in the quiet that followed, not awkward, just… full. Outside, a cloud slid over the sun, dimming the room slightly. Someone laughed nearby, bright and careless.
Butters shifted, breaking the moment. “Hey. Uh.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket, leather creaking, and pulled out his phone. It was newer than Scott remembered—sleek, unadorned, no cracked screen. “Can I…?”
Scott blinked. “Can you…?”
Butters held it up, suddenly almost shy. “Get your number.”
Scott’s heart gave another little stutter, traitorous thing. “Yeah,” he said, too quickly. Then, softer, “Yeah. Of course.”
He pulled his own phone out, fingers a little clumsy as he unlocked it. They leaned closer over the table, shoulders almost touching. Scott could feel the heat of Butters’ body through the thin fabric of his hoodie, solid and grounding.
Butters typed carefully, like he didn’t want to mess it up. “Scott,” he read aloud as he entered the contact, then paused. “That okay?”
Scott smiled. “That’s me.”
Butters’ mouth twitched. He handed the phone back. “Text me.”
Scott did. A simple hi sent into the ether, followed almost instantly by a vibration.
Butters’ phone buzzed. He glanced down at it, then back up at Scott, something like wonder flickering across his face.
“There,” Scott said lightly. “Now you can’t lose me.”
Butters’ gaze lingered on him a beat too long. “I wasn’t planning on it.”
Scott felt warmth creep up his neck. He laughed, breaking eye contact. “You’re… intense,” he said, teasing, because it felt safer than naming the other thing blooming between them.
Butters huffed. “You noticed.”
Scott gathered his tray, standing. “I should go. Lab.”
Butters stood too, towering a little, leather jacket creasing as he moved. “I’ll walk you.”
Scott opened his mouth to protest, then closed it again. “Okay.”
They headed for the door together, winter light spilling back over them as it opened. The cold rushed in, sharp and honest.
As they stepped outside, Butters fell into pace beside him easily, blocking the wind again without comment.
They walked in step across the quad, boots and sneakers scuffing over the same worn paths cut by years of students who’d been just as late, just as distracted, just as full of half-formed futures. The sky had gone a dull, thoughtful gray, clouds stacked like unfinished sentences. Scott hugged his hoodie closer around himself as the wind slipped its fingers under the hem.
Butters noticed.
He didn’t comment—didn’t say you’re cold or here, take my jacket—but he shifted his stride so he was slightly ahead, shoulder angled just enough to take the worst of the wind. It was subtle. Almost accidental. Scott clocked it anyway, a quiet awareness blooming under his ribs.
“So where’s your lab?” Butters asked.
“Education building,” Scott said. “Second floor. Room smells like crayons and sadness.”
Butters snorted. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It is,” Scott deadpanned. “One time a kid bit a teacher during a demonstration video.”
Butters actually laughed at that—short, surprised, rough around the edges. The sound startled Scott a little; it felt like spotting a rare bird in the wild. He glanced sideways, smiling without thinking about it.
They slowed as the building came into view, all glass and brick and banners boasting about shaping the future. Students clustered near the entrance, some smoking, some arguing, some staring into their phones like the answers might blink back at them if they waited long enough.
Scott stopped at the bottom of the steps.
“Well,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “This is me.”
Butters stopped too, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He looked up at the building, then back at Scott, expression unreadable for a moment. The aggressive edge hovered, faint but present, like a guard dog deciding whether to sit or stay standing.
“You’ll text me,” Butters said.
It wasn’t a question.
Scott blinked, then smiled. “Yeah. I will.”
Butters’ gaze searched his face again, as if confirming the promise was real. Then he nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”
Scott hesitated, then added, “We should… hang out sometime.”
Butters’ eyes flickered, bright. “Yeah,” he said immediately. Too immediately. Then, softer, “I’d like that.”
Scott felt something warm curl in his chest. “Me too.”
He turned toward the steps, then paused and glanced back. Butters was still there, watching him like he might vanish if he blinked too long.
Scott lifted a hand in a small wave. “Don’t be weird.”
Butters’ mouth twitched. “No promises.”
Scott laughed and headed inside.
Class passed in a blur of voices and notes and the low hum of fluorescent lights. Scott sat near the window, notebook open, pen moving almost on autopilot. He wrote about developmental stages, about the importance of routine and reassurance, about how children learned trust through consistency.
Consistency.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Scott ignored it at first—then, curiosity getting the better of him, he risked a glance beneath the desk.
Butters: you make it?
Scott’s lips curved before he could stop them.
Scott: yeah
Scott: didn’t get lost or kidnapped
A pause. Then—
Butters: good.
Just that. One word. It sat with Scott the rest of the lecture, warm and grounding like a hand at the small of his back.
When class finally ended, Scott packed up, shoulders aching pleasantly from sitting too long. He stepped back out into the cold, breath puffing white, and started the walk home. The afternoon had dimmed into early evening, the sky bruised purple at the edges. Streetlights flickered on one by one, a slow, patient constellation.
By the time he reached the apartment, the windows glowed amber.
Inside, the air was thick with warmth and the smell of garlic and onions hitting hot oil. Scott toed his shoes off by the door and dropped his bag, shoulders relaxing as soon as he stepped into the familiar chaos.
Heidi stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, hair pulled up messily. Sophie leaned against the counter beside her, chopping vegetables with practiced ease, music playing softly from her phone.
“You live,” Heidi said without turning around.
“Barely,” Scott replied. “I almost starved.”
Sophie snorted. “We literally texted you.”
“I was busy,” Scott said, wandering closer. He inhaled deeply. “Oh my god. That smells incredible.”
“Pasta,” Heidi said. “Sit.”
Scott did, perching on a stool and watching them move around the kitchen together—easy, familiar, the quiet choreography of people who’d learned each other’s rhythms. He let the warmth soak into him, the sound of sizzling and soft music easing the last of the day’s tension.
Sophie glanced at him sideways. “You look… different.”
Scott frowned. “Different how?”
“Like,” Heidi cut in, glancing over her shoulder, “you just ran into a ghost. Or a crush.”
Scott opened his mouth. Closed it. Then sighed.
“I ran into Butters.”
Both of them froze.
Heidi turned fully around, spoon suspended midair. Sophie stopped chopping, knife paused inches above the cutting board.
“Butters?” Heidi echoed.
Scott nodded. “On campus.”
Sophie blinked. “Wait. Like—Butters Stotch?”
“The one and only,” Scott said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Heidi’s eyes narrowed, not unkindly. “I thought he went somewhere else.”
“So did I,” Scott said. “Turns out he’s been here since August.”
Sophie’s brows knit together. “And he just… didn’t tell you?”
Scott shrugged, uncomfortable. “I guess not.”
They exchanged a look—quick, loaded, years of shared context passing between them in a glance.
“And how did that make you feel?” Sophie asked carefully.
Scott considered the question. The leather jacket. The softened look. The way Butters had stood between him and the wind without saying a word.
“Confused,” he said honestly. Then, after a beat, “And… kind of happy.”
Heidi set the spoon down slowly. “Okay.”
Sophie resumed chopping, but her movements were slower now, thoughtful. “Did he say why he’s here?”
“Mechanics,” Scott said. “He cut his parents off. New phone. New number.”
That made both of them look up again.
“He did?” Heidi asked.
Scott nodded. “Yeah.”
Sophie exhaled, something like relief in the sound. “Good.”
“Yeah,” Scott agreed. “I think so too.”
He watched his roommates move around the kitchen, listened to the gentle clatter of home, and let the day settle into him.
Somewhere across campus, Butters Stotch was here now. Real. Close.
And Scott wasn’t sure what that meant.
But he knew it mattered.