Chapter 5

The last Friday in October was a gray and sodden affair. The dorm smelled faintly of burnt popcorn—someone’s microwave mishap down the hall—and the windows rattled with gusts of wind and rain.

That evening, Matthew sprawled on his bed with a textbook propped against his knees, highlighter dangling between his fingers.

Alex sat hunched over his desk across the room, laptop screen casting a blue glow on his face, fingers tapping a rhythm that didn’t match the music in his earbuds. He paused and looked over at Matthew.

“You’ve been stuck on that problem set for over an hour now,” he said, plucking one earbud free. “You gonna finish it, or just stare at it ‘til it solves itself?”

Matthew emitted an exasperated sigh, not looking up. “Gimme a break. These reactions don’t explain themselves—they’re tricky little bastards.”

“You’re hopeless, farm boy—give it up,” Alex teased, spinning his chair to face him.

“What’s your excuse tonight, Kim? Coder’s block?” Matthew fired back, capping his highlighter and tossing it onto the bed.

“Nah, just . . . distracted.”

His eyes darted away, landing on the window where rain streaked the glass. The dream on the drive back from the concert last week was still lodged in his brain like a popcorn kernel stuck between two molars. He kept thinking how he’d woken up calling Matthew’s name.

Matthew stretched, arms cracking loud enough to make Alex wince.

“Well, un-distract yourself,” he said. “I’m starving, and your hot plate’s calling.”

Alex sighed, sliding off the chair. “Only if you say, ‘pretty please.’”

“Pretty please, city boy,” Matthew deadpanned. “Feed me before I’m forced to raid the vending machine again.”

He hauled himself up and grabbed a red flannel off the back of the chair, slipping it on over his T-shirt.

They both headed to the corner where Alex’s hot plate sat on a wobbly TV tray. Alex dug out a packet of ramen—spicy chicken this time—while Matthew fished a dented pot from under his bed, still caked with dried bits of a recent meal.

“You’re a slob,” Alex muttered, taking the pot from him. He headed to the bathroom and began rinsing it in the sink. Matthew stood behind, leaning on the doorframe.

“Farm life—dirt’s a feature, not a bug,” he said, frowning as Alex scrubbed with more focus than he felt the pot deserved. “Dude, you’re gonna wear a hole in it.”

“Better than eating old noodle scum,” Alex shot back, shaking water off his hands.

Returning to the hot plate, he fired it up, the coil glowing orange as the water hissed. Matthew hovered, close enough that Alex caught a whiff of his aftershave—like cedars after rain.

“Add extra chili flakes,” Matthew urged, nudging Alex’s elbow. “I can take it.”

“If you say so,” Alex replied, tipping in a generous pinch. “You’ll regret it when you’re crying into your biochem later.”

“Totally worth it,” Matthew said eagerly, leaning in until their shoulders touched. Alex froze mid-stir, but Matthew didn’t pull back—just watched the pot silently, like it was the most interesting thing in all of Iowa.

Alex resumed stirring.

“You ever miss home? The farm, I mean?”

“Wow, what brought that up?” Matthew asked.

“I dunno, man. I was just wondering, I guess,” Alex replied. He resumed stirring the soup.

Matthew tilted his head, strawberry-blonde hair catching the desk lamp’s glow.

“Not all the time, but yeah. There’s this spot by the creek—big oak stump, water barely ankle-deep. Used to sit there with Jessie and Grace, skipping rocks, talking shit about nothing.” He paused, voice softer. “Don’t get that here.”

Alex stirred slower, picturing it—mud, oak trees, Matthew’s drawl over his kid-sisters’ chatter.

“Chicago’s all concrete and noise. Closest I got was this park in Schaumburg—duck pond, couple of benches. My brother took me there sometimes, fed stale bread to the mallards ‘til they waddled off. Probably not the same.”

“Nope,” Matthew said, eyes on Alex now, steady and searching. “I bet you’d be hopeless at skipping rocks.”

“Bet you’d trip over a duck at the park,” Alex fired back, and they both laughed.

When the ramen finished cooking, they split it into mismatched bowls. Alex sat down on his bed cross-legged, carefully balancing his bowl.

To his surprise, Matthew plopped down facing him, their knees touching. A sudden warmth bloomed on his cheeks, and he considered scooting back.

Then he decided he liked how it felt.

Yeah. He liked it just fine.

*

Later, after the bowls clattered into the sink, Matthew returned to his own bed with his textbook while Alex grabbed his backpack. He made a show of taking out one of his class notebooks—while also surreptitiously sliding out a small sketchpad he’d kept for ages.

Sketching was his secret escape, something he never shared. As he concealed the pad in his notebook, pencil scratched paper. Rough lines began to take the shape: a creek, an oak stump, a figure in plaid—Matthew—caught mid-laugh, tossing rocks.

The rain continued pattering softly on the windows as Alex drew. His cheeks still felt warm—a flush he tried to blame on the spice—but it wasn’t the ramen. He really needed to take a break from this and clear his head. He returned the pad to its hiding place in his backpack, and stashed it at the foot of his bed.

“Gonna hit the shower,” he announced, trying to keep his voice casual.

Grabbing his caddy from the desk, he bolted out of the room, the door clicking shut behind him.

At the end of the hall, he ducked into a communal shower room and was relieved to find the place utterly deserted. Stashing his clothes in an empty cubby, he padded to a stall in the back, the tiles cold against his bare feet.

Hot water blasted from the nozzle, its loud hiss drowning out the faint thump of someone’s stereo filtering through the wall. He stood there, letting it pound his shoulders, steam filling the enclosure. He recalled the way it felt when Matthew sat close to him on his bed, their knees touching as they ate together.

What was THAT all about?

He scrubbed harder, as if he could wash the memory away, but it was no use. It only seemed to grow sharper.

Heaving a sigh, he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, cut the water off and grabbed his towel. As he dried himself, he noticed a little tickle in his throat.

“Fantastic,” he thought. “A crush on my roommate AND a stupid cold. That’s all I need.”

*

Returning to the room, he saw that Matthew had gone to bed. His breathing was slow and regular—he’d evidently conked out. The reading lamp over Alex’s desk remained on, casting a dim pool of light over the cluttered surface.

He changed into his pajamas and slipped quietly into his own bed, hands behind his head. Staring at the ceiling, he replayed the scene over and over in his mind: Matthew’s shoulder against his while they cooked the ramen. Then Matthew sitting with him on the bed, their knees touching.

He liked it—too much, really—and wanted more.

It made no sense. Matthew was just . . . Matthew. But that farm boy drawl stuck in his head like a song he couldn’t shake. He frowned and cleared his throat—it seemed he couldn’t shake this tickle, either.

Maybe it was just that extra chili in the ramen?

He hoped that was the case, but he knew better.

Rolling onto his side, he closed his eyes and waited for sleep to claim him, as the rain continued to chatter on the glass.

*

The next morning, he woke up with his throat feeling like sandpaper and his head stuffed with wet cotton—hoarse, croaky—a late fall cold sinking its claws deep. He’d initially felt a faint whisper of it the night before while eating—a scratchy sensation he tried to ignore—but now there was no denying it. His voice had acquired a raspy edge that Matthew, already up, caught from across the room.

He glanced over from his desk, biochem notes scattered like leaves. “You okay, man? You sound like a dying frog.”

Alex peered over, one eye open. “It’s just a cold. I’ll live,” he rasped.

“You got anything for it?” Matthew asked, standing and crossing the room to Alex’s bedside.

Alex waved a limp hand toward his nightstand, where a small bottle of liquid sat, half-used from a 3 a.m. grope and stumble. “That stuff. It’s some kind of herbal medicine for colds. Mom swears by it,” he groaned, burrowing deeper into his blankets.

Matthew picked it up, squinting at the Korean script on the bottle. He scoffed inwardly—Yeah, that’s not doing jack—but kept his face neutral. No way he’d diss Alex’s mom’s cure; he wasn’t that dumb.

“Hang tight,” he said, grabbing his jacket from the chair. “I’m heading to Hy-Vee. You need something better.”

“Better?” Alex rasped, but Matthew was already out the door, boots thumping down the hall.

*

Returning a short time later from the grocery store, Matthew kicked off his damp boots and quietly closed the door. Alex was a miserable lump under his blankets, a tuft of black hair the only sign of life.

“Hey, dude, I got this for your crud. Take two now, and two more tonight.”

Alex’s head popped up, bleary eyes narrowing. “Wha—?”

“Two now, two tonight,” Matthew repeated slowly, holding out the capsules and a glass of water from the sink. “Doctor’s orders.”

A crooked grin cracked Alex’s face between coughs. “Okay, boss. Thanks.”

He took the pills, swallowing with a wince, and flopped back down on his pillow.

Meanwhile, Matthew retrieved the cooking pan, filled it with water, and sat it down on the hot plate. Once the water was boiling, he stirred in the spice packet and the little brick of noodles that came with it. When the soup was done, he fished Alex’s favorite chipped bowl out of the bathroom sink and filled it with the steaming concoction.

Proud that he’d managed to get the soup done without setting off the fire alarm, he carried it gingerly over to Alex with a satisfied smile.

“Here you go. Hot soup’s the ticket.”

Alex sat up, the quilt slipping from his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he said, voice still hoarse, taking the bowl.

“No worries, man,” Matthew said gently. “Somebody’s got to take care of you when you’re sick, right?”

He gave Alex a little wink, then ambled back to his desk to resume his studies.

Alex stared at him for a moment with a bemused expression on his face, spoon paused in midair.

It’s just soup. So, why does it feel like more?

He began to eat slowly, stealing glances every so often at Matthew—hunched over his biochem notes, deep in thought.

*

The rest of of the weekend unrolled quietly, the haze outside mirroring the fog inside Alex’s head. Matthew was relentless—checking in, refilling water, even digging out an extra blanket from his trunk when Alex shivered.

“You good?” he’d ask, fussing over him in a way Alex usually hated. His mom’s hovering drove him nuts—he’d rather be sick in peace.

But Matthew’s care? It warmed him, toes to chest.

It wasn’t a fever

It was a feeling, freighted and huge, that threatened to tilt his entire world off its axis. Alex shook his head briskly as if to clear it.

But the feeling stayed lodged in his mind, as the weekend drew to a close and the last of the rain faded into silence.