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Reese Wilkerson never thought love was something you learned.
Growing up, it always looked loud, chaotic, and slightly unhinged—something that just happened and dragged you along with it whether you liked it or not. In his house, love wasn't quiet or poetic.
It was his dad following his mom around like she was gravity itself, like everything else in the world existed somewhere far behind her. Reese used to think it was embarrassing.
Now, he wasn't so sure. It hits him in the middle of a crowded college dining hall, somewhere between Malcolm complaining about something no one cares about and loudly insisting that cafeteria food has "layers of flavor." Reese isn't paying attention to any of it.
He's staring.
You're sitting across the room, talking to some guy Reese has never seen before. The guy is leaning too close, smiling too easily, laughing like he already thinks he belongs there. You're smiling too—but Reese knows that smile. It's polite. Automatic. The kind you give when you're being nice, not when you actually mean it. It shouldn't bother him. It does. The feeling creeps up fast, settling heavy in his chest, sharp and uncomfortable.
He shifts in his seat, jaw tightening slightly as the guy says something else that makes you laugh again. "Dude," Malcolm mutters without looking up, "you're doing the thing."
Reese doesn't blink. "What thing?"
"The staring-like-you're-about-to-commit-a-crime thing." "I'm not—" Reese stops, because yeah. He probably is.
Malcolm glances up, follows his line of sight, and smirks. "Oh. That." Reese looks away for half a second, forcing himself to stab at his food like it matters. "He's annoying."
"You don't even know him."
"I don't need to." He shifts uncomfortably, his leg bouncing under the table. "Just... trust me on this one."
Malcolm sets his fork down, suddenly very interested in where this is going. "Okay, so what's your deal with him then? Because from where I'm sitting, he looks like a pretty normal guy."
"That's exactly the problem," Reese mutters, not taking his eyes off you. "Normal guys like him think they can just walk up to someone like her and—" "Like her?" Malcolm's eyebrow raises.
"You mean like..."
"Don't," Reese cuts him off sharply. "Don't what? I wasn't going to say anything." Malcolm grins, clearly enjoying this far too much.
"But the fact that you're so defensive about it is telling." Reese stands up so abruptly his chair scrapes loudly against the floor, the sound making several people glance over. "I'm done with this conversation."
"Where are you—" Malcolm starts, but Reese is already walking. He doesn't plan what he's going to say. He never does. "Hey."
You look up, surprised, your expression shifting from polite interest to genuine warmth when you see who it is. "Oh—hi, Reese."
The guy looks between you two, clearly trying to figure out the dynamic. "Hey, man." Reese doesn't acknowledge him. He keeps his eyes on you, and only you.
"We have that thing," he says, the words coming out before he can think them through. Your eyebrows knit together, confusion flickering across your face. "…What thing?"
He hesitates for half a second, aware that this is probably obvious to everyone watching. "…The thing." There's a pause.
Then you tilt your head, studying him, something quiet clicking into place behind your eyes as you realize what he's doing. "Oh," you say softly, and there's a hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
The guy looks confused. "Are you guys—"
"Yeah," Reese cuts in, the word coming out more possessive than he intends. You stand, gathering your things with a grace that makes his chest ache.
"Sorry," you tell the guy politely. "I'll see you later." Reese turns before you even finish speaking, expecting you to follow. You do. They walk in silence for a few seconds, the noise of the dining hall fading behind them.
When you reach the quieter hallway, you finally speak, your voice gentle but curious, and there's amusement dancing in your tone. "So," you say, "you don't like him."
Reese shrugs, but there's tension in his shoulders, visible frustration in the way he clenches his jaw. "He's annoying."
"You don't even know him," you point out, and you're definitely trying not to smile now. "I don't need to." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself for being so transparent, so obvious.
"The way he was looking at you... the way he was sitting so close. It bothered me, okay? That's all. I just didn't like it." You watch him as you walk, your expression thoughtful and warm.
"That sounds familiar." He glances at you, confused. "What does that mean?"
"It means you used to say the same thing about me. When we first met, you were convinced I was trouble. You acted like I was annoying before you even gave me a chance."
Your voice is teasing but gentle. "You were so sure you didn't like me."
He frowns, but there's no real heat behind it. "…That's different."
"How?" You tilt your head, genuinely curious, genuinely wanting to understand him. "Explain it to me, because I'm not seeing the difference."
He opens his mouth, then closes it, searching for words that feel impossible to say out loud. "Because back then, I didn't care what you did or who you talked to. I was just being stubborn for the sake of it."
He starts walking again, and you move beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost brush. "But now... now it's different because I actually care. Because somewhere along the way, you became..." He trails off, struggling with the admission. "You became important to me. Really important."
Your breath catches slightly, and you look away, a soft smile playing at your lips.
"And that guy in there," Reese continues, his voice quieter but more certain, more vulnerable, "he doesn't get to talk to you like that. Like he already thinks he belongs in your space. Like you're something he can just... claim."
"Talking... wrong?" you say softly, echoing his earlier words with a hint of gentle humor.
"You know what I mean," he insists, and this time there's no frustration in his voice—just earnestness, raw and honest. "He was too close. He was looking at you like... like he was already planning something. And I hate that. I hate not being the one who makes you laugh like that. The real laugh, not that polite thing you do."
You stop walking, and Reese takes another step before realizing you aren't beside him anymore. He turns back. You're looking at him, and your eyes are softer than he's ever seen them. "That bothers you?" you ask quietly. "That much?"
He meets your gaze without hesitation, no more walls, no more defenses. "Yeah. More than it probably should." You step closer, closing some of the distance between you, your presence making his heart race.
"You don't own me, Reese."
"I know that." He reaches out, his fingers brushing yours, tentative and careful. "I'm not trying to own you. I'm just... I don't like the idea of someone else thinking they can have you. Not the way I want to."
"And how do you want to have me?" Your voice is barely a whisper now, and the question hangs between you both like something sacred.
His hand finds your waist, his thumb tracing small circles through the fabric of your shirt. "Like you're the center of everything. Like nothing else matters except you."
"That sounds like your dad," you say, but there's no criticism in it—just observation, gentle understanding. "Maybe," he admits. "But I don't think I need to be him to do this right. I just need to figure out how to do it in a way that's... mine. That's us."
You reach up, your hand finding his chest, right over his heart. "You don't have to be your dad to care about me," you say softly, and your voice is so tender it almost breaks him. "You just have to be honest. And you are. You're always honest with me, even when it's messy."
"Yeah," he breathes. "That's all I know how to do." You smile then—the real one, the one that makes his chest ache, the one that's just for him.
"I like that part," you whisper. He can't help himself anymore. His other hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, and he pulls you closer until there's barely any space between you. The world around you—the hallway, the college, everything—fades away until it's just the two of you.
"Can I kiss you?" he asks, and his voice is rough, urgent but tender.
Instead of answering, you close the distance, pressing your lips to his. The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like you're asking the same question he just did. But the moment you deepen it, the moment you respond, something inside Reese completely melts.
His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you even closer, and he pours everything into the kiss—every doubt, every moment of jealousy, every confession he couldn't quite say out loud.
You taste like the coffee you were drinking earlier, and like something uniquely you, and it's almost too much. When you finally pull apart, Reese rests his forehead against yours, breathing hard, unable to quite bring himself to let you go.
"Wow," you whisper, your eyes still closed.
"Yeah," he agrees, and there's a tremor in his voice. "Wow."
He keeps you close, his arms wrapped around your waist, your head tucked against his shoulder.
And for the first time, Reese doesn't feel like he's fighting against love or trying to understand it. He just feels it. Pure and honest and terrifying and right. Because maybe love isn't something you learn from your parents or from books.
Maybe it's something you discover when you find the right person and decide they're worth being completely open and raw with. And as he holds you there in the quiet hallway, Reese realizes he's finally stopped fighting it.
He's finally understanding it.
He's finally learned the most important lesson of all—that love isn't about control or possession. It's about choosing someone, over and over again, even when it's scary.
It's about being willing to be vulnerable and honest, the way you make him want to be.
"Stay with me?" he asks softly, and it's not just about right now. It's about all the moments after this one.
You look up at him, and your answer is in your eyes before you even speak.
"Always," you say.
And Reese finally understands what his dad has known all along.