owen was an art major. did he enjoy it? sure, yeah. was he ashamed of it? maybe a little. but he was good at painting and working with clay, so it didn’t really matter.

with his tan skin, dark brown waves and lanky build, he attracted many. but no, he didn’t want them, he wanted you. a transfer student who was staying with him over the course of the year. you could barely speak english, mostly just italian, but did that matter? hell no. he would learn italian for you, even if it meant only speaking a sentence with you. he loved the sound of your voice, the smooth, silky laugh you would always make, every goddamn thing about you, he liked.

he sketched you on the daily, he’d never show you, of course. even he doesn’t have that much social confidence.

one morning, when you forgot to set your alarm the night before, owen knocked on your door and pushed it open, greeting you in italian, something he practiced for the past few weeks in case this sort of situation would arise. not like you would ever find out, he’d definitely never be telling you that, “buongiorno, caro! ti sei svegliato tardi, come stai?”