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Your dorm room is a disaster zone of discarded notes, empty coffee cups, and the growing weight of panic pressing in from every corner. The text in the book before you blurs into an indecipherable soup of academic jargon. It might as well all be alien hieroglyphics, you think, as your head drops to the open page.
“I don’t get it,” you mutter into the chapter on Advanced Quantum Thermodynamics. “I don’t get any of it.”
A groan escapes your lips as you try not to cry about the fact that the only thing you’ve successfully memorized is how close you are to a breakdown.
You’ve been wearing the same hoodie for three days. Beside you, a half-eaten bag of chips lay discarded next to piles of notes where your highlighters have bled through three pages. And you’ve re-read the same paragraph from your textbook five times in the past fifteen minutes—and it still feels like it’s written in ancient Greek.
You sit up, blinking hard, as if sheer willpower might make the equations on the page finally make sense. You reach for your phone, thinking maybe a quick scroll through social media will take the edge off. But the moment your screen lights up, a notification blares across the top: It’s a text from Donnie.
D 🐢💜: You still breathing?
You stare at the screen, thumbs hesitating, before replying:
You: Barely. I think academia is trying to murder me.
He doesn’t reply immediately. You slump further into your chair, your back aching from your poor posture resulting from hours hunched over textbooks. Just as you consider tossing your phone across the room, it vibrates again.
D 🐢💜: Need a study savior?
You don’t hesitate, your fingers flying over the screen before your brain catches up.
You: Honestly? I’m dying, Donnie. HELP.
D 🐢💜: Hang tight. Study hero incoming.
Your room’s a mess, but you don’t panic about the state of it; Donnie’s probably seen worse, considering he lives with three brothers and a father who’d rather be doing anything else but acknowledging his surroundings. So you decide to crawl into your bed and take a nap.
Eventually, there’s a familiar tap on your window. You rub your eyes, groggily rising from your cocoon of tangled blankets, and shuffle to the window. You peek through the blinds, seeing Donnie standing on the fire escape, and you slide the window up.
He enters, surveying the chaos with a raised brow as you flop back onto your bed. “Wow. This place could qualify as a Level 3 Disaster Zone. Should I call FEMA or just start a controlled burn?”
You half-heartedly throw a pillow at him, which he sidesteps effortlessly. “I told you. Academia is trying to kill me.”
He sets his tablet on your desk, sweeping aside an avalanche of loose papers. “Then allow me to counterattack. Let’s dismantle this quantum nightmare one equation at a time.”
Your heart skips at the sight of him. You pretend it’s the stress. Or the overabundance of caffeine. “I seriously don’t understand half this stuff,” you admit.
He pulls up your rickety desk chair, settling into it with that calm confidence he always exudes when he’s in problem-solving mode. “That’s okay. Understanding is kind of my thing. You just need to survive. I’ll do the rest.” He sits his backpack on the floor and unzips it, pulling out your favorite snack before tossing it to you.
You barely catch it, fumbling with it for a moment, which further deepens the flush on your cheeks. “T-thank you,” you stammer, trying to force a grin to cover up your awkwardness.
Donnie gives you a smirk, the kind that makes your stomach flutter. “You’re welcome,” he says casually, like he didn’t just show up like a knight in purple armor. “Now,” he claps his hands once and cracks open the textbook you abandoned, “let’s take a deep breath and start with the basics. Quantum Thermo’s just spooky physics with a heat problem. We can handle spooky.”
You move closer to the edge of the bed, still clutching the snack he gave you. “I’ve read this chapter like a dozen times. It’s all just … my brain going ‘nope.’”
He hums thoughtfully, scanning the page like it’s a casual morning comic strip. “Your brain’s probably doing the academic version of the blue screen of death.” He meets your eyes, tilting his head with a small smirk. “We’re gonna reboot it.”
You sigh, your shoulders slumping. “Can I just throw the whole thing into the metaphorical dumpster and walk away?”
“Tempting,” he replies with a grin. “But no. Come on, scoot over.”
You blink. “What?”
He points to the spare chair in the corner of the room. “I’m not letting you spiral alone.”
Your heart beats a little faster. But you grab the chair, put it beside his, and sit. He nudges your knee gently with his, just enough to ground you in the moment.
“Alright,” he says, eyes flicking from the textbook to your overwhelmed expression. “Step one: we’re not going to panic. Step two: we’re going to make this make sense. And step three, we’re going to keep you from exploding.”
You let out a weak laugh—more of an exhale, really—but it still feels like the first real breath you’ve taken all day. “You forgot step four,” you say, voice quiet.
“What’s step four?”
You glance at him. “Not letting me fail.”
He softens—and you think there’s something unspoken in the way he looks at you. “Not a chance,” he murmurs.
He slides the textbook a little closer to the two of you, flipping to the beginning of the chapter. As he reads, he grabs a nearby pen and starts scribbling on a clean sheet of paper. His handwriting is absurdly neat, his diagrams actually helpful instead of intimidating. He talks you through a problem slowly, explaining it in the most Donnie way possible, with the strangest metaphors.
And somehow, weirdly, it helps.
“Okay,” he says, pushing the paper toward you, “now you try.”
You stare at the problem, then at him. “What if I mess it up?”
“You will,” he says simply. “That’s part of it. Just give it a shot.”
So you do. Hesitantly at first, mumbling through each step, but he doesn’t interrupt. He just watches, chin propped in one hand, the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. When you finally finish, expecting him to correct you, he just nods.
“See? You didn’t spontaneously combust. Proud of you.”
You roll your eyes, but it’s hard not to smile. “Thanks, Donnie.”
He shrugs, but his tone is soft when he replies. “You don’t have to thank me. You’re important to me. I show up for my people.”
That makes your breath catch a little. You glance down at the page again, pretending to be more interested in what’s on it than the heat rising to your cheeks. You look at him, wondering if he realizes how easily he disarms your panic just by being here.
The study session stretches on. More problems, more snacks and caffeine—and more of Donnie casually dropping little encouragements like they aren’t melting your brain in the most pleasant of ways. Every time you falter, he’s there with a nudge in the right direction. Every time you get something right, he lights up like it’s a personal victory.
At some point, your head ends up resting on his shoulder as he reads out a confusing section. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t comment. Just shifts slightly so you’re more comfortable. You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself breathe in his smell.
At some point, he pauses mid-sentence and glances at you. “Hey.”
“Hm?”
He gives you a crooked smile. “Next time you’re drowning in finals stress, call me before you go DEFCON 1, okay?”
You hum your agreement, not trusting your voice. His shoulder is warm beneath your cheek. He shifts again, careful not to jostle you too much, and continues reading. Eventually, you sit up, blinking yourself back into focus. “Sorry,” you mumble, rubbing at your face. “Didn’t mean to drool on you.”
“Not the first time someone’s fallen asleep during my explanation on thermodynamics,” Donnie says, deadpan. “But definitely the first time someone’s done it on my shoulder, though.”
You snort a laugh. “I think I needed that,” you admit. “The nap, the help. The … you.”
“Anytime,” he says. “Also, I believe you’re understanding the material now, at least.”
“Only because you’re basically a genius tutor with the patience of a saint.”
He chuckles softly, adjusting his arm so it rests lightly around your back. “Nah. I just care. A lot.”
You tilt your head, meeting his gaze. You open your mouth to say something—maybe something brave, maybe something vulnerable—but he beats you to it.
“You’re not alone in this, okay? Finals, stress, life—you’ve got me. Always.”
Your brain fizzles as you attempt to process his words. You stare at him, and for the first time today—maybe all week—your chest doesn’t feel so tight. “Donnie …” you start, your voice embarrassingly soft.
He raises a brow. “Yeah?”
You hesitate. You don’t know how to say ‘I think I like you’ without sounding like your brain short-circuited. So you settle for something safer. “I don’t think I could’ve made it through today without you.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Well, good thing you don’t have to.” Then, he clears his throat, like maybe this—this closeness—is affecting him just as much. “We can keep going. Or take a break. Your call.” His gaze is steady, but there’s a softness in his eyes you’ve only glimpsed before in rare, unguarded moments.
You take a deep breath, attempting to rein in your scattered thoughts. The responsible part of you, the one that actually wants to pass this monstrous final, screams, Study! The other part, the one currently replaying, ‘You’ve got me. Always’ on an endless loop, just wants to stay near him, whatever you’re doing.
“Let’s … let’s keep going,” you decide. “Just a bit more.”
“Excellent.” He taps the textbook with a pen. “Now, where were we?”
His fingers trace lines in the book, then sketch new, surprisingly clear diagrams on the notepad. As you both lean over the limited desk space, his hand brushes yours occasionally. Each accidental touch sends a little jolt through you.
“Okay,” he says, after patiently breaking down a concept so dense you’d previously thought it was written in a dead language. “Your turn. This problem here.” He points to a question that, just a few hours ago, would have made you want to curl up under your blanket and weep.
You take a deep breath, pick up the pen, and look at the problem. Then you work through it, verbalizing your thought process. Donnie listens patiently, offering encouraging nods, interjecting with ‘mhm’ and ‘Good, what’s next?’ when you pause, his gaze focused and supportive.
Eventually, you reach an answer. You stare at it, then quickly double-check your work. “Is … is this right?” you ask.
Donnie leans in, his shoulder pressing against yours as he scans your calculations before he pulls back slightly. “Not only is it right,” he declares, his voice laced with satisfaction, “it’s elegantly solved. See? I told you you could do it.”
A wave of relief, so potent it’s almost dizzying, washes over you. You can’t stop the grin on your face, feeling ridiculously light. “Only because of you.”
He smiles, then glances at his phone, then back at you. “We’ve actually made some serious headway. How are you feeling? Brain still intact?”
“Surprisingly, yes. And a lot less like it’s about to liquefy and ooze out of my ears.” You look at the textbook, then at your notes filled with his neat handwriting and your own, now slightly more confident, scrawls. Then you look at him. “Thank you, Donnie. Seriously. You didn’t just help me study; you saved my sanity.”
“Anytime,” he says again, his voice softer this time, imbued with a sincerity that makes your chest feel warm. He gathers his things slowly, packing his tablet.
You watch him, a pang of something—disappointment?—hitting you squarely in the chest as he prepares to leave. The methodical zipping of his backpack is a mournful sound in the sudden quiet of your room. A knot forms in your stomach.
You don’t want him to go.
Before you can censor yourself, the words slip out. “Are you heading out already?”
He pauses, hand still on the bag, and turns fully towards you. “That was the plan,” he says, a hint of teasing in his voice. “However, we can adjust mission parameters. Have a counter-proposal?”
Your heart gives a hopeful little leap. “Well,” you begin, feeling a blush creep up your neck, “we did just conquer quantum thermodynamics … or at least, survive it. I thought maybe … that deserves a small celebration?”
“I was gonna head out to give you time to rest, but …” The corner of his mouth twitches upwards. “What did you have in mind?”
“Just … stay. Please.”
His hand, which had been resting on the zipper of his backpack, drops to his side. That one word—please—seems to land somewhere deep in him. His tone softens again. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Yeah. I can do that.”
You go over to your bed and sit. Donnie takes the hint, settling beside you. He doesn’t lean too close—not yet—but his presence fills the small space between you with something quiet and steady. For a few moments, there’s just silence. Then you lean back slightly, your shoulder brushing his. He doesn’t move away.
Instead, he shifts, easing both of you down so that you’re both laying beside each other on the mattress. You rest your head on his plastron while his fingers trail slow patterns along the base of your spine.
“I could fall asleep like this,” you say, voice drowsy, words laced with more honesty than you usually allow yourself.
“Good,” he replies. “I was kind of hoping you would.”
You look up at him. His expression is soft, open in a way he rarely shows. His arm wraps tighter around you as you settle in again, heart beating steadily beneath your ear.
“Donnie?”
“Hmm?”
You hesitate, then, “This … isn’t just a study thing, is it?”
He doesn’t answer right away—but you feel his breath hitch. He swallows, hand stilling briefly on your back. “No,” he says, voice barely a whisper. “Not for me.”
You nod against his chest, your fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his hoodie. “Good,” you murmur. “Me neither.”
As he begins to nod off, Donnie presses his chin lightly to the top of your head. “Sweet dreams, genius,” he whispers, brushing his thumb gently against your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
You’re too exhausted to retort.
It isn’t long before you fall asleep like this—in his arms, your breath evening out into the soft, rhythmic sound of sleep.
He watches you for a long moment, his gaze tender. The worried lines that had etched themselves onto your forehead hours ago have smoothed out, replaced by a peacefulness he finds himself ridiculously fond of. Carefully, so as not to disturb you, he adjusts his hold, nestling you a fraction closer.
Mission accomplished, he thinks, not just the studying, but this too. This quiet moment, this feeling of you, safe and resting in his arms.
His own eyelids soon feel heavy. He rests his cheek against the top of your head again, your hair soft against his skin. His thoughts, usually racing, slow. With a final, contented sigh, his own breathing deepens, mirroring yours.
A soft smile graces his features as he, too, drifts off to sleep.