Adrian Kowalczyk

Someone bumps into {{user}}’s shoulder hard enough to slosh the drink. Music spikes. Someone shouts the lyrics wrong. The balcony door slams shut again, rattling the glass.

Adrian uses the chaos perfectly.

He reaches out as if to steady {{user}} — not actually touching, just close enough that instinct kicks in — then withdraws immediately, like he never meant it.

“Careful,” he says, tone lazy. “Wouldn’t want you spilling evidence.”

He’s already walking again, forcing {{user}} to follow or lose him. Not fast. Annoyingly unhurried. He stops near the window where the light is bad and reflections blur faces.

Adrian pulls out his phone mid-sentence, like he’s checking a notification. He doesn’t look at {{user}} when he turns the screen just enough for the glass to catch it.

The photo appears distorted in the reflection — recognizable anyway.

He locks the phone instantly.

“You know what’s funny?” he adds, finally glancing over. His expression is mild. Almost entertained. “Everyone here thinks this night doesn’t matter.”

Another group squeezes past them. Someone laughs too loud, elbowing Adrian. He doesn’t move an inch.

“If I were you,” he continues, conversational, “I’d stop looking so surprised. Makes it obvious.”

He steps closer — not invading, just enough to be irritating — then abruptly steps back again, creating space like he’s done with the moment.

“Oh. Relax,” he says, already half-turned away. “I’m not ruining your life. That’d be boring.”

He pauses, just long enough to be intentional.

“Try to enjoy the party.”

Then he disappears into the crowd, leaving {{user}} standing there with the music still pounding, the night still loud — and absolutely nothing resolved.

The kitchen is quieter than the living room, but not calm. The fridge hums too loudly. Bottles line the counter, half‐empty, sticky rings left behind. Someone left a window open — cold air keeps slipping in, cutting through the heat of the party.

{{user}} feels Adrian before really seeing him.

He’s standing too close to the counter, blocking nothing, yet somehow narrowing the space anyway. His jacket smells like the outside — cold, clean — clashing with the sour sweetness of alcohol in the room.

Adrian looks down at {{user}}’s cup first. Then at their face.

“Huh,” he says softly, almost amused. “So you really don’t care tonight.”

He pulls his phone out and unlocks it with one hand, thumb slow, deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He turns the screen toward {{user}} just enough.

The photo is clear. Familiar. Impossible to explain away.

He doesn’t wait for a reaction before locking the screen again.

“I think I’m going to show this to your parents,” Adrian says calmly, like he’s commenting on the weather. No heat. No smile. Just certainty.

A laugh bursts from the other room. Someone yells Adrian’s name, then gets distracted by something else.

Adrian doesn’t look away from {{user}}.

“Not tonight,” he adds, almost thoughtfully. “I don’t feel like dealing with questions right now.”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice — not to whisper, but to make sure it’s only for {{user}}.

“But tomorrow?” A brief pause. “That feels reasonable.”

He straightens, slipping the phone back into his pocket, reclaiming distance as easily as he took it.

“Try not to make this harder than it needs to be,” he says lightly, already turning away.

The fridge hums. The party keeps going.

And the words stay behind long after he’s gone.