My Dear School Senior - 6. Chapter 6 The Approaching Winter

Richard found a job in the third week after the yacht party.

The first thing he did was text Tate.

“I got a job!”

Tate was in a meeting. When he saw the message, he couldn't help smiling.

The CFO sitting across from him stopped in the middle of his presentation and gave him a puzzled look.

Tate waved a hand apologetically. “Go on.”

As soon as the meeting ended, he replied.

“Congratulations! How about we celebrate tonight?”

It took Richard a few minutes to answer.

“I'm afraid I can't. Tomorrow's my first day, and I need to get ready.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow might not work either. This new job's going to keep me pretty busy.”

Tate stared at the screen. “What about the weekend?”

“The weekend should work.”

Tate smiled. “All right. I'll wait for you.”

But when the weekend came, Richard couldn't find the time after all.

His new employer was a relatively small logistics company, with a busy warehousing and distribution operation.

Richard had been hired as an operations manager. The salary was nowhere near what he used to earn, yet he was expected to oversee inventory, transportation schedules, employee shifts all at once.

He left home at seven almost every morning and rarely returned before nine at night. Sometimes even later.

Tate called him occasionally. There was always noise in the background.

“Sorry, Tate. I'm at the warehouse.”

“That's okay.”

“I'll call you back later.”

“Sure.”

But Richard often forgot. It wasn't until the following morning that Tate would receive a text.

“I was exhausted last night. Fell asleep. Sorry.”

Tate never blamed him. He understood what this job meant to Richard.

It wasn't just a paycheck. It was Richard finally finding his place in the world again.

Still, there were times when Tate couldn't help missing him.

He missed the slightly husky sound of Richard's voice. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

It had been a long time since Tate had missed anyone quite like this.

 

On Thursday evening, Tate finished a business dinner.

He settled into the back seat of his car, and his driver asked whether he wanted to go straight home.

Tate glanced at his phone. 9:40 p.m.

They hadn't exchanged a single message in two days.

He hesitated. “Head to the West Side.”

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Mr. Miller's place?”

“Yeah.”

 

Tate waited outside Richard's apartment building for nearly twenty minutes.

At last, he spotted the familiar figure coming slowly around the corner.

Richard was wearing his old gray coat, a briefcase hanging from one shoulder. He walked slowly, his long shadow stretching beneath the streetlights, making him look unusually thin and frail.

Tate had already opened the car door, ready to greet him with a smile.

But the moment he got a good look at Richard's face, the smile vanished.

Richard was terribly pale. There was almost no color in his lips, and his light blond hair was damp with sweat, falling untidily across his forehead.

When he reached the entrance to his building, he stopped and leaned against the wall, lowering his head for a moment.

As though walking that last short distance had taken everything he had left.

“Richard?” Tate hurried toward him.

Richard looked up. At the sight of Tate, surprise flickered through his tired blue eyes, followed slowly by a smile.

“Tate?” His voice was faint. “What are you doing here?”

“Wanted to see you.” Tate stepped closer. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” Richard managed a smile. “Just a little tired today.”

Tate reached out and touched his cheek. It was burning hot.

He frowned immediately. “You've got a fever.”

Richard instinctively drew back a little. “Maybe a slight one.”

“How long?”

“Not long.”

“Richard.” Tate looked straight at him. “How long?”

Richard lowered his eyes. “Since the night before last.”

Tate froze. “Two nights ago?”

Richard gave him a weak smile. “I thought I'd sleep it off.”

Tate stared at him, unable to speak for a moment.

Suddenly, he remembered Richard's increasingly brief replies over the past two days.

“Busy today.”

“Talk later.”

“I'm going to bed.”

He'd assumed Richard was simply exhausted from work. All this time, Richard had been running a fever.

Tate immediately reached out to steady him. Richard instinctively gripped his arm.

His hand was cold, but his palm was covered in sweat. Tate felt his chest tighten.

“Come on. Let's get you upstairs.” He slipped an arm around Richard's waist. “I'm coming with you.”

This time, Richard didn't argue.

 

The apartment was cold.

The first thing Tate noticed when he stepped inside was a handful of bills scattered across the dining table.

Beside them sat a half-empty glass of water, an almost empty box of crackers, and a bus schedule that had been folded and unfolded so many times the creases had begun to wear thin.

The kitchen lights were off. The sink was clean. There was hardly anything in the refrigerator.

Richard stood by the door, looking a little uncertain. “It's kind of a mess.”

But the apartment wasn't messy at all. It was simply bare.

Everything had been arranged neatly, yet no amount of tidiness could disguise how little Richard had to get by on.

Tate made no comment. He took off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair.

“Sit down first.”

Richard obediently lowered himself onto the sofa.

Tate crouched in front of him and touched his forehead. “Do you have a thermometer?”

“In the drawer.”

Tate found it and took his temperature. 102 degrees Fahrenheit.

He stared at the reading, his expression darkening. “Richard, that's a pretty high fever.”

Richard lowered his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Have you taken anything?”

“I took something yesterday.”

“What about today?”

Richard said nothing. Tate already knew the answer.

“Have you eaten?”

“A little at lunch.”

“And dinner?”

Richard managed another faint smile. “Haven't gotten around to it.”

Tate stared at him. “You worked all day like this?”

Richard nodded slightly.

Tate drew a deep breath. He wanted to scold him. But looking at that pale, exhausted face, he couldn't bring himself to say a single harsh word.

“Stay here.” His voice softened. “I'll get you something to eat.”

 

Tate ordered a pizza and poured Richard a glass of water.

Then he found a clean towel, dampened it with warm water, and gently wiped the sweat from Richard's forehead.

Richard remained unusually quiet. So quiet that it made Tate's heart ache.

He wasn't joking the way he normally did.

He simply sat on the sofa, allowing Tate to straighten his collar, wipe his face, and bring him water.

At one point, Tate asked him to raise his arms so he could help him out of his coat.

Richard did as he was told. But halfway through, he suddenly murmured, “I'm sorry.”

Tate stopped. “What?”

Richard kept his head down. “For making you take care of me.”

Tate looked at him. “Richard.”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you apologizing?”

Richard didn't answer. He almost seemed unsure himself.

After a moment, he gave a weak smile. “Force of habit.”

Something sank inside Tate's chest.

He didn't ask any more questions. He simply helped Richard out of his coat and laid it over the back of a chair.

Then he gently took Richard's hand.

“You don't have to apologize for needing me, either.”

Richard's lips parted slightly. He seemed about to say something, but in the end, he only lowered his head.

 

When the pizza arrived, Tate helped Richard over to the dining table.

After eating, Richard began to look a little better.

Tate sat beside him, watching. “Take your time.”

Richard nodded. After another couple of sips of water, he suddenly stopped.

“Tate.”

“Hmm?”

“You don't have to keep staring at me.”

Tate smiled. “Why not?”

“I'm not a little kid.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you...” Richard trailed off.

Tate reached over and pushed up the sleeve that had slipped down over Richard's wrist.

“I just want to make sure you're actually eating something.”

Richard looked down at the hand adjusting his sleeve.

It was a long, elegant hand, clean and well cared for. An expensive watch rested at the wrist.

And that hand was carefully rolling up the worn sleeve of his old sweater.

Richard suddenly felt a sting behind his eyes. He quickly lowered his head and pretended to concentrate on his food.

Tate didn't notice. He was busy moving Richard's glass of water a little closer.

“Take tomorrow off.”

Richard stopped eating. “I'm afraid I can't.”

“Why?”

“I've barely started.”

“You have a fever.”

“I know.” Richard spoke quietly. “But I can't let my boss think I'm unreliable.”

Tate looked at him. Richard managed a small smile.

“It took me so long to find this job.”

He said it softly. As though he were merely stating an ordinary fact. But something tightened painfully in Tate's chest.

“Richard.”

“Yeah?”

“You can always find another job.”

Richard shook his head. “You don't understand.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to realize how hurtful they might sound.

“I didn't mean it like that.”

Tate wasn't offended. “I know.”

Richard lowered his eyes. “It's just... finding a job really isn't that easy.”

His fingers slowly tightened around the spoon. “Especially at my age.”

Tate watched him. Thirty-eight. To Tate, Richard was still young.

But for a man who had endured unemployment, divorce, and years of financial pressure, thirty-eight seemed to have become an obstacle he could no longer easily overcome.

Richard spoke in a low voice.

“I don't want to go back to waking up every morning with no idea what I'm supposed to do with my day.”

Tate said nothing. Richard's eyes suddenly reddened. He quickly lowered his head.

“I just...” He stopped.

Tate didn't rush him.

A long time passed before Richard finally whispered, “I really don't want to lose this job.”

His voice was barely audible. Yet there was a fear in it that he could hardly conceal.

Tate suddenly understood. It wasn't that Richard didn't care about his health.

He was simply terrified of losing the measure of security he'd only just managed to rebuild.

 

After eating, Richard seemed a little more alert.

Tate cleared the table, then brought over some water and the thermometer.

“Let's check again.”

Richard obediently complied. His temperature was still high.

Tate frowned. “If it doesn't come down, we're going to see a doctor.”

Richard nodded. “Okay.”

Tate looked mildly surprised. “Being awfully cooperative this time, aren't you?”

Richard managed a faint smile. “That's because I don't have the energy to argue with you.”

Tate finally laughed. “So that's what it takes.”

He helped Richard back to the bed.

Just as Richard sat down, he gently caught Tate by the sleeve.

Tate turned. “What is it?”

Richard didn't answer immediately. His fingers remained curled around Tate's sleeve.

As though he wanted to keep him there but wasn't quite sure he had the right to ask.

“Do you...” He hesitated. “Do you have anything else to do tonight?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Tate sat down beside him. “What's wrong?”

Richard looked down. “Nothing.”

Tate waited without pressing him.

After a while, Richard finally asked in a small voice, “Could you stay a little longer?”

Tate went still.

Richard seemed embarrassed by the request. “Just for a little while.”

Tate looked at him.

The boy he'd known in high school, always so confident, so full of life, never willing to show weakness, was now sitting on a narrow old bed, pale and exhausted, his eyes clouded by illness.

He wasn't asking for anything more. He wasn't even asking Tate to stay the night.

He was only asking, carefully, whether Tate could keep him company a little longer.

Tate felt a sharp ache in his chest. “Of course I can.”

His voice was gentle.

Richard looked up. “Won't I be keeping you from something?”

Tate shook his head. “Not at all.”

He reached out and gently brushed Richard's hair. “I came here to see you in the first place.”

Richard gazed at him.

After a moment, he suddenly reached out and wrapped his arms around Tate.

The embrace came so unexpectedly that Tate froze for a second. Then he slowly tightened his arms around him.

Richard buried his face against Tate's shoulder. For a long time, he said nothing.

Tate could feel the feverish warmth of his body. He gently patted Richard's back.

“What's wrong?”

Richard shook his head. After a while, he finally whispered, “I'm just really tired today.”

Tate closed his eyes for a moment. “I know.”

Then he added softly, “Don't worry.”

“I'm sorry. I guess I'm being a little...”

“Richard.” Tate interrupted him.

Richard looked up. Tate gently cupped his face.

“Stop apologizing.”

Richard's eyes slowly filled with tears.

Tate spoke softly. “You don't have to pretend everything's fine when you're with me.”

Richard's lips trembled slightly. “I'm not...”

“I know how hard you've been trying,” Tate continued. “And I know you don't want me to worry.”

He gently wiped away the moisture gathering at the corner of Richard's eye.

“But you're exhausted.”

Richard looked at him.

Tate's voice was so tender it was almost as though he were comforting a child who had been hurt.

“You don't have to be so strong with me.”

Richard finally broke. He lowered his head, and tears began falling, one after another.

Tate pulled him into his arms.

Richard made no sound as he cried. He simply clutched Tate's shirt, his shoulders trembling faintly.

It was the kind of crying that came from holding everything in for far too long.

As though even his grief was something he didn't dare express too loudly.

Tate gently stroked his back. “I'm right here,” he whispered.

Richard held him a little tighter.

A long time passed before he managed to speak through his tears.

“Tate...”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you so good to me?”

Tate lowered his head.

Looking into Richard's reddened eyes, he suddenly remembered the boy from twenty years ago, standing in a school hallway with that bright, effortless smile.

Even then, Tate had depended on Richard more than he cared to admit.

He'd liked him so much that merely catching sight of him from across the hallway could make his entire day better.

And now, at last, he could hold him like this.

Tate paused. “Because you're Richard.”

Richard lifted his head. Tate met his eyes.

“You're the one I've always loved.”

At last, a faint smile appeared on Richard's face. It was still wet with tears.

Yet it was more genuine than any of the strained smiles Tate had seen from him lately.

Richard reached up and gently touched Tate's cheek. “You idiot.”

Tate smiled. “Yeah.”

Richard wrapped his arms around him again.

 

Eventually, Richard lay down to rest.

Tate sat beside the bed and pulled the blanket over him.

Richard kept holding his hand. Even when he was so sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open, he wouldn't let go.

“Tate.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you still here?”

“I'm here.”

A little while later.

“Tate?”

“Still here.”

Richard smiled faintly with his eyes closed. “Am I being annoying?”

Tate leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Not even a little.”

Richard finally closed his eyes, fell asleep. His breathing gradually became slow and steady.

Tate made no move to leave. He simply sat there, watching Richard sleep.

Outside the window, cars passed occasionally. Someone was arguing loudly downstairs.

Farther away came the sound of a glass bottle shattering.

Late into the night, the wind howling outside the window was a reminder to everyone that the temperature had dropped sharply.

Tate lowered his gaze to the hand still holding his.

Suddenly, he wanted very badly to take Richard home with him.

To let him sleep in his bed. To make sure he can eat properly.

To spare him from facing these long, exhausting nights alone.

But Tate knew Richard too well. He knew Richard would never agree so easily.

So he simply tightened his hold on that hand.

At least tonight, he wanted Richard to know one thing.

When he woke up, someone would be there beside him.

 

After Richard recovered, he finally managed to find some free time to see Tate.

On Sunday afternoon, Tate took him to a park by the lake.

The weather was beautiful. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, scattering patches of light and shadow across the walking path.

Richard wore a thick, dark-gray winter coat over a navy-blue sweater, with a wool scarf wrapped around his neck. His hands were buried deep in his coat pockets as he walked slowly beside Tate.

“You're a hard man to get a date with,” Tate remarked.

Richard smiled. “Am I?”

Tate turned to look at him. Richard didn't seem to notice.

He was gazing out toward the lake, a slight crease between his brows.

They walked a little farther.

“Richard.”

“Hmm?”

“Has work gotten any easier lately?”

Richard turned toward him. He looked momentarily startled, then smiled.

“It's all right.”

Tate studied him. That smile had become painfully familiar.

Lately, almost every time Richard talked about work, he smiled like that.

A little apologetically. A little too eager to please.

As though he were afraid his answer might disappoint whoever was listening.

Tate stopped walking. Richard stopped beside him.

“What?”

Tate didn't answer immediately. He simply looked at Richard.

“You've been smiling like that a lot lately.”

Richard blinked. “Like what?”

Tate lifted the corners of his mouth slightly, imitating the expression. “Like this.”

Richard burst out laughing. “I do not!”

“You do.” Tate looked at him. “And it's a terrible smile.”

Richard's eyes widened. “Hey!”

Tate finally laughed. “There. That's more like you.”

Richard paused. Tate reached out and took his hand.

“Richard, you don't have to put on a smile for me.”

The smile slowly faded from Richard's face. “I'm not.”

“Okay.”

Tate didn't argue. He simply took Richard's hand and started walking again.

After a while, he spoke. “I know how much this job means to you.”

Richard said nothing.

“And I know you want to prove you're still good at what you do, right?”

Richard's steps slowed. Tate turned toward him.

“But have you considered that maybe you're trying too hard?”

Richard looked up. Tate's voice remained calm.

“You want to make your boss happy. You want your coworkers to respect you. So whenever someone gives you something to do, you take it on, no matter what.”

Richard lowered his head.

Tate continued. “But Richard, the harder you try to prove you can handle everything, the easier it becomes for certain people to dump work on you that was never supposed to be yours.”

Richard fell silent.

A breeze swept in from the lake, lifting a few strands of his pale blond hair.

After a long moment, he managed a faint smile. “Maybe.”

Tate frowned slightly. There it was again. That smile.

He sighed. “See?”

“What?”

“You're doing it again.”

The corners of Richard's mouth slowly fell.

Tate looked at him. “You never used to be like this.”

Richard raised his head. “Used to?”

“Yeah.” Tate smiled. “When you were seventeen, if someone asked you to do something unreasonable, you'd argue your case without thinking twice.”

Richard gave a quiet laugh. “I was young back then.”

“You're not old now.”

“Tate.” Richard shook his head. “You don't understand.”

Tate didn't interrupt. Richard looked out into the distance.

“I've only just started at this company.”

“I know.”

Tate's brows drew together slightly.

Richard smiled again. “It's really nothing. I just need a little time.”

Tate watched him.

There was exhaustion in those blue eyes, and something else.

A quiet hurt Richard was trying desperately to hide.

And suddenly Tate realized something.

It wasn't that Richard failed to recognize when he was being treated unfairly.

Quite the opposite. He understood perfectly well.

He was simply so afraid of losing his job again that he would rather endure it.

A dull ache settled in Tate's chest.

“Richard.”

“Yeah?”

“You've already proved you're good at what you do.”

Richard didn't answer.

“You've spent seventeen years in logistics management. You know how to handle contracts, control costs, and manage people.”

Tate paused. “Those skills don't just disappear because you lost your job once.”

Richard looked up. Tate met his eyes.

“You don't have to work yourself into the ground every night to prove you deserve to be employed.”

Richard's lips moved slightly. But he said nothing.

Tate gently squeezed his hand.

“Just be careful. If your boss figures out how worried you are, he might use it against you.”

Richard lowered his head. After a while, he said quietly, “I know.”

Tate looked at him. “Do you?”

Richard nodded. “It's just...”

He stopped. Tate waited patiently.

At last, Richard lifted his head and gave him a tired smile.

“It's just that I don't have many options right now.”

This time, Tate didn't point out the smile. He only felt his chest tighten.

He wanted so badly to tell Richard that if this job was making him miserable, he could simply quit.

That Tate had more than enough money to make sure Richard never had to worry about making a living again.

But he knew Richard wouldn't be happy to hear that. It might even make him feel worse.

So instead, Tate reached out and gently pulled him into his arms.

Richard looked surprised. “What's this for?”

“Nothing.” Tate buried his face against the side of Richard's neck. “Just wanted to hold you.”

Richard was quiet for a moment. Then he slowly wrapped his arms around Tate in return.

“You're getting awfully clingy lately,” he murmured.

Tate smiled. “You don't like it?”

Richard rested his cheek against Tate's shoulder. “I do.”

They stood like that for a while. Tate gently patted his back.

“Promise me something.”

“What?”

“Don't make yourself sick trying to keep everyone else happy.”

Richard was silent for a moment. “I'll try.”

Tate sighed. “That's not exactly reassuring.”

Richard finally laughed. This time, his eyes crinkled along with his smile.

“What do you want me to say, then?”

Tate looked at him. “I want you to tell me you'll take care of yourself.”

Richard studied him for a moment. Then he nodded gently. “Okay.”

Tate tightened his hold on Richard's hand.

Together, they continued along the lakeside path.

Richard gradually relaxed, even bringing up a funny incident from their high school days.

Tate listened to that familiar laughter. But his mind wasn't entirely at ease.

He kept thinking about what Richard had said earlier.

I don't have many options right now.

Tate didn't bring up work again. But he had already begun seriously considering whether he ought to do something.

Not to make Richard quit. And not to arrange another job for him.

But to make the man who thought nothing of working Richard to exhaustion learn, at the very least, where to draw the line.