I woke to the sound of laughter drifting up the stairs.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was. My body was heavy with sleep, my mind slow and fogged by dreams. I couldn't quite remember only the lingering sensation of warmth and unease. Then the ceiling fan came into focus, its soft whir cutting through the morning air, and the realization settled in.
Home.
I lay still, staring at the faint crack in the ceiling I'd known since childhood, listening.
My father's voice carried easily, bright with a rare kind of ease. Davis's voice followed, lower, steadier, threaded with amusement. They sounded like they had always been together, like time hadn't touched them at all.
The familiarity twisted something deep in my chest.
I rolled onto my side and pressed my face into the pillow, willing myself to go back to sleep. It didn't work. My body was awake now, my thoughts already spiraling in directions I didn't want to acknowledge.
I hadn't imagined it. The tension. The strange awareness. The way my pulse had spiked every time Davis looked at me for longer than a polite second.
This wasn't some passing discomfort. It was something alive and growing, fed by proximity and memory.
I forced myself out of bed and dressed slowly, choosing a plain T-shirt and jeans like they might act as armor. When I opened my bedroom door, the smell of coffee and toast hit me immediately, sharp and grounding.
Davis stood at the kitchen counter, mug in hand.
He looked… domestic. Comfortably so. Like he belonged here in a way I never quite had.
"Morning," he said when he noticed me, his mouth lifting into a small smile.
"Morning," I replied, my voice rougher than I'd intended.
He turned fully toward me, and my breath caught despite myself. The casual clothes did nothing to diminish his presence. If anything, they made it worse, softened him, made him seem closer, more real.
"Sleep okay?" he asked.
"Yeah. Fine."
A lie, but an easy one.
My father glanced up from his phone. "Are you hungry? Davis was just about to head out."
Something sharp flickered in Davis's eyes at that, gone almost before I could register it.
"I can stay a bit," he said. "If you want."
The words weren't directed at me, but I felt them anyway.
"It's alright," I said quickly. "You don't have to."
He studied me for a second, then nodded. "Another time, then."
Relief and disappointment tangled inside me, confusing and unwelcome. I poured myself a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter, deliberately putting space between us.
As Davis gathered his things, my father clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a good man, you know that?"
Davis smiled, the expression warm and genuine. "Someone's got to keep you in line."
They laughed, and I watched them, my chest tight with a feeling I couldn't name. Admiration. Jealousy. Guilt.
When Davis finally turned toward the door, his gaze found mine again.
"Good seeing you again, Fabian," he said. "We'll catch up properly soon."
Soon.
"Yeah," I said. "Sure."
The door closed behind him with a soft click, and the house felt instantly quieter.
Too quiet.
The day passed slowly.
My father left for work mid-morning, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the oppressive weight of familiarity. I wandered through the house, touching old photographs, opening drawers I hadn't looked inside in years. Everything felt preserved, like I'd stepped into a version of my life that had paused without me.
By afternoon, restlessness drove me outside.
I walked without a destination, letting my feet carry me through streets etched into my memory. The old park. The corner store. The empty lot where Davis had once taught me how to change a tire, his patience unwavering as my hands fumbled.
The memory made my stomach twist.
I stopped short when I realized where I was headed.
Davis's place stood at the end of the street, modest and well-kept, the same as I remembered. I hadn't meant to come here. My body had simply… known the way.
I told myself I'd turn around.
I didn't.
Before I could talk myself out of it, the door opened.
Davis blinked in surprise. "Fabian?"
"I..." I hesitated, heat rushing to my face. "I was just walking. I didn't mean to."
"It's okay," he said gently. "Come in."
I should have refused. I knew that. Every instinct I had screamed at me to keep my distance, to retreat before this became something harder to control.
Instead, I stepped inside.
The house smelled faintly of coffee and something citrusy. It was neat, lived-in without being cluttered. Books lined one wall, their spines worn and familiar.
"You still read those?" I asked, gesturing toward a shelf.
He followed my gaze and smiled. "Some habits die hard."
He moved closer, and I became acutely aware of the space between us shrinking. Not touching. Just… close.
Too close.
"You've changed," he said quietly.
"So have you," I replied before I could stop myself.
His brow furrowed slightly. "How so?"
I shrugged. "You seem… lighter. Happier."
He let out a soft breath. "That's kind of you to say."
The way he looked at me then—open, unguarded—made my chest ache.
"This is probably weird," I said suddenly. "Me showing up like this."
"A little," he admitted. "But not unwelcome."
The honesty in his voice sent a shiver through me.
We talked for hours.
About nothing. About everything.
I told him about the city, about jobs I'd hated and ambitions I wasn't sure I believed in anymore. He listened like my words mattered, like they were something worth holding onto.
He told me about his divorce, about the quiet loneliness that had followed. About the way time had slipped through his fingers while he wasn't paying attention.
At some point, the sun dipped low, painting the room in gold. I realized then how close we were sitting, knees almost touching.
My heart hammered painfully in my chest.
"This feels dangerous," I said softly.
He stiffened. "What does?"
"This," I gestured vaguely between us. "Us talking like this."
He didn't deny it.
"Fabian," he said carefully, "you're important to me. But there are lines..."
"I know," I cut in quickly. "I know. I'm not trying to...."
He reached out, stopping just short of touching my arm.
"I care about you," he said, his voice low. "That's all."
The restraint in his eyes was unmistakable. And devastating.
I stood abruptly, the movement sharp. "I should go."
He nodded, rising with me. "Yeah. Probably."
At the door, I hesitated, my hand hovering over the knob.
"Davis?"
"Yes?"
"I'm not a kid anymore."
The words hung between us, fragile and heavy.
He looked at me for a long moment, something conflicted flashing across his face.
"I know," he said quietly. "That's the problem."
I left before either of us could say something we couldn't take back.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, the echoes of his voice replaying in my head.
Familiar really was the most dangerous thing.
Because it blurred boundaries. Because it made forbidden feel like home.
And because I wasn't sure how much longer, either of us could pretend this was nothing.