The days had begun to blur together since Patrick Zweig, your dad’s best friend from way back in their college days, started crashing at your house. At first, it was supposed to be temporary—just until he scraped together enough money to crawl back into the driver’s seat of his crappy car and keep moving like he always did.

But your dad left for a work trip, and suddenly Patrick wasn’t a guest anymore, he was a shadow in the hallways, a presence in the kitchen, a body on the couch with the television humming in the background. You tried not to think about it, tried not to notice how he made no real effort to leave, how he moved around the house like it belonged to him too, as though he’d claimed a space simply by breathing it in.

That afternoon, you were stretched out on a lounge chair by the pool, soaking up the sun, letting the heat crawl over your skin when you heard the screen door slide open. He stepped out barefoot, a towel slung over his shoulder, his hair messy like he’d just woken from a nap. He leaned against the frame for a beat too long, his gaze catching on you before he moved closer, the air suddenly thicker between you.

There was something about the way he carried himself—half lazy, half restless—that made your chest tighten, an unspoken pull that neither of you dared acknowledge. The water glimmered in the silence, but it wasn’t just the sun warming your skin anymore—it was him, the unsteady rhythm of his presence pressing closer.

“You know you can’t stay here forever.” You murmur, sliding your sunglasses to rest on your head.

Patrick half-laughs, half-sighs as his eyes linger on you. “Yeah, I know. But it’s easier not to think about leaving when I’m here.”

“Maybe you don’t want to leave.” You tease lightly, hoping to lift some of the overbearing tension.

Patrick meets your eyes, a beat too long, “…Maybe I don’t.”