Nobody Knows

Chapter 3: Almost

I stood outside Vhan’s house for a second longer than necessary, adjusting my bag strap like I was about to enter an interview instead of a study session.

The door swung open before I could knock.

“You’re early,” he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. “That’s suspicious.”

“I value punctuality,” I replied.

“You value control.”

“That too.”

He grinned. “Relax, Sam. It’s not a courtroom.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re calculating escape routes.”

“I am assessing my surroundings.”

He laughed. “You’re ridiculous. Come in.”

I stepped inside, trying not to look like I was comparing everything to my own house. The place felt… alive. There were framed photos on the wall that weren’t perfectly aligned. A pair of shoes kicked off near the couch. A soft sound of someone moving around in the kitchen.

“You live like this?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like people actually exist here.”

He stared at me for a second, then smirked. “Should I be offended?”

“Maybe.”

“Well, welcome to chaos. We occasionally laugh too loud.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“Oh, it is,” he replied. “Especially when my mom starts telling embarrassing stories.”

“Noted. I’ll prepare myself.”

“You won’t survive.”

“I always survive.”

He raised a brow. “We’ll see.”

His dining table was already covered in papers, a laptop open, a calculator tossed carelessly to the side.

“You came prepared,” he said, eyeing the neat stack of my notes.

“I always come prepared.”

“That sounded threatening.”

“It was.”

He pulled out a chair for me with exaggerated politeness. “Please, educate me.”

“I will,” I said, sitting down. “But try to keep up.”

He placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You think I can’t?”

“I know you can’t.”

“That’s offensive.”

“It’s accurate.”

He laughed under his breath and opened the laptop. “Okay, Professor Samantha. Explain the first step.”

“It’s not complicated,” I said, flipping open my notebook. “You just need to understand the model before you integrate.”

He tilted his head. “You say that like it’s obvious.”

“It is obvious.”

“To you.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Careful. I can still switch partners.”

“You won’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you need me.”

He stared at me for a second, then smirked. “Confidence looks good on you.”

I ignored that.

We worked through the first few equations, arguing over small details, interrupting each other, pointing at numbers like they personally offended us.

“You skipped a step,” he said.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“That’s called mental math.”

“That’s called cheating.”

“It’s called efficiency.”

He leaned back in his chair. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are.”

He smiled at that.

After a while, the teasing softened into focus. He listened when I explained. Actually listened. Not just waiting for his turn to speak.

“That makes sense,” he said after a minute. “So the integral represents the accumulated change over time.”

“Exactly.”

He tapped the pen against his notebook. “You explain things like you’re trying to win an argument.”

“I usually am.”

“With me?”

“With everyone.”

He studied me briefly, then smiled. “I like that.”

My stomach did something unnecessary again.

We continued working, shoulders occasionally brushing when we leaned over the same page. Nothing dramatic. Just small, accidental contact.

“You’re surprisingly patient,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are. You didn’t even get annoyed when I asked the same question twice.”

“That’s because you asked nicely.”

“So if I stop asking nicely?”

“Then I’ll charge tutoring fees.”

He laughed again.

It felt easy.

Too easy.

We were halfway through the second page when he suddenly stopped writing.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re competitive about everything, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not competition. That’s competence.”

He laughed. “You always need the last word.”

“I don’t.”

“You just proved my point.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re distracting yourself because you don’t understand the substitution.”

“I understand it.”

“Then explain it.”

He straightened in his chair dramatically. “Fine. We isolate the variable, apply the bounds, then integrate accordingly.”

I waited.

He waited.

“…Continue,” I said.

He blinked. “That was it.”

I leaned back slowly. “You stopped at the easy part.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“I am.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling.

“You know what your problem is?” he said.

“I don’t have problems.”

“You don’t let anyone see when you’re unsure.”

My pen paused for a fraction of a second.

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

I met his eyes.

“And what makes you think that?”

“You answer too quickly,” he said calmly. “Like you already rehearsed everything.”

That hit closer than I liked.

“I just think fast.”

“Maybe.”

He didn’t push it.

Instead, he leaned forward again and tapped the notebook.

“Fine. Teach me the part I ‘stopped at.’”

I rolled my eyes but leaned in too, our heads closer than before as I pointed at the equation.

“Here,” I said. “You missed the transition between these terms.”

He watched my hand, not the paper.

“You’re staring,” I said.

“I’m listening.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“It can be.”

My heartbeat quickened, just slightly.

This was different from bar flirting.

Slower.

Intentional.

Before either of us could say anything else, a voice called from the kitchen.

“Vhan, dinner’s ready!”

He leaned back immediately, breaking whatever invisible line we were approaching.

“Saved by the bell,” he muttered.

I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or disappointed.

The smell hit me before I even reached the kitchen.

Something savory. Something warm.

“You better not embarrass me,” Vhan whispered as we walked in.

“That depends,” I replied.

His mother turned the moment we entered, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. “You must be Sam.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said politely.

“No ma’am,” she laughed immediately. “That makes me feel ancient. Just call me Auntie.”

I blinked. “Okay… Auntie.”

“Good,” she said, smiling warmly. “Sit, sit. You’re just in time.”

His father looked up from arranging plates. “So this is the famous calculus partner.”

“Famous?” I asked.

“He said you’re the only reason he won’t fail,” his dad replied casually.

“That’s a lie,” Vhan said quickly.

“It is not,” I corrected.

They both looked at me.

“See?” his father said. “Already honest.”

We sat down, and the table filled quickly with dishes. Nothing overly fancy. Just normal. Comfortable.

“So,” his mom began, “how long have you two been friends?”

“Not long,” Vhan said.

“Long enough,” I added.

His mother smiled knowingly. “He only brings people home if he likes them.”

“Mom,” he warned.

“What? It’s true.”

I focused very hard on my plate.

His father chuckled. “Be glad we’re not showing baby pictures.”

“Please don’t,” Vhan muttered.

“Oh, we absolutely are,” his mom said.

I almost laughed too loudly.

She pulled out her phone and started scrolling.

“There,” she said triumphantly. “This was when he tried to climb the school gate to impress his friends.”

The photo showed a younger Vhan awkwardly stuck halfway over a fence.

“No,” he groaned.

“Yes,” she insisted.

“You got stuck?” I asked, biting back a smile.

“For ten full minutes,” his father added. “We had to get a guard to help.”

I laughed. “That’s tragic.”

“It was heroic,” Vhan argued weakly.

“Heroic?” I repeated.

“I was proving a point.”

“You were proving gravity works,” his mom replied.

The table erupted into laughter.

“And don’t forget the pancake incident,” his father added.

I looked up. “Pancake incident?”

Vhan closed his eyes. “We don’t need to revisit that.”

“He tried to cook without supervision,” his mom explained. “And somehow set the pan on fire.”

“I panicked,” he defended.

“You ran,” she corrected.

“You ran?” I asked.

“I was young.”

“You were fifteen,” his father said.

I laughed again, this time without holding back.

For a moment, I forgot to be careful.

Forgot to measure my tone.

Forgot to perform.

I was just… there.

“See?” his mom said softly. “You make people laugh. Even when you embarrass yourself.”

Vhan rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

And I found myself smiling too.

For a moment, I just sat there while they continued talking.

Laughing.

Interrupting each other.

Teasing without hurting.

No one corrected anyone’s posture.

No one reminded anyone about expectations.

No one mentioned reputation.

It was loud in a soft way.

I didn’t realize how tightly I held myself at home until I felt my shoulders relax here.

I wondered what it would feel like to grow up in a house where mistakes were stories instead of warnings.

“Sam?” Vhan nudged my knee lightly under the table. “You good?”

I blinked.

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “I’m good.”

He studied me for half a second, then smirked. “You look like you’re analyzing my family dynamics.”

“I am.”

“Verdict?”

I glanced around once more.

“…Functional.”

He laughed. “High praise.”

His mom stood up to collect plates. “You two can take a break before going back to your project.”

Vhan looked at me. “Five minutes.”

“Ten,” I corrected.

“Deal.”

We ended up in his room after clearing the table.

It wasn’t messy, but it wasn’t staged either. A few books stacked unevenly on the desk. A hoodie draped over the chair. Posters on the wall that looked like they had been there for years.

“Welcome to my cave,” he said.

“I expected worse.”

“You’re disappointed?”

“Slightly.”

He grabbed a controller from the shelf. “Ten minute break.”

“You promised ten,” I reminded him.

“I always honor my agreements.”

“That sounds suspiciously official.”

“Trust me.”

“That’s bold.”

He turned on the console, the soft glow of the screen lighting the room. I sat at the edge of his bed while he scrolled through the game menu.

“You ever play?” he asked.

“No.”

“Never?”

“I have better hobbies.”

“That’s offensive.”

“It’s accurate.”

He laughed and handed me the controller anyway. “You’re learning.”

“I will embarrass myself.”

“You already survived dinner. You’ll survive this.”

I hesitated before taking it.

He sat beside me. Not too close. Just enough that our shoulders brushed when we shifted.

“Okay,” he said calmly. “This button jumps. That one attacks. Don’t panic.”

“I’m already panicking.”

“You haven’t even started.”

The game began.

Within seconds, my character walked directly into danger and fell off the platform.

He stared at the screen.

I stared at the screen.

“…That was strategic,” I said.

“That was tragic,” he corrected.

“Shut up.”

He laughed quietly, not mocking, just amused.

“Try again,” he said. “Slower. Don’t rush it.”

I focused harder this time. My fingers moved cautiously.

“Good,” he murmured.

The word landed somewhere deeper than it should have.

I made it across the platform.

“I did it,” I said, trying not to sound too proud.

“I knew you would.”

He didn’t sound surprised.

Just certain.

We kept playing. Failing. Restarting. Laughing under our breath when I pressed the wrong button. He didn’t grab the controller from me. Didn’t correct me impatiently. Just let me figure it out.

At one point, I tensed again and nearly missed a jump.

“Here,” he said softly.

His hand covered mine gently, adjusting my grip.

My breath caught.

His touch wasn’t teasing.

It wasn’t careless.

It was steady.

“Relax your thumb,” he said. “You’re pressing too hard.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

He was close enough now that I could feel the warmth of his arm beside mine.

“Like that,” he said.

I nodded, even though I wasn’t fully looking at the screen anymore.

For a second, everything felt slower.

The hum of the console.

The sound of our breathing.

The small space between us.

He pulled his hand away first.

“You’re improving,” he said lightly.

“That’s high praise.”

“It is.”

After a few more rounds, he turned the console off.

“That was definitely more than ten minutes,” I said.

“Time moves differently when you’re emotionally winning.”

“You weren’t winning.”

“I was winning in spirit.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It counts to me.”

I shook my head, but I was smiling.

The room felt quieter now.

Not awkward.

Just aware.

“We should probably finish the project,” I said.

“Responsible,” he replied. “Impressive.”

We moved back to the dining table, sitting a little closer than before. Not intentionally. Just… closer.

He leaned over to check my calculations. I pointed at the final equation.

“You forgot to simplify this.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

He leaned in to see better.

Our hands reached for the same paper at the same time.

Our fingers brushed.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t charged like the bar.

But it wasn’t nothing either.

I pulled my hand back first.

“Sorry,” I said quickly.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he replied softly.

Silence stretched for a second longer than comfortable.

Or maybe it was comfortable. I couldn’t tell.

“I just…” I started, then stopped.

“You just what?” he asked gently.

“I like doing things right.”

He nodded slowly, like he understood more than I was saying.

“Okay,” he said. “We’ll do it right.”

No pressure.

No teasing.

Just that.

We finished the last page quietly after that.

At the door, he walked me out.

“I had fun,” he said.

“So did I.”

Not reckless fun.

Not loud fun.

Different.

When I stepped outside, the air felt cooler.

My phone buzzed in my hand.

Cael: Still alive?

I smiled despite myself.

Me: Unfortunately.

He replied almost instantly.

Cael: Good. I wasn’t ready to file a missing person report.

I shook my head, typing back slowly.

Me: Dramatic.

As I walked home, I realized something uncomfortable.

The bar made me feel powerful.

Cael made me feel steady.

But tonight…

Vhan made me feel seen.

And that scared me more than getting caught ever could.