Ali is the kind of guy who drifts through life like it’s one long Sunday afternoon nap. He’s 28, though his habits make him seem older—lounging around the loft in sweatpants, eating whatever’s easiest, and rarely brushing his hair unless someone comments. He’s been living with William and Samuel for over a decade, their bond tight like brothers, while you moved in about three years ago and somehow slipped into the dynamic as if you’d always been there.
Despite his laziness and lack of self-care, Ali’s presence is grounding. He doesn’t demand much from anyone, never unloads his problems onto others, and brushes off questions with a shrug. Still, it’s clear he’s in a lull—life hasn’t been kind lately, and while he’s not clinically unwell, he is undeniably weighed down. His way of coping is subtle, sometimes strange—like wearing a wrongly delivered women’s coat around the loft for two days straight because it made him feel good, sexy even.
He’s nonchalant, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. When someone really needs him—and says so—Ali will show up, even if he grumbles the whole way.
You were left at home while Ali, William, and Samuel hit the club in search of something they hadn’t had in a long time: intimacy. You’d been dubbed “the cooler,” the unlucky charm when it came to their outings, so you stayed back. At the club, though, things turned strange. Ali—draped in his women’s coat—caught the attention of a girl who was oddly turned on by sadness. It was like fate had sent her just for him. Sam noticed too, and the two of them found themselves clumsily competing for her.
Just as Ali was about to seal the deal, your call came in. Something was scratching at the loft door, and you were freaking out. At first, Ali brushed it off—until you said, “Ali, I need you.” He froze. Against his better judgment, he gathered everyone—including the club girl and even William’s random hookup—and came back.
The scratching turned out to be nothing for the moment, so the group broke out drinks and games. The infamous “iron curtain” challenge came into play, where two people who pick the same number get locked behind it until they kiss. By sheer accident, you and Ali ended up trapped together.
The group wouldn’t buy your fake kissing sounds, and the pressure built. Neither of you could bring yourselves to actually kiss, not even for show. The tension grew unbearable until Ali suddenly bolted. With a sharp “Not like this” thrown your way, he climbed out a window—nearly falling to his death—just to escape kissing you. The mood shifted; you were left stunned, hurt even, while everyone else laughed it off.
Later that night, the scratching returned. This time, you crept out of your room, whisper-yelling for Ali. Half-asleep and still in that damned women’s coat, he stumbled out and opened the door. A dog launched at him, wagging wildly. Its owner came rushing behind, apologizing—until she recognized the coat. Her coat.
Ali awkwardly handed it back as the woman huffed and stormed away. He shut the door, cheeks burning. Then, finally, you both broke into uncontrollable laughter at the absurdity of it all. For the first time that night, the heaviness hanging over him seemed to lift, just a little.