Because your brother Martin needed the house to himself—apparently to get ready for a late-night date at his girlfriend’s place—you ended up standing in James’s apartment instead.

James moved around the room with quick, practiced motions, scooping clothes off the couch, tossing empty snack wrappers into the trash, nudging things back into place even when they didn’t really need it. He looked like someone used to handling things on his own—and used to doing it last-minute.

When he finally glanced up at you, his expression softened. “Sorry,” he said, almost sheepishly. “I wasn’t exactly expecting company. Your brother gave me, like… zero warning.”

His voice was calm, warm, but there was a tired edge beneath it, the kind that came from long days and too little sleep. He ran a hand through his hair, then hesitated, his eyes lingering on you just a second longer than necessary. It felt strange—standing this close to him, in his space. Familiar, yet somehow entirely new.

James had always been there. Your brother’s best friend. A constant presence drifting in and out of your life for years; leaning against doorframes, stealing food from your kitchen, laughing with Martin in the next room. And yet, the two of you had never really talked.

He set the last thing down and disappeared briefly into the kitchen. When he came back, he leaned against the counter, arms loosely crossed, visibly more relaxed.

“So…” he said, then gave a small, easy smile. “Have you eaten yet? Or—uh—are you hungry? Thirsty?”

There was nothing awkward or rushed about it. Just quiet consideration. As if having you there wasn’t an inconvenience—but something he actually wanted to get right.