The negotiation for the first sleepover was a delicate diplomatic mission, born from a word that hadn’t existed a week prior.

It had happened on a Tuesday, during one of their post-rehearsal deep dives into comic-book lore.

Jude was mid-rant about a character arc that “completely destroyed the timeline,” waving his hands in chaotic emphasis, wearing his favorite sleeveless shirt.

His hair had gone rogue, a single curl falling over his forehead, and his arms caught the afternoon light in a way that made Ryan’s brain promptly blue-screen.

He tried to form a counterpoint, but his mind only looped through a single, self-destructive thought: cute… hot… cute… hot. Both at once. His circuitry gave out.

“You’re so…” Ryan began, his mouth moving before his mind could stop it. “You’re so… cuot.”

The word hung in the air, ridiculous and raw.

Jude froze. “I’m so what?”

Ryan’s face went up in flames. “Cute—hot— I mean, both! It’s a typo. A verbal typo.”

There was a long beat, then Jude’s grin appeared, slow and unstoppable. “C-u-o-t,” he repeated, rolling it around in his mouth like a secret. “I like it.”

He leaned closer, that playful sparkle in his eyes. “So I’m cuot, huh?”

The word stuck — instantly becoming part of their growing lexicon. Equal parts flirty and absurd.

Which was why, when Jude texted him later that week about a sleepover, it felt like the stakes had quietly tripled.

 Jude: sleepover? Friday?

Ryan: at your place or mine?

Jude: my mom’s cool w/ it. She thinks you’re the “nice, quiet friend from drama club.”

Ryan: my mom thinks you’re “that polite boy who’s helping me with my lines.”

Jude: so… your place it is. Operation history-project all-nighter is a go.

Friday arrived too slowly.

At Jude’s house, he tossed a toothbrush and a hoodie into his backpack, then paused.

On his desk, the little penguin Ryan had given him — the first soft gift, the unspoken I saw this and thought of you — sat staring with its round, glassy eyes.

For a moment, Jude hesitated. Was it childish to bring a plushie to a sleepover?

Then he imagined Ryan’s nervous grin from that day in the library, and his own heart answered for him.

He tucked the penguin gently into the front pocket of his bag.

It wasn’t a toy; it was a passport.

When Jude showed up at Ryan’s door that evening, backpack slung over one shoulder and guitar case in hand, Ryan’s mom answered with her signature warmth.

“Gary! Ryan’s told me so much about you,” she said, eyes crinkling kindly. “Can I get you a snack? A drink?”

“I’m good, thank you, Mrs. Hayes,” Jude said, the picture of polite charm.

Ryan hovered nearby, torn between pride (look at my impossibly respectful boyfriend) and panic (please don’t say anything weird).

Once the door to Ryan’s room clicked shut, the politeness dissolved into shy laughter.

“So,” Ryan said, gesturing vaguely at the posters and piles of notebooks, “this is… the place.”

“It’s cool,” Jude said, glancing around. “Very on-brand.”

Then, without another word, he unzipped the front pocket of his backpack.

Out came the penguin.

He crossed the room to Ryan’s bed, where a sleek grey dolphin plushie sat waiting on the pillow — its new home.

Jude placed the penguin beside it, perfectly aligned, as if officiating some quiet ceremony.

“Okay,” he said, turning back with a grin. “Now we can start.”

The next few hours were an easy blur of shared chaos — building a doomed pillow fort (twice), watching anime, mock-arguing over power levels.

A round of “ Pillow Fight” ended with Ryan breathless and laughing, pinned under a triumphant Jude wielding a pillow like a trophy.

It was easy. It was fun. It was theirs.

‘You know,’ Jude said, looking at the ceiling. ‘After the play closes, the drama club hosts that Northbridge music showcase.” We should do something for it.’ Ryan laughed nervously. ‘Me? On stage? Without a script? No way.’

 When night finally settled and the string lights cast soft constellations across the room, the energy shifted

They lay tangled under blankets in the fort’s collapsed ruins, the world outside hushed and far away.

“Your mom is so nice,” Jude murmured.

“Yeah,” Ryan said, his head near Jude’s shoulder. A small pause. “She’s cool about… everything.” Then, quieter: “Was it hard? Telling your mom?”

Jude’s chest rose and fell slowly. “Yeah. And no.”

He told the story — the pan energy meme still glowing on his phone, his mom’s simple You okay?, his own terrified, whispered I think I’m pan.

And her answer: ‘Cool. Pad Thai or sushi for dinner?’

Ryan laughed softly, pure relief threaded through it.

“Yeah,” Jude said, voice warm. “She just hugged me and said love is love, and a week later she was dropping Schitt’s Creek references like a pro. Instant MVP.”

Ryan traced a lazy pattern on the blanket. “And your dad?”

The warmth dimmed. “He was… less chill.”

He mentioned the diagrams, the “vampire” comment, brushing past the edges of something deeper and darker. “He’s just from a different world, y’know?”

Jude stared at the ceiling for a long moment, jaw tightening like he hadn’t meant to keep talking.

“I just… couldn’t do it anymore,” he said quietly. “Basketball, I mean. The court. The drills. The shouting.”

He swallowed.

“After the divorce, every time I picked up a ball, it felt like I was picking up the weight of the old house.”

Ryan reached out and placed his hand on Jude’s arm — a simple, grounding gesture.

Jude covered it with his own.

Jude exhaled, long and shaky, like the rest had been waiting for permission.

“My therapist said it was a trauma thing,” he added, softer now. “But all I knew was… it felt like I was drowning in noise.”

He gave a small, humorless laugh.

“So I put the jersey in a box,” he said. “And I picked up the guitar instead.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Ryan whispered.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever told the whole story to,” Jude whispered back.

The silence that followed was dense and sacred.

Then:

“Jude?”

“Yeah?”

“…I really like you. Like… a lot.”

Jude’s breath caught — not shocked, just soft.

“Ash,” he whispered, “I really like you too.”

Ryan squeezed Jude’s hand and, because curiosity is a terrible, honest trait, asked the only question that had been gnawing at him all night. “Who listens to you, Jude? When you say things like that—who hears you?”

Jude blinked, a tiny shift in his smile. For a second his eyes went distant, then he laughed it off—too quick, too bright. “Ah, me, the world’s most neglected eardrum,” he said, deflecting. “But tonight is about you. Your song. Don’t hog the spotlight.”

The joke landed thin. Ryan felt the edge of something he hadn’t named: the way Jude steered the conversation away, practiced and automatic. He made a mental note, not accusing, just noticing. Loving someone, he realized, could mean learning how to carry the silence they didn’t want to speak

Later, with the lights dimmed to a faint golden glow, their bodies curved together in quiet symmetry.

Jude’s fingers drew lazy shapes on Ryan’s back — a spiral, a star, a dolphin, and finally, a penguin.

A secret alphabet written in touch.

Ryan’s eyes grew heavy, the world dissolving into warmth.

As sleep claimed him, the last thing he saw was the gentle glow of his string lights catching on two plush figures on his nightstand — the penguin and the dolphin side by side.

Chapter Word:

Sanctuary (n.): A place of refuge or safety. Can be a room, a relationship, or the quiet space between two people talking in the dark — where secrets are not only kept, but cherished.