Why Is He Always Shirtless

It's been five days, each more gruesome than the last.

Five days of Alejandro Torres strolling around my house like he's starring in his own Netflix teen drama.

The first two days I avoided him. The third day, I started keeping a mental tally of how often he walked around shirtless. (We're at seven. It's only Thursday.) Not that I care about it, it just annoyed me how he does it in someone else's house, so I decided to keep count, for when I tell him off... yeah that's it.

Now it's day five. He comes down the hallway in a tank top that's technically fabric but does nothing for modesty.

"Do you even own a shirt that covers your arms? Or did you invest your clothes money on sheer pieces of fabric?" I ask, voice muffled, yet annoyance in it clear, as I spread peanut butter on toast like I'm stabbing it.

He stretches like this is a yoga retreat. "This is a shirt."

"That's a strip of cotton with arm holes."

From the kitchen, my mom calls out like we're sitcom characters, "Be nice, Nicolás! He's our guest!"

I shout back "Ugh mamá, está siendo molesto otra vez" but she just ignores me

Alex smirks, clearly oblivious to what I said. "Told you. I'm charming."

I make a face. "How does that... well, you're something, alright."

My escape plan involves a locked bedroom door, earbuds, and ignoring the fact that my heart beats faster every time he says my name.

My phone buzzes.

Camila: so when's the "he was standing in the hallway shirtless and suddenly i forgot how to breathe" moment happening

bc i feel like it already did 😏

spill. everything.

I sigh and reply: he doesn't even look at me like that

i think he still sees me as lucas's annoying little brother

not as someone who's fully hot and tragically gay

Later that night—12:37 a.m. to be exact—I wake up thirsty. Or restless. Maybe both.

The kitchen light's on.

And there he is.

Alex, sitting at the dining table, face shadowed in soft yellow light, hands curled around a mug. Hoodie sleeves pulled down, hair a little messy, like he'd been tossing in bed for hours.

He looks up when I walk in. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

I shake my head. "Couldn't sleep, plus you couldn't wake me if you tried"

"Sure."

I sit across from him, quietly, not wanting to break the peace.

After a minute, he says, "Do you ever feel like… if you stop acting okay, it'll all just collapse?"

I blink. That came out of nowhere.

He won't meet my eyes, so I soften my voice but still do let off the sass. "Yeah, Mr Random Questions. Like you're holding everything up with duct tape and sarcasm."

He smiles at that. But it's faint. Real.

There's a silence. The kind you only get at night. Honest. Bare.

"I used to be scared of you," I say suddenly.

He looks up. "Me?"

I nod. "You were Lucas's best friend. Older, cooler, always had something witty to say. I thought you hated me."

He laughs softly. "I didn't hate you."

"You barely looked at me."

"I was seventeen and dumb. I didn't look at anyone properly back then."

I look away. "I had this sketchbook. I wanted to show you once. But I didn't."

Alex tilts his head. "Why not?"

"Didn't think you'd care."

Flashback

I'm 11. Lucas is 16. Alex is home with him, slumped on the couch with a bag of chips, yelling at Lucas over a video game. I creep into the living room with my sketchbook hugged to my chest, heart pounding like I'm about to confess to a crush. (Okay. Maybe I kinda was.)

Lucas notices me first. "Yo, Nick. You good?"

I nod. Glance at Alex. He barely looks up.

I remember shrinking back, saying something like, "Never mind."

Back in my room, I cried for a reason I couldn't explain.

Present.

"You ever miss him?" I ask.

Alex sighs. "Every damn day."

I don't know if he means Lucas or someone else. Maybe both.

"I'm talking about Lucas" I say

"Yeah, I also miss him", He replied with a sigh

I almost ask why he's really here—why Lucas isn't, why he's suddenly in school so much, why they stopped talking the way they used to—but I don't. Not yet.

Instead, I say, "Lucas was always kind of the sun, you know? And we all just… orbited."

Alex doesn't speak for a long time.

Then quietly: "Maybe it's time you stopped orbiting."

I look up. He's staring right at me.

Like he finally sees me.

The next morning, he's back to being Alex—stealing toast, shirtless again, smirking.

But this time, he leaves the last slice for me.

And when our fingers brush reaching for the same mug, he doesn't pull away.