It Was Just a Compliment. Right?

It's past midnight and the only light in my room is the soft glow from my desk lamp, casting long shadows over the sketchpad I haven't touched in twenty minutes.

I keep flipping to the same page: the one Alex said hit.

The drawing's just a guy staring at himself in the mirror—bare shoulders, tired eyes, the ghost of a second face in the reflection. It's dramatic, sure. But most of my stuff is. I'm dramatic It's how I think.

Alex saw it once. Said one sentence."That one hit."

And now I can't stop hearing it.

I drop the pencil and lean back in my chair, rubbing my eyes like that'll erase the way he said it—low, like it meant something. Like he got it.

Stupid.

He's just naturally charming. Like, stupidly sexy jock default setting or something.

Still. I can't sleep.

The hallway creaks under my feet as I sneak downstairs. Hoodie on. Hair a mess. I look like every guy in a coming-of-age movie going through something.

I just want a snack and peace.

Instead, I get him.

Alex is perched on the kitchen counter, hoodie sleeves rolled to the elbow, bowl in one hand, phone in the other, feet swinging slightly like he lives in a toothpaste commercial. The overhead light is dim but still manages to hit him at a disgustingly cinematic angle.

He looks up when I freeze in the doorway.

"Can't sleep either?"

"Why are you everywhere I want to be, anytime I want to be there?" I mutter, heading straight for the fridge.

"I'm a figment of your overactive imagination," he says with a grin. "Also I was hungry."

"Do you ever… sit like a normal person?"

"This is how cool people sit."

"You're twenty minutes from sliding off and breaking your spine. And I pray it happens"

He shrugs. "Worth it."

I grab the milk, then pause. "Do we still have cereal?"

He tosses me the box without looking. "Bottom shelf, behind the ramen."

I nod. "Thanks, half baked Ryan Guzman."

"Always here for you, kid."

I shoot him a glare. "Stop calling me that."

He replies "With the whole, half baked yada yada, it's hard not to"

He chuckles and hops off the counter, and I try—try—not to stare at how effortlessly his body moves. It's like his arms exist just to ruin me.

We end up side by side, eating cereal in the kind of silence that's too aware.

Alex breaks it first. "You know, you're really hard on yourself."

I side-eye him. "You've been living here five days."

"And I've already seen you erase a sketch so aggressively I thought your pencil was gonna catch fire."

I try not to smile. "That's how I brainstorm."

He tilts his head. "Your art's good. Don't fight me on this."

"Why are you being nice?" I ask before I can stop myself.

He blinks, then smirks. "Maybe I like seeing you all flustered."

I choke on a Cheerio.

He laughs quietly, and I hate—hate—how warm it makes me feel.

"Goodnight, Nick," he says eventually, voice softer now, like he's not trying to start something anymore.

I wash my bowl like it personally wronged me. "Goodnight."

I crawl into bed like I'm escaping a war.

It was just cereal. And a compliment. And a smirk. And—

"Maybe I like seeing you flustered."

I scream into my pillow.

I'm going to die.