Onyx's POV
Jace lay sprawled across my bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily holding his phone above his face. The glow of the screen flickered against his features, while his thumb moved in effortless, practiced motions.
Completely at ease.
And me?
I was seated at my study desk, staring at the glowing screen of my laptop, pretending to analyze lines of code that I had not actually read for the past ten minutes.
The room was dim except for the desk lamp casting a circle of artificial daylight over my notes. Beyond that circle, everything softened into shadow—the curtains swaying slightly from the A.C.
I was gathering courage.
Not for an exam. Not for a presentation.
For something far more dangerous.
Tonight, when the house was deep in sleep, I was planning to do something reckless. But even now, I was still debating whether to proceed... or postpone.
Delay was safe.
Action was not.
"The food Pa made tonight was so good, maybe he's too inspired to cook these days," Jace said, stretching his arms above his head. His back arched lazily, and I heard the satisfying crack of his joints. "Ah, that felt better."
I did not respond.
Because my brain was currently in a courtroom, holding a trial against my own decision-making skills.
"Hey? Are you even listening to me?" Jace asked.
"Huh?" I blinked and turned toward him, lifting both brows in feigned confusion.
He clicked his tongue and shook his head as if I had personally disappointed him.
"I'm busy, can't you see?" I said coolly, gesturing toward my laptop. "I'm checking your Capstone Project. I can't split my attention."
"Okay. Reason accepted," he said with a dramatic sigh. Then, after a suspicious pause, he added, "Now that I have your attention—tomorrow's Saturday. You want to hang out somewhere? I don't have other plans."
My fingers froze over the keyboard.
"Where? At a bar? No," I said immediately.
"I figured you wouldn't like that," he said, rolling onto his side to face me. His tone shifted into something deceptively casual. "So I was thinking we could go out around noon. I want you to visit a planet museum for kids. Sounds fun, right?" He smirked.
A planet museum... for kids?
I stared at him.
Of all places.
But before I could even process it, my gaze drifted toward the window. And then I remembered.
Melody.
I had already said yes to her.
"I can't. I have something to do at noon," I said.
There was a beat of silence.
Then he made a small sound.
"Tch." He turned his back to me with exaggerated offense. "You don't care about me anymore."
I stared at him.
Jace, what is this behavior?
"Do you want me to show you my schedule for tomorrow so you can see that I actually have an agenda at noon?" I asked.
"No. I hate excuses," he said flatly. "Just tell me if you don't want to go out with me."
And then—dramatically—he shifted even closer to the wall.
I shook my head.
"I'll just make myself busy tomorrow," he muttered. "Do whatever that agenda is. I'll throw away the ticket I reserved for the two of us."
My head snapped toward him.
"Ticket?"
"Yes," he replied. "For the planet museum."
"We can reschedule it some other time," I said carefully.
The moment the words left my mouth, I realized what they sounded like.
I was negotiating.
"No. I want it tomorrow," he said stubbornly.
I inhaled slowly.
"I have something scheduled until 1:30 p.m. After that, I can adjust for you," I said. "I just can't move the twelve to one-thirty slot. I already said yes to—."
"Right," Jace cut me off. "So it's more important."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
He turned away from me, pulling himself closer to the wall like distance alone could prove his point.
I exhaled slowly.
"We can reschedule."
"No," he said immediately. "I already lost my excitement."
"You are impossible," I muttered under my breath. "I'm literally trying to make it work."
He went silent.
Completely silent.
You know when a child doesn't get what he wants and suddenly the world must suffer for it?
That was him.
I did not know whether to laugh or feel irritated.
Jace pushed himself up from the bed in one fluid motion, the mattress dipping and rebounding beneath him.
He just walked straight toward the door, each step firm and deliberate, like he had already decided something I had yet to understand.
"Don't ask me where I'm going!" he declared.
He pulled the door open with dramatic force—then paused mid-slam.
He glanced down the other direction.
"Pa might be sleeping," he scoffed softly, and instead of slamming it, he closed it gently.
I blinked.
"This guy..." I muttered.
A few minutes later, my phone vibrated.
Papa:
Who went outside? I heard the main door squeak. You or Jace? If it's Jace, tell him to wear pants. A lot of mosquitoes outside.
Sent: 9:45 p.m.
I exhaled.
Me:
Okay.
Sent: 9:45 p.m.
I stared at the screen.
"You really are the favorite son, Jace. Not me," I murmured.
I stood up.
If the favorite son was wandering outside without pants and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, I supposed it was my responsibility to retrieve him.
When I stepped out quietly, I heard his voice from near the door.
"Yeah, sorry for the short notice. I can work tomorrow. My plan got cancelled," Jace said over the phone.
I stopped walking.
I stared at the ground.
"I know. It sucks. My Saturday date was ruined," he continued, annoyance clear in his tone. "I'll just work instead."
Date.
The word did not register immediately. It hovered in my mind for a second too long—unprocessed, out of place—before my thoughts finally moved to examine it. I frowned slightly, my attention shifting inward as if I were parsing a term that had been used incorrectly.
A planetary museum is, by definition, an educational environment. A space designed for observation, learning, and the structured presentation of information. Its purpose is clear. Its function, objective.
By that logic, it does not qualify as a date.
At least—not by the version of it I understood.
And yet...
Because if that were true, then why had he called it that so casually?
Was that what he thought it was?
"Okay, see you tomorrow. Thanks again for giving me a shift," he said.
Before he could turn and see me, I hurried back inside and closed my door.
I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the window blankly.
Date? Was he talking about the planet museum? Wasn't that supposed to be... educational? Since when did that become a date? I have a different definition of date from my perspective.
The door opened.
He walked in without looking at me, went straight to the bed, and lay down facing the wall again—retreating fully into his self-made tragedy.
I sighed.
He was sulking so intensely that it almost looked artistic.
"If you told me earlier," I said carefully, trying to sound calmer than I felt, "I would have said yes. I would have made time for you."
There was a slight shift under the blanket.
"Really?" he asked, still not turning to face me. "You would?"
"Yes," I replied. "But you told me too late. If you want, we can still go to the museum. Let's reschedule the ticket."
"Whatever," he said, and burrowed deeper into the corner. He even pulled the blanket over his head.
I stared at him in disbelief.
"Don't be such a child, Jace. You're twenty-three already. It's not cute anymore," I said.
He did not respond.
And yet—
How was it that this same person could intimidate an entire room full of people with just one glance... but act like this in front of me?
Annoying.
Absolutely annoying.
"What date and time do you want? How about Sunday. It should still be fine," I asked him carefully.
He let out a short, humorless scoff. "Go there by yourself," he said.
The words were light, almost careless—but they landed heavier than they should have.
"I'm trying to make it up to you," I replied, forcing my tone to stay calm. "You were the one who didn't tell me earlier."
I did not add the rest of the sentence out loud: Why am I the one struggling right now when you are the one who made this problem in the first place?
He shifted on the bed, staring at the ceiling as if it personally offended him.
"It seems like whatever you planned for tomorrow is more important," he continued. "Who am I, anyway? Just a boarder in your house. Your academic partner. Probably a nuisance to your eyes. A burden."
The way he said it—flat, almost indifferent—was far more dangerous than if he had shouted.
"If you're trying to make me feel guilty," I said evenly, "it's not working."
"I'm not," he answered. "I'm just saying... whatever that plan is, I know where I stand in your life. I'm just an option."
"What?" I turned to him, confusion sharpening into irritation. "What are you even talking about? My plan tomorrow doesn't define how I see you. It was scheduled days ago. That's it."
He tilted his head slightly just to look at me, eyes unreadable in the dim light.
"What is this plan, anyway?" he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer.
He cut me off before I could.
"Never mind. I don't want to know," he said. "I don't care. Just turn off the damn lamp. I want to sleep."
The dismissal stung more than I expected.
I sighed and stood up. The room plunged into darkness when I switched off the lamp, leaving only thin silver moonlight spilling through the curtains. Shadows stretched along the walls, quiet and suspicious.
And as if the universe had decided to participate in this silent war, I could not sleep on my extra mattress again.
Pa had discovered—very conveniently—that the sheet had flown into the mud outside and gotten dirty. Again. It had been washed. And somehow, something unfortunate happened to it.
I did not believe in coincidences that repeated themselves.
But I said nothing.
I walked back to the bed.
He was already lying down, noticeably closer to the edge, creating an exaggerated gap between us—as if the bed had a border and I had crossed into enemy territory.
I lay flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.
"Can I raise the A.C. temperature a bit?" I asked. "It's cold. And you took all the blanket."
"No," he uttered.
A second later, his arm moved abruptly. He shoved a portion of the blanket toward me.
It barely covered half my torso.
How generous.
"If I get sick tomorrow, it's your fault," I muttered.
"Good," he replied immediately. "So you won't be able to do your plan properly."
I blinked in disbelief.
Was I arguing with a twenty-three year old guy... or a five-year-old?
"Tch. Annoying," he suddenly muttered.
Then he sat up.
I frowned, watching him through the faint blue wash of moonlight. He walked toward the air conditioner. A soft beep echoed in the quiet room.
I glanced at the display.
He had raised the temperature.
He returned to bed without a word and lay down on his back this time, hands resting on his stomach, eyes closed.
For someone who "didn't care," he was doing an excellent job caring.
"Just tell me, Jace," I said more gently. "If you really felt bad and wanted to go to the planetary museum, we can go on Sunday."
He exhaled.
"I've been there before," he said.
"Then why did you want to go again?" I asked.
"It doesn't matter. Let's just sleep."
"It matters," I insisted. "Tell me. I'll listen. I may not be good at comforting people, but I can at least be a good listener."
He opened one eye and gave me a side glance.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked.
He closed his eyes again. His breathing steadied.
And somehow, I felt it—the shift. The storm lowering its volume.
"It's been a long time since I went," he said after a moment. "Maybe when I was eight. You asked me before why I knew so much about the astronomy stuff, right?"
"Yeah," I said lightly. "I was curious. You don't exactly look like someone who geeks out about it."
"I didn't," he replied. "Back then, I was more into sports. Games. Cars. All the cool things."
"What are those other cool things?" I asked.
"Just... if it looked cool to me, I liked it."
"Like what? I want to know."
"Don't be ridiculous, Boss," he said. "Anyway, let me continue."
He opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling as if the past were written there.
"I got interested in astronomy because of my uncle. My favorite uncle. He brought me to the planetary museum for kids for the first time when I was eight."
"Did you want to go? Or did he force you?" I asked.
He chuckled softly.
"That day, my dad wanted me to go with him to some boring business convention. I was eight. I didn't care about business."
I let out a small laugh. "I might have."
"That's you," he said. "Your brain works weird."
He paused.
"Anyway, I refused. I threw a tantrum. My dad scolded me. Said it was for my future. Said I should learn early. All that shit."
"He's not entirely wrong," I murmured. "Children absorb information at a far greater rate than we give them credit for. If higher-level concepts were introduced early—when the mind is still unfiltered, still adaptable—mastery wouldn't feel so... distant."
My gaze drifted, thoughts aligning into something almost clinical.
"Take Calculus, for instance. If it were part of the curriculum at a much younger stage—normalized instead of delayed—then by the time we reached this level, it wouldn't be something we struggled to understand."
I paused, then exhaled softly.
"It would simply be something we already knew."
He turned his head toward me, annoyed.
"Are you on my side or his?"
"I'm on no one's side. Continue."
"You said you're a good listener," he said, frowning. "You keep interrupting."
"Sorry."
And I was. Usually, I listened quietly. I waited. I processed.
But with him, something shifted. My mind leaned forward every time he spoke, as if afraid of missing a single word.
"As I was saying," he continued, "my dad and I were arguing. He was already late for his convention. Then my uncle arrived."
His voice softened.
"He's the opposite of my dad. Fun. Cheerful. Enthusiastic. Cool."
"Yes, yes," I murmured. "You like cool things."
He gave me a warning side-eye.
I shut my mouth immediately.
He exhaled.
"He saw us arguing. My dad was pushing me to go with him. My uncle stepped in and said he'd take me somewhere else instead. Told my dad to go to the convention alone."
The moonlight caught the faint curve of his lips.
"My dad was angry. Of course. But my uncle insisted. Said it would stop the fighting. Eventually, my dad agreed."
I stayed silent this time.
"And so he brought me to the planetary museum for kids," Jace continued. "I told him I didn't like that stuff. I wanted to play basketball. But he said it would be fun. He works in astronomy, by the way. He told me that day, he'd make me love it. That he'd show me all the cool things about space."
He shifted slightly on the mattress.
"Well," he added, voice quieter now, "it was better than a boring convention. So I agreed."
I found myself smiling in the dark.
He had not finished the story yet.
But I already understood.
Somewhere between a stubborn eight-year-old and a museum full of planets, something had changed.
And somehow, lying beside him in the quiet blue glow of our room, I realized—
The reason he wanted to go back had nothing to do with space.
And everything to do with memory.
"As he gave me a tour of the museum, all I could do was stare with my eyes wide open," Jace said quietly. "I was completely amazed. He made everything sound interesting. Even the way he talked—it was engaging. Fun."
His voice had softened in a way I did not hear often.
"My uncle didn't have a child," he continued. "So he treated me like I was his own. Sometimes..." He shook his head lightly. "Sometimes I wished he were my dad instead. But I got the not-cool dad."
He covered his face briefly with one hand, as if embarrassed by his own honesty.
I stared at the ceiling, pretending I was not listening too closely.
"That was the first time I became interested in astronomy," he went on. "After that, he gave me books. We watched sci-fi movies together. Every time there was a new attraction at the museum, we went back. I looked forward to it."
The faint blue light from the window traced the side of his face.
"But he didn't stay here permanently," he added. "He worked abroad. So whenever he left, I had to wait for him to come back. And whenever they discovered something new out there, he would message me about it. I still read about those things until now. Well... when I'm alone."
There was something almost shy in that last sentence.
"Are you embarrassed to let your friends know you're into that kind of stuff?" I asked.
He scoffed softly.
"Me? Embarrassed?" he echoed, a faint scoff slipping through as he looked at me. "Did you really think that?"
He paused, the confidence still there—but quieter now, more measured.
"It's not that," he continued, voice lowering just enough to feel honest. "Not everyone appreciates it." His gaze shifted away for a moment. "So I don't really bring it up."
A brief beat.
"Only with my uncle."
I nodded slowly.
"I did try talking about it once," he admitted, like he was brushing against something he didn't usually revisit. "I told my friends about astronomy and all that shit."
A faint, humorless smile tugged at his lips.
"They just stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Said I looked weird. Me—talking like some nerd." He let out a soft chuckle, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "So I stopped. There's no point in bringing that topic if no one's interested."
For a moment, his gaze drifted somewhere distant.
"My uncle was the only one who actually listened." A brief pause. "Then he left... and didn't come back for a long time."
His fingers flexed slightly at his side, like he was grounding himself.
"I didn't get to go back to the museum after that," he said, the words falling softer this time—like something quietly taken from him, never returned.
Another quiet breath.
"I asked my dad once." His tone flattened—controlled, but edged. "He said it was a waste of time."
A beat.
"Said I should go to conventions with him instead."
"Did you ask your mom to go with you?" I asked.
"I did. Once," he said. "It was boring. She didn't know the stuff the way my uncle did. It wasn't the same."
Silence lingered for a moment.
The words hung between us, heavier than they should have been.
"And now," he continued more quietly, "now that I know someone who has the same interest... and probably knows more about it than me like my uncle... I figured I could go back to the planetary museum. With you."
My throat tightened.
So that was it.
That was why he had been so eager. Why he had looked almost offended earlier. Why the word 'option' had slipped out of his mouth like a weapon.
But that did not mean he was right to sulk just because I could not agree to a short-notice plan.
"Finally," he said, almost to himself, "someone I could talk to about it without being told I look weird. Someone who actually shares the same interest."
There was no mockery in his tone this time. No teasing. Just something unguarded.
I inhaled slowly.
"Let's sleep," he said suddenly, as if snapping himself out of it. "I've said too much already."
He turned to face the other side of the bed, giving me only his back.
The distance felt deliberate.
I turned as well, facing the opposite direction.
"Jace," I called softly.
"Sleep, Boss," he murmured. "Talking made me drowsy. If you want to say something, say it tomorrow."
His voice was steady again. Casual. Almost detached.
"On Sunday," I said after a pause, "I'll change my schedule."
The room fell quiet.
Only the steady hum of the air conditioner and the faint chirping of crickets outside filled the darkness. The moonlight drew a thin silver line across the floor, stopping just short of the bed—as if even it did not dare cross the invisible border between us.
"Just save it for next time," he replied. "I have something to do this Sunday."
My chest tightened, the realization settling in with quiet certainty.
Silence returned, heavier this time—thick enough to feel, as if the air itself had weight. It pressed against my ribs, slowed my breathing, forced every inhale to be deliberate. I lay there in the dark, eyes open, mind refusing to quiet, circling back to a single word that refused to dissolve.
A date.
That was what he called it. Not a trip. Not an activity. Not a casual visit to a museum with educational value. A date.
The distinction should have been simple. Clear. Defined.
And yet it wasn't.
The word lingered, repeating itself in my mind, shifting meaning each time I examined it—no longer just a label, but something with implication. Something with intention.
Until, somewhere between analysis and silence, something in me moved.
Not calculated. Not planned.
Just... decided.
Before I could intercept the thought, before I could filter it through logic or restraint, the words left me—steady, unhesitating.
My lips parted before I could stop them.
"Let's go on a date, Jace."
They came out too easily. As if they had been waiting for the right moment to exist.
The silence that followed was immediate. Heavy.
I kept my gaze fixed on the wall, suddenly aware of everything—the rhythm of my heartbeat, the rise and fall of my breathing, the exact placement of my hands against the mattress.
What did I just say?
There was no revision. No correction. No logical recovery.
For the first time in a long time—
I had spoken without thinking.
And beside me, Jace did not move.
End of Chapter 28