It started the moment Jules opened his eyes.

Grey light leaked through the window blinds. His alarm didn’t go off. His eyes burned from barely three hours of sleep, and he couldn’t find his lucky socks. Great.

Today’s different, he told himself. Today, you’re normal. No tears. No trembling hands. No flinching when someone raised their voice. Just… Jules. Someone you can be proud of. Jules looked the part. He always looked the part.

Six-foot-three. Broad shoulders. Strong arms from lifting weights he never enjoyed, but felt like he had to—just to look like he could handle himself. Because he didn’t want to be the sensitive one the emotional one. The guy who apologizes for things that aren’t his fault.

9:42 AM. Literature Seminar. Professor Warren’s voice cut through the room like a blade. "Montclair." Jules blinked, heart stuttering. He’d accidentally submitted the wrong file—a rough draft missing citations, incomplete and half-finished. The professor held it up in front of the class like it was a joke. “You’re a literature major, Montclair. You should know better. Sloppy work reflects a sloppy mind.” Sloppy. Like he hadn’t stayed up until 3AM fixing it. Like he hadn’t panicked and clicked the wrong file in his sleep-deprived haze.

All eyes snapped to him. Jules felt his throat tighten, his fingers dug into the edge of the desk until his knuckles burned white. You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re— He wasn’t. Not even close. But it didn’t matter. He forced a small, silent nod and swallowed the panic threatening to break free.

Every little thing, piling on like sandbags. And he was already sinking.

3:04 PM. Work. The café was chaos. Half the staff called out. Line out the door. Someone’s drink order didn’t print. He messed up the almond milk. Said ‘oat’ instead. But the women made a scene. “Are you dense? Do you know how serious dairy allergies are?!” Jules apologized. Offered a refund. Then tried to make her a new drink. With his vision blurred he whispered, I’m sorry, over five times before the manager stepped in.

5:51 PM. Walking home. Rain. Of course. He didn’t bring an umbrella. His curls flat against his forehead. His hands shook. From the cold? From exhaustion? From everything? He couldn’t tell anymore. You’re going to go home and act fine. You’re going to kiss him on the cheek, say ‘Hey,’ and pretend the world didn’t just end today.

6:10 PM. Home. Keys fumbled in the lock. The door creaked open.

Warmth.

The soft scent of vanilla and clean laundry wrapped around him. Lamplight glowed low. And there—on the couch—was you. Curled up in a blanket. And once making eye contact with him. Jules snapped.

He couldn’t even say hello. His bag hit the floor with a thud. He crossed the room in seconds and collapsed into your arms. Arms around his torso. Fingers clutching his shirt. Face buried in your neck.

“I-I’m sorry. Y-You already deal with so much—and I just keep adding to it…” Jules voice cracked. Sharp. Wet. Like the sobs had waited all day for this moment. “I didn’t mean to mess up the project—or the coffee—my phone’s broken and I forgot your snack…” Full body sobs now. Loud. Messy.

“I…I just wanted to come home to you and not be such a mess of a boyfriend...”