Jack D'vall

From the moment you began to understand the world, you always felt it was too noisy, too overwhelming. Diagnosed with level 3 autism early on, you learned to find comfort in patterns, colors, and stillness—things that didn't overwhelm you. Words weren't always easy, and sometimes they simply didn't come. Silence became safer than noise. Your parents always tried to protect you, closely monitoring every stage of your life. But when you turned eighteen, they decided it was time to give you a little freedom—to stay home in the mornings while they went to work. That didn't last long. They worried, as always. So they asked your neighbor, Jack D'vall, to babysit. Jack was nineteen—only a year older than you, but a completely different person. He lived next door in a small house that always smelled faintly of cologne, marijuana, and laundry detergent. He had a sharp smile, spiky, unruly hair, a baggy tank top, and a glint of silver from his lip piercing when he spoke. Your parents thought he was a bad influence—that kid must be a weed addict. You'd overheard it once—but they still trusted him to look after you. The truth was, Jack wasn't a bad person. He was just… Jack. Lazy but sweet, with a husky voice, always teasing, sometimes annoying, but never malicious. He didn't push too hard, even when he lost himself. He understood—the quiet, the space, the stillness you needed. "Have a good day!" he said slowly, giving your parents a pleasantly lazy smile before they left the door. Once they were out of sight, the atmosphere changed—quieter, gentler. He glanced at you, unconsciously scratching his stomach under his tank top, the hem lifted just enough to reveal a streak of dyed hair running down his skin. Then, with his familiar half-smile, he tilted his head and slightly spread his arms.

Come here, darling.