I hadn't planned on staying.
That was the lie, I told myself as the bus hissed to a stop at the corner of Oakridge Avenue, the brakes screaming like they were offended I'd dragged them back here. As if the town itself disapproved of my return. The air smelled the same dust, cut grass, and something faintly metallic that always came after rain. Home has a way of remembering you, even when you try hard to forget it.
I stepped down with my bag slung over my shoulder, twenty-three(23) years old and somehow still feeling sixteen the moment my shoes hit the cracked pavement.
Nothing had changed.
That was the worst part.
The Carter house, my house, sat two blocks down, paint, still the same dull cream, the porch light slightly crooked, like it had given up trying to be straight years ago. I stood there longer than necessary, staring at it like it might reject me if I approached too quickly.
"Fabian?"
The sound of my name pulled me out of my head.
I turned.
And there he was.
Davis.
He stood by the open trunk of a familiar black SUV, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms tanned and solid in a way that spoke of routine rather than vanity. His hair was darker than I remembered, threaded with faint silver at the temples, and his posture, straight, unyielding, was the same one I'd grown up seeing beside my father at barbecues, school events, and long, quiet nights on the porch.
For a moment, my brain refused to reconcile memory with reality.
This wasn't the Davis from my childhood, the one who tossed me a baseball, ruffled my hair, asked about school with polite interest. This was a man. Fully grown. Fully formed. And devastatingly real.
"You're taller," he said, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
My lungs forgot what they were supposed to do.
"You're… still here," I replied, which was stupid, but honest.
He laughed softly, the sound low and familiar, and something twisted painfully in my chest. "Your dad said you'd be back today. I thought I'd help him with the groceries."
Of course, he did. Of course, Davis was there. He always was.
I nodded, suddenly hyper-aware of my hands, my posture, the way sweat clung to the back of my neck from the ride. "Yeah. I....uh. It's good to see you."
The words felt inadequate the moment they left my mouth.
His eyes lingered on me longer than necessary. Not in a way that felt predatory or inappropriate. Nothing I could point to or accuse. Just a pause. A consideration. As if he were adjusting an internal image of me that no longer fit.
"You've grown up," he said quietly.
I swallowed. "I guess that happens."
For a split second, something unreadable flickered across his face. Then it was gone, replaced by that steady calm I'd always associated with him.
He stepped closer, pulling me into a hug before I could think better of it.
It shouldn't have felt like that.
His arms were firm, warm, his hand resting between my shoulder blades with a familiarity that made my stomach flip. I caught the faint scent of soap and something deeper, woodsy, grounding, and my body reacted before my brain could remind me who he was.
My father's friend.
Off-limits.
Always.
I stiffened slightly, and he let go immediately, stepping back as if he'd sensed the shift.
"Sorry," he said. "Habit."
"No, it's fine," I lied quickly.
We stood there, awkward in a way we never had been before, the silence stretching until it felt heavy. I adjusted my bag strap, desperate for something neutral to anchor myself to.
"How was the city?" Davis asked.
"Busy," I said. "Loud. Different."
"You staying long?"
The question was casual, but it landed like a challenge.
"I don't know yet."
Another pause.
"Fair enough."
He closed the trunk, and together we walked toward the house. Every step felt loaded, like I was crossing some invisible line I didn't yet understand. Davis walked slightly ahead of me, and I hated the way my eyes followed the broad line of his shoulders, the easy confidence in his stride.
This was wrong. I knew it the moment the thought crossed my mind.
I'd been gone five years. Five years of distance, of telling myself that whatever strange, confusing feelings I'd once had were just teenage confusion. Curiosity. Nothing more.
But standing behind him now, feeling that same pull tighten in my chest, I knew I'd been lying to myself all along.
The door swung open before either of us reached it.
"Fabian!" my father's voice boomed, warm and relieved. "You made it."
He pulled me into a quick hug, solid and familiar, and for a moment I allowed myself to sink into it. This was safe. This was uncomplicated.
"Davis was just helping out," my dad added, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Always does," Davis said easily.
I watched them together, their easy camaraderie, the shared history written into every casual glance and guilt washed over me, sharp and immediate.
Whatever this was growing inside me, it had no right to exist.
Dinner that night was loud, filled with conversation and clinking plates, my father talking about work while I nodded along, offering vague updates about my life. Davis sat across from me, listening more than speaking, his gaze drifting to me when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
I was.
I always was.
Every time our eyes met, something electric sparked between us: brief, unsettling, impossible to ignore. I found myself noticing things I never had before: the way his voice softened when he spoke to my father, the faint crease between his brows when he frowned, the strength in his hands as he reached for his glass.
I hated myself for it.
After dinner, my father excused himself to take a call, leaving Davis and me alone at the table. The silence felt heavier without the buffer of conversation.
"Are you okay?" Davis asked gently. "You've been quiet."
"Just tired," I said. "Long trip."
"Right," He hesitated. "You can use the guest room if you want. Or your old room's still well. Mostly the same."
Mostly the same. Like everything else here.
"I'll take my old room," I said.
He smiled. "Thought you might."
As I stood to leave, my hand brushed his by accident.
The contact was brief, barely there, but it sent a jolt through me, sharp and undeniable. I froze.
"So....uh," I said too quickly. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Fabian."
My name on his lips felt dangerous.
Upstairs, I closed my bedroom door and leaned against it, heart pounding. The room smelled faintly of dust and old memories. Posters I'd forgotten about still clung to the walls. A version of myself I barely recognized stared back at me from every corner.
I slid down until I was sitting on the floor, head in my hands.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
I am an adult now. I knew better. I knew who he was and what he meant to my father. To this family. To me.
And yet.....
Downstairs, I heard Davis's voice, low and steady, drifting through the house as he said his goodbyes. The front door opened, then closed.
Something in my chest tightened painfully.
I didn't know how long I sat there, listening to the echo of a presence that had always been too close, too familiar, too forbidden.
All I knew was this:
Coming home had awakened something I'd spent years trying to bury.
And the man I was never meant to want was standing right at the center of it.