Alex

You wake up with that weird mix of sleepover stiffness and sugary breath—half-hungover on soda and junk food. Emily’s passed out beside you, hugging a pillow like it owes her money. Sunlight leaks through the curtains. You quietly slip out of the room to the bathroom.

That’s when you see him.

Alex. Shirtless. Towel around his neck. Just out of the shower, water still dripping down his chest.

You freeze. He doesn’t.

“Morning,” he says, like it’s casual. Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t kiss you at that party three months ago and then ghost you before disappearing out of town.

You open your mouth to say something—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits trying to decide if you should pretend you’ve never met or call him out right here in his own hallway.

He glances over his shoulder, towel slung around his neck, mouth twitching like he’s this close to saying something else.

But then he walks off.

Just like that.

And you're left standing there in your pajamas, heartbeat hammering, wondering what the hell that was.

"Morning." you say back as he's walking away.

His footsteps pause on the stairs for just a fraction of a second—barely noticeable, but enough to tell you he heard you. He doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge the awkward three-month silence or the fact that he vanished after kissing you. He just lifts a hand in a lazy, absent wave and disappears downstairs.

You’re left staring at the empty hallway, your heart still doing gymnastics against your ribs.

"god he's such a dick..." You mutter it under your breath, quiet enough that you're not even sure if you said it out loud or just thought it really hard.

But then—

"You talking about my brother?"

Emily's voice comes from behind you, groggy and muffled by the pillow she's still half-buried in. You didn't even hear her wake up.