He's cool," Abi said, glancing at me from the passenger seat. "You'll like him."
I grunted, keeping my eyes on the road. "You said that about your high school friend. The one who made me play charades with his dog."
She laughed--soft, breathy, the kind that curled under my skin and made me smile even when I didn't want to. "Owen's different."
"You haven't seen him in what--three years?"
"That's different. We're still close."
I didn't say anything after that. Her fingers were tangled in mine, her thumb brushing lightly along my knuckles. The radio hummed something low and moody, barely filling the silence between us. The air outside the car was thick with the heat of early summer, and the windows were slightly cracked, letting in the smell of pavement and cut grass.
It was supposed to be a chill night. Her brother was in town--staying a few days, couch-surfing while he figured some stuff out. We were grabbing dinner, maybe a few drinks, and then I'd take her home. Normal. Easy.
I didn't know why I felt tense.
Maybe because I'd never heard much about Owen until a few days ago, and suddenly it was Owen this, Owen that. Maybe because she talked about him like someone you used to be in love with, not someone you were related to.
When we pulled up to the apartment, she perked up, untangling her hand from mine and smoothing her hair like she hadn't just been resting her head against the window half-asleep. I watched her out of the corner of my eye, then killed the engine.
She rang the buzzer, and after a moment, the door clicked open.
We stepped inside, climbed the stairs, and before we could even knock, the apartment door swung open. A tall guy stood there, shirtless, with a beer in one hand and a crooked smile on his face like we'd interrupted something but he didn't mind.
"You're Mark?" he asked.
I nodded, trying not to be awkward. "Yeah. Owen?"
"The one and only," he said, and pulled me into a handshake before I could fully extend mine. His grip was firm, warm, confident. The kind of handshake that said he'd sized me up before I even walked in.
I didn't know what I expected--maybe someone quieter, softer. Someone like Abi.
He wasn't that.
Owen was broad-shouldered, with this lazy charisma that filled the room before he even stepped back to let us in. Tattoos peeked out from beneath his collarbone, curling down one bicep. His dark hair was messy in a way that felt intentional, like he never tried but always looked good anyway.
He and Abi hugged, and there was genuine warmth there. Something I couldn't place. I stood back for a second, watching them--how easily they fell into conversation, how familiar they were. And yeah, I guess I felt a little like the outsider. The boyfriend tagging along.
She looked like him, sure--same sharp features, same dark hair--but where Owen was all effortless charm, Abi was something else entirely. She was striking. The kind of beauty that made you blink once, then again, just to make sure you saw her right. There was an easy confidence in the way she moved, like she didn't second-guess a single thing. Her curves were subtle but impossible to ignore, and there was something in her eyes--steady, amused--that made it feel like she already knew what you were thinking. She didn't just walk into a room. She shifted it.
We moved to the living room. It was a small apartment, lived-in but clean. A wicker basket filled with chunky knit blankets, a few books stacked on the coffee table, a candle burning something musky and expensive. We sat on the couch while Owen grabbed beers from the fridge. When he came back, he handed them out like we'd been friends for years.
"Abi said you're studying architecture?"
"Trying to," I said, twisting the cap off.
"So you're good with your hands," he said with a grin.
I laughed, not sure if it was a joke or a test. "I guess."
"Hmm."
Just one word. Barely a sound. But it stuck.
We talked about everything and nothing--music, school, the shitty weather, a movie Owen couldn't believe I hadn't seen. It wasn't awkward. He was easy like that--chill, funny, the kind of guy you could accidentally spend three hours drinking with and not notice the time.
Abi curled up against me at one point, legs draped over mine, her fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on my knee. She looked happy. And maybe that should've been enough to put me at ease.
But it wasn't.
Because when Owen got up to grab another beer, and I caught him watching us--his eyes tracking her hand, then flicking up to meet mine--something in me flinched.
Not lust. Not attraction.
Just... awareness.
Like he'd seen something in me I didn't mean to show. Something I hadn't even admitted to myself yet.
And when we said goodbye, and his hand landed on my shoulder--firm, casual, familiar--it lingered just a second too long.
I felt it again.
That flicker of something I couldn't name.
And it stayed with me the whole ride home.
----------------------------------------
Abi said it was temporary--"just a few days," she promised, like it was no big deal. He needed time to figure out his next move. That was 2 weeks ago.
Now he was on her couch every morning. Shirtless. Messy-haired. Eating cereal out of a chipped bowl like he'd lived there forever.
I'd come over after class, and there he'd be. Barefoot, leaning against the counter, joking with Abi like nothing had changed between them. Like he wasn't a guest in someone else's space. Like I wasn't standing there watching them, trying not to clench my jaw.
It shouldn't have bothered me.
But it did.
"He's just friendly," Abi said when I finally brought it up.
I don't think I even knew what "it" was. I wasn't accusing him of anything. I wasn't even sure what I was trying to say.
Maybe it was the way he looked at me sometimes--slow, deliberate, head tilted slightly like he was trying to figure me out. Like he was watching something shift under my skin that even I didn't notice.
Maybe it was the questions. Not the casual kind people ask to fill space, but the personal kind. The kind that caught you off guard.
"What was your childhood like?"
"Do you ever wish you picked something else to study?"
"Are you happy?"
He'd ask those things out of nowhere. Between sips of coffee. During a commercial break. Like he couldn't help himself. Like he actually gave a shit.
Or maybe it was the way he touched me. Light, casual, but just a little too often. A hand on my back when he walked past. A nudge when he made a joke. Once, his fingers brushed the inside of my wrist when he handed me a glass of water.
And he never said sorry.
That kind of friendly.
That night, Abi made pasta. We ate on the balcony--Owen had strung up a few old lights he found in a drawer, and the glow made everything feel a little softer, like we were suspended in some hazy, slow-motion movie scene. He played some indie playlist from his phone. Something low and atmospheric. The kind of music that made you feel like you were missing something even when everything looked perfect.
Abi curled into my side, her legs tangled with mine, a glass of wine in her hand. She looked relaxed. Happy. I should've been too.
"So," Owen said, lighting a cigarette, "you guys ever fight?"
I looked at Abi. She just laughed, swirling her wine.
"Why?" she asked.
He shrugged, smoke curling from his lips like it didn't belong to him. "Just curious. You two seem... polished."
"What does that mean?" I asked, my voice tighter than I meant it to be.
He took a slow drag and looked at me. "Like a couple you'd see on Instagram. Clean. Pretty. Perfect angles. No mess."
"We're not perfect," Abi said with a little scoff.
"I know," Owen replied. "I'm just saying. Sometimes the best shit happens in the mess."
He looked at me when he said it. His eyes lingered. There was heat there--quiet, steady. Not a challenge. Not even a tease.
Just... pressure.
And I didn't look away fast enough.
Later, Abi went to shower. She kissed my cheek and disappeared inside, humming something under her breath. I stayed out on the balcony, watching the city lights blur in the distance, the wind tugging at the ends of my shirt.
I don't know why I stayed.
Maybe I didn't want to see her.
Maybe I was waiting.
The door slid open behind me.
"You're quiet tonight," Owen said.
He leaned against the railing beside me, cigarette gone, a fresh beer in his hand. His skin still smelled faintly like smoke and citrus body wash.
"Just tired," I said.
"Long day?"
I nodded.
We stood there in silence for a while. It wasn't awkward. It was heavier than that.
"You ever wonder," he said finally, voice low, "how people decide what they are? What they want?"
I turned to look at him. His eyes were on the sky.
"What do you mean?"
He tilted his head, flicking at the label on his beer. "Like... what makes someone straight? Or not. Is it something you know? Something you choose? Or just something that sneaks up on you?"
My throat went dry.
"You asking me?" I tried to play it off, a half-smile tugging at my lips.
