March – April 1993 · UT Austin
(AN: Hello all so first the wining vote by a landslide was option 3 so that means Stephen + Paige. Second I am changing the from 1st person to 3rd it will start here and I will be going back to change all but the first chapter you should see that with in the next couple of days. Third there are 8 chaps today. Ok enjoy)
The coffee cup lid snapped under Stephen's thumb and he pressed it again, harder than necessary, like the plastic had challenged him first. A thin crescent of coffee jumped the rim and landed on his skin. Warm. Bitter. He wiped it on the napkin with the same careful motion he used for pencil smudges, then stared at the stain as if it might rearrange itself into something cleaner if he waited long enough.
Outside, Austin had already stopped pretending it was winter. The air held that damp-grass smell that stuck around after morning sprinklers, mixed with exhaust and the sugary drift of someone's cinnamon pastry. The sun wasn't high yet, but it had teeth—gold light catching at the edges of backpack straps, glinting off bike spokes, making the sidewalk look like it had been polished overnight.
Paige walked beside him with her hands shoved into her hoodie pocket, shoulders loose, hair doing whatever it wanted in the breeze. She didn't look like she was rushing, but she always moved like she had somewhere important to be, even if it was just class. She glanced at his cup, then at his face.
"You've become predictable," she said.
Stephen kept his eyes on the lid. "Predictability is a compliment in physics."
"In people," Paige said, and flicked the coffee stirrer at his arm, "it's boring."
The stirrer bounced off his sleeve and clattered on the pavement. It rolled until it hit a crack and stopped, neatly, like it had found its assigned place in the universe.
Stephen watched it for half a second longer than he needed to.
"Then I'll work on being statistically unpredictable," he said.
"Good," Paige replied, too quick, like she'd already pictured the experiment. "Start by not ordering the same thing every morning."
Stephen's mouth tightened. Not anger. More like the feeling of a screw turning the wrong direction. "I didn't order the same thing."
Paige's eyes slid to his cup. "You did."
"It's a different size," he said.
She stopped walking.
Stephen took two steps before he noticed she wasn't next to him anymore. He turned back and found her planted in the sun, expression bright with that particular kind of satisfaction she got when she caught him being him.
"That's not unpredictable," she said. "That's you trying to trick me."
Stephen adjusted the cup in his hand, like the weight distribution mattered. "I'm not trying to trick you."
Paige lifted her chin slightly. "Then what are you doing?"
He stared at her. The answer came fast and clean in his head and jammed at his throat on the way out. He could have said, I like this. I like that the morning is the same because it means you're here again. He could have said, I don't know how to change without feeling like I'm losing the only things I can count on.
Instead, he said, "I'm consistent."
Paige's mouth tilted. She started walking again, satisfied but not cruel. "Predictable."
Stephen fell back into step beside her. He didn't argue. He just matched her pace without thinking about it too hard, like his body had started learning the rhythm even when his mind wanted credit for every adjustment.
Dr. Li didn't do warm-up lectures. She came in like the room was already hers, chalk in hand, and drew before the last whispers finished dying.
Two curves appeared on the board—smooth arcs that rose and fell, approaching, separating, approaching again. They met at a point, then drifted apart like they were obeying an invisible rule.
"Resonance," Dr. Li said, tapping the chalk once where the lines crossed. The tap echoed in the quiet. "When systems move together without losing themselves. Stability through shared motion."
A few students chuckled, like the word was a trick question they'd already seen on an exam. Someone made a low sound in the back that might've been agreement or might've been boredom.
Stephen didn't laugh. He felt the concept settle into him in a way that didn't require translation. The two waves didn't become one. They didn't cancel out. They kept their own shape while aligning long enough to amplify something bigger.
Dr. Li turned from the board, chalk dust on her fingers. "The trick," she said, and her eyes moved over the room with calm precision, "is maintaining frequency without collapsing amplitude."
The room made that soft, communal noise people made when they didn't want to look lost. Stephen stayed still. He watched the curves. He watched how one tiny shift in phase changed everything. He imagined the math not as symbols but as motion. It made his chest feel strangely quiet, like someone had turned down a constant background hum he didn't realize he'd been living with.
After class, Paige caught him on the steps outside, her notebook tucked under her arm. She launched into a complaint about her architecture elective—how the professor treated load-bearing structure like morality, how half the class tried to "eyeball" stresses and got publicly dismantled for it.
Stephen listened, but his pen started moving across the margin of his notebook as they walked. Curves. Two of them. Then again. Slightly different. A little closer. A little farther. Tiny shifts like he was trying to capture an idea with his hand instead of his mouth.
Paige's voice stopped.
"You're doodling," she said.
Stephen didn't look up. "Visualization."
Paige leaned closer. "Of what?"
He tilted the page toward her without breaking stride. The wind flipped the corner of the paper and slapped it back down. The curves looked crude compared to Dr. Li's confident lines, but the intent was there. Motion trapped on paper.
"Resonance," Stephen said.
Paige stared at the page, then at him. Her expression went still in that way it did right before she decided whether to tease him or take him seriously.
"You know that sounds like flirting," she said.
"It's an equation," Stephen replied, immediate, defensive in the way he hated when he noticed it.
Paige's eyes narrowed with amusement. "Uh-huh."
"It is," he insisted, and hated that he was insisting.
Paige bumped her shoulder into his on purpose, light but deliberate. "You always hide behind math when you're nervous."
"I'm not nervous," Stephen said.
Paige didn't argue the word. She just smiled like she'd already filed it away. "Still sounds like flirting."
Stephen's face warmed. He pretended the heat belonged to the day.
Mid-March ended his tutoring sessions. The freshman—quiet kid with a heel-tapping habit and a talent for panicking one step before he actually needed to—showed up for the last meeting with his notebook neat, corners aligned, handwriting finally stable.
He did well. Not miraculous. Not effortless. But the kind of well that meant he'd fought for it.
When they finished, the kid lingered by the table as if the library had glued his shoes to the carpet. He reached into his bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The fold was sharp. Then sharper. Then softened where it had been opened and re-folded too many times.
"I—uh," the kid said. His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, eyes fixed on a point just over Stephen's shoulder. "I wrote something. You don't have to read it. Or you can. Or—whatever."
Stephen took it without making the moment bigger. He could feel the paper's warmth, like it had been held too tight.
When the kid left, Stephen unfolded it.
The handwriting was neat and tense, letters pressed hard enough to leave faint ridges on the back.
You made the logic sound like music.
Stephen's thumb paused on the ink. His chest didn't swell. His face didn't break into some dramatic expression. He just sat there, still, feeling something land inside him that didn't fit into the usual categories.
Not pride. Not relief.
Recognition.
Translation had worked. Not just his translation of math into words—but a translation of him into something another person could use.
He folded the note carefully along the existing creases and slid it into the back of his notebook like he was storing a fragile artifact. Like he didn't trust the world not to tear it if he left it out in the open.
Paige found him later at their usual library table, desk lamp casting a warm circle over their papers. The rest of the library sat in soft shadow, filled with quiet sounds: pages turning, someone's suppressed cough, the faint clack of a keyboard in the distance.
Stephen had the note out again, flattened on the table. His fingers hovered above it, not touching, as if he could sense the pressure of the kid's handwriting through the air.
Paige slid into the chair across from him, bag thumping softly against the table leg. She looked tired in a way that made her look more real—eyes a little heavy, hair pulled back but already escaping.
"You're rereading it," she said.
Stephen didn't deny it. Denial would've been dishonest. "It's… data."
Paige's mouth twitched. "Of course it is."
He stared at the paper again. "It's not inaccurate."
Paige leaned forward and tapped the note once with her finger. "Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"That thing where you try to file it away until it stops feeling like something." Her voice wasn't harsh, but it didn't let him off the hook either. "Just accept it."
Stephen's throat worked once. He folded the note with careful hands and slid it back into his notebook, slower this time, like he was trying not to treat it like contraband.
"I'm trying," he said.
Paige watched him for a second longer than comfortable. Then she opened her notebook and pulled her pencil out like she was granting him space to figure it out without being watched.
Their study sessions had started turning into something steadier than work. Same table. Same coffee cups leaving ring marks they never fully wiped away. But the air between them had changed.
Paige concentrated with her whole body. Pencil tapping in a rhythm that wasn't random if you listened long enough. She'd pause, frown, then make a correction before the error could infect the rest of the page. Sometimes she'd sigh—soft, frustrated, but not defeated.
Stephen didn't fill the silence with explanations anymore. He let it exist, thick and calm, like water you could swim in instead of drown in.
One evening, Dr. Li passed through the library with her coat draped over one arm. She slowed near their table and paused just long enough for Stephen to feel the attention before he looked up.
Her gaze moved from Stephen's notebook to Paige's architecture sketches, then back again, taking in the shared space they'd built.
"Some frequencies reinforce instead of cancel," Dr. Li said.
She didn't smile fully, but something softened in her face. "Keep that one."
Then she walked away like she hadn't just planted a sentence in Stephen's brain.
Paige stared after her, then looked at Stephen. "Did she just call us compatible?"
Stephen's pen paused mid-line. "In mathematical terms."
Paige's grin flashed. "Then it must be true."
"That's not—" Stephen started, then stopped. Correcting her would've been easy. Letting her have the moment felt harder. He tried anyway. "That's not a logically necessary conclusion."
Paige leaned closer, voice lowering like they were plotting something. "Careful. That's dangerously close to flirting again."
Stephen looked down at his notebook as if it could hide him. "It's only flirting in the mathematical sense."
Paige's eyes warmed. "I'm fluent in both."
Late March brought thunderstorms. Not the polite kind that rolled in gently. The kind that arrived like a door being kicked open.
By the time they left the library one night, the sky had turned the color of bruised metal. Lightning flashed over the tower, sharp and white, and the first drops hit the pavement like thrown gravel.
Then the rain came down in a solid sheet.
Paige grabbed Stephen's wrist. Her hand was warm and sure even as the air turned cold.
"Run," she said.
They ran.
Stephen's shoes slapped water. The sound echoed off stone. Rain hit his face hard enough to sting, streaming into his eyes, down his nose, into his mouth. The air smelled like wet concrete and ozone. His chest burned with the sprint, not pain, just proof of movement.
Paige's laughter burst out, sharp and bright, like she hadn't meant to let it escape. It made Stephen laugh too, rough and surprised, like his body had decided before his brain could veto it.
"You're terrible at small talk!" Paige shouted.
Stephen nearly slid on slick stone, caught himself with a quick shift that sent water splashing up his calves. "This isn't small talk!" he yelled back.
They hit the dorm steps together. Paige fumbled the handle with wet fingers. Stephen reached past her, yanked the door open, and they stumbled inside in a rush of dripping fabric and breath.
The lobby smelled like wet carpet and cheap cleaner. Fluorescent lights made their soaked clothes look heavier. Paige shoved her hair back, but it stuck to her cheek anyway. Water clung to her lashes, and she blinked fast, scrubbing rain out of her eyes like it had personally offended her.
She looked at Stephen—soaked, breathing hard, hair plastered to his forehead—and laughed again, quieter now, like she couldn't stop even if she tried.
"You realize," she said, catching her breath, "this is probably the most spontaneous thing you've done since birth."
Stephen wiped water off his face with the heel of his hand. "Statistical anomaly."
Paige pointed at him like she'd just won an argument on principle. "Rare event. High impact."
She said it as a joke, but the words hooked into him anyway. He didn't tell her that. He let the moment hang in the air between them, dripping and bright.
April arrived calmer. The days warmed even in the mornings. Trees filled out until the courtyard looked soft around the edges. Exams were coming, but they didn't feel like a cliff this time. More like a ramp you could climb if you didn't panic and sprint.
One evening after class, Paige and Stephen walked by Town Lake. The path was damp underfoot, spring-fed and stubborn. Students sprawled along the grass in loose groups—guitars, radios, someone lying flat on their back staring at the sky like it was enough.
The water moved slow under the bridge, reflecting streetlights in thin streaks that wavered with the current. Bugs skimmed the surface. Somewhere behind them, someone laughed too loud, and a friend shushed them.
Paige tucked her hands into her sleeves. She watched the water without focusing on any one point.
"I used to hate quiet," she said.
Stephen's fingers flexed inside his sleeves. The night air cooled his knuckles. "Why?"
Paige's jaw moved once, like she was testing the words. "Because quiet always meant being alone," she said, plain.
Stephen stared at the water's edge where it lapped against the bank. "I used to hate noise," he said.
Paige glanced at him. "Because it's distracting?"
"No," Stephen said, and the word came out sharper than he meant. He tried again. "Because it meant losing control."
Paige nodded slowly. "Guess we're both recovering from extremes."
"Maybe we just wanted a signal," Stephen said, and the phrase came out softer than he expected, "not silence."
Paige's smile was small, almost private. "Then we found one."
They didn't talk for a while after that. They didn't scramble to fix the quiet. Their footsteps stayed in sync without either of them forcing it. The lake kept moving. The world kept making noise, but it didn't feel like an attack.
The next week, Stephen forgot their usual study time.
It wasn't deliberate. He'd fallen into work the way he sometimes did, the way his mind could tunnel down into code and proofs until the rest of the world became background static.
When he finally looked up, the clock read 10:47.
His stomach dropped. Not fear—weight. He stood too fast, chair legs scraping, grabbed his notebook, and left his room with damp hair and a half-buttoned shirt he hadn't noticed.
The hallway was quiet, lit by dull bulbs. His footsteps sounded too loud.
Paige's door had a thin line of light beneath it.
He knocked once. Then again, softer.
The door opened a crack. Paige looked out, eyes tired, hair down, sleeves pushed up. Behind her, her desk lamp made a warm pool on an open notebook. The rest of the room was shadowed and pinned sketches.
"You're late," she said.
Her tone wasn't sharp. That made it worse.
"I lost track," Stephen said. "It wasn't intentional."
Paige watched him for a moment, expression unreadable in the low light. Then she opened the door wider. "I know."
Stephen stepped inside, careful not to bring the hallway's chill in with him. His throat tightened like his body was trying to apologize before his mouth could.
"I didn't mean to cancel the frequency," he said.
Paige blinked. A quiet laugh slipped out, more breath than sound, like he'd surprised her into it.
"Just keep it in tune," she said, but she didn't say it immediately. She let a beat pass first. She let him feel the late-arrival sting before she handed him the bridge back.
Stephen nodded once, too serious. "I'll recalibrate."
Paige shut her notebook with a soft slap. "You're lucky I like scientists."
Stephen's mouth twitched. "You're unlucky I am one."
Paige's eyes warmed. "I'll survive."
That night, sleep didn't come easily.
Not because he was afraid. Not because he was anxious. Because the day kept moving inside him, like a wave that refused to settle.
Stephen sat by the window with his notebook open on his lap. The glass was cool against his shoulder. Outside, campus lights painted the sidewalks pale yellow. A distant song drifted through the night—too far to identify, close enough to feel. The rhythm pressed lightly against the silence, a reminder that the world didn't stop just because he did.
His pen moved across the page with a soft scratch.
Resonance: when systems align through shared motion.
He paused, listening to the pen's tiny sounds, the building's hum, the distant click of someone's door closing. He wrote again, slower, feeling the words form under his hand like something he wasn't sure he was allowed to say.
Connection isn't sameness. It's staying in phase long enough to understand the difference.
The streetlamp outside caught the edge of the paper, turning it gold against the ink. Stephen stared at what he'd written without judging it the way he judged everything else. He let it exist.
He thought of Paige laughing in the rain, water on her lashes, breathless and bright. He thought of Dr. Li's chalk lines crossing in rhythm. He thought of the freshman's note, the pressure of the handwriting like someone had pressed gratitude into paper hard enough to leave a mark.
Stephen's fingers tightened around the pen, then eased.
For once, he didn't feel like he was standing outside life with his face against the glass.
He felt like he was inside the waveform.
He sat there until the distant music faded, until the lamp outside flickered once and steadied, until his breathing matched the quiet of the room.
And when he finally closed his notebook, he did it gently—like he didn't want to disturb whatever frequency he'd found.
Thanks for reading, feel free to write a comment, leave a review, and Power Stones are always appreciated.