"Okay. What did he do?"
Camila barely says hi before dropping her bag on the cafeteria table and sliding into the seat across from me like she's about to conduct an exorcism.
I blink up from my tray of fries. "What happened to hi, hello, how are you? What happened to how was your night? I hope you slept well. But oh well, Hi to you too"
"You're doing the thing," she says, stabbing a chicken nugget with concerning intensity.
"What thing?" I ask still to not looking at face her entirely
"That little eyebrow twitch like you're thinking about throwing yourself into traffic but don't want to be dramatic about it."
I sigh. "It's nothing."
She levels me with a look that says you absolute liar.
"It's Alejandro, isn't it? It always is" she adds, voice low and smug. "You're twitchier than usual, which means he probably looked at you weird, or said something nice in his I'm-smirking-but-not-smiling way."
I say nothing.
"God, he did," she gasps. "What did he do? Smile too long? Accidentally graze your hand? Walk around like he invented shoulder muscles again?"
I shove a fry in my mouth.
"He told me I was good," I mumble.
Camila's eyes light up like she just got season 4 spoilers. "GOOD?! OH, I didn't know you two were already that ahead"
"Not like that. He meant my sketchbook." I said exasperatedly
She leans forward. "And you're spiraling because?"
"Because he's not supposed to be nice!" I whisper-yell. "He's supposed to be mildly annoying and emotionally unavailable, not earnest and supportive."
Camila makes a face. "Wow. You're deep in it."
"I most certainly am not."
"Oh? 'I most certainly am not' oh shut it you know you are."
We walk out of the cafeteria and into the courtyard, where the sun hits too directly and the air smells like stress and someone's vape pen.
Camila loops her arm through mine. "You know this is a trope, right?"
"What?"
"Enemies-to-lovers, forced proximity edition. He lives with you, you're annoyed, then BAM—you kiss in the laundry room."
I stop walking. "What kind of fanfic crack have you been reading?"
She shrugs. "You're the artist. I'm just here to narrate what's been written by you."
Later that day, back home, I do my usual routine—drop bag, wash hands, avoid Alex.
Except today he's already in the kitchen, back turned, humming to himself as he pours cereal. Humming. Like he's in some domestic bliss montage.
I try to sneak past.
"Hey, kid."
My body reacts before my brain does—I stop mid-step and glare. "You are one year older than me."
He turns with a spoon in his mouth, raises an eyebrow. "Still a year wiser."
"You're unbearable, and I doubt that."
"Yet here I am, living under your roof."
I cross my arms, trying to ignore the way his sleeves are rolled up, showing off those annoyingly defined arms. "Do you ever not flirt?"
He grins. "With you? Always."
Something in my chest does a thing. I can't tell if it's offense or relief or weird disappointment.
"I'm going upstairs," I mutter, already retreating.
But before I vanish, I hear him call, "Hey, Nick?"
I pause, half on the stairs.
"That sketch of the guy looking in the mirror?" he says. "That one hit."
Then he goes back to his cereal like he didn't just lob a grenade at my mental state.