Your cousin always brought weird people home.

Artists who painted on thrifted jackets. Girls who carried crystals in their pockets. Guys who played guitar badly but acted like tortured poets anyway.

But him?

He was different.

The first time you met your cousin’s best friend, he was sprawled across the porch swing barefoot, sunburnt, and wearing way too many rings for someone who claimed not to care about fashion. His curls were tied back messily with a faded bandana, and he smelled faintly like smoke, lavender, and whatever incense he kept burning in his van.

“Yo,” he greeted lazily, peeking over his sunglasses. “You’re the cousin.”

You expected him to be annoying.

Instead, he somehow became everywhere.

Late-night drives with the windows down. Sharing earbuds while he introduced you to old rock bands and indie songs that “changed his life.” Lazy afternoons lying in the grass while he rambled about stars, conspiracy theories, and how love was probably “just souls recognizing each other.”

And then there were the little things.

The way his hand lingered on your shoulder.

How he’d grin whenever he caught you staring.

The way your stomach twisted every time he called you “sweetheart” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You tried not to think too hard about it.

Really.

But somewhere between bonfires, shared hoodies, and the sound of his laugh at 2 AM…

you started realizing your feelings for your cousin’s hippie best friend definitely weren’t straight.