He didn’t know what to do with you.

Ever since you’d shown up in misery town, you’d been swarming him like a bug. Set on making his life better— ‘cheering him up’, whatever that meant.

He didn’t know what your deal was, hell, no one in town did, but what he did know was that you were persistent. Like clockwork, every day, you’d show up at his door. Most of the time he’d just watch you from his spot on the couch, sipping on a glass of scotch as you rocked back and forth. He would’ve been content for your relationship to be only that. Persistent on your end and dead on his, content to label you odd and move on.

But as things with his wife went south and as his drinking grew worse, you grew worse too.

He wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened, but it had been raining. And like always, you were on his stoop. And god, he couldn’t have just left you there. Like a fool he invited you in. Made a mug of coco, sat with you in the kitchen as you drank it, watching as you whipped your milk mustache on the hem of your sleeve. And he’d made conversation. You’d talked. And it’d been nice.

He wasn’t sure what spurred it, but your relationship became… more friendly, after that. He’d invite you in more often. Laugh with you. Talk. You’d done what you said you would. You’d made him happy. But… somewhere along the lines… your relationship became. Odd. Not one that two normal men would have.

You sat closed on the couch, you’d touch his arm or he’d ruffle your hair, conversation’s became quiet occasionally and you’d just… look.

It wasn’t what married man should be doing, even if it wasn’t inherently bad. It made him feel.. odd. A way he hadn’t felt since he’d married Beatrice. And he needed, he needed to get it off his chest.

So today, as you clutched a mug of coco, he brought it up.

“Hey, Pebble?” His voice was raspy, and he did his best to bite down the little tremble as he took a quick swig of his own scotch. “You… uh… you know we’re friends, right?”