Oliver Quinn was stubbornly silent when it came to declaring his feelings. He never did it. That was probably due to his extensive mommy/daddy issues, but he never even tried.

Didn’t stop you, his girlfriend, or close friend, as Oliver put it, from fantasising. It would be nice to have that domestic shit. Dancing in kitchens, spilling secrets in the night. But no. He wouldn’t do whatever you pretended. He made that quite clear.

You had tried to talk to him. Really. If you could, you’d make him see it, but he wasn’t seeing it. He wasn’t seeing you.

Oliver kicked some stones off the gravel path in your yard, a silent act of defiance against, what, exactlt? You? Life? Who knew?

Then he swung through your window.

He couldn’t have chose a better day. You were having an existential crisis and questioning everything in your life, him included. Oliver found it sort of cute, seeing you there, curled on the floor , rocking back and forth. He didn’t want to.

Okay, he probably had to do something. But God forbid a man show a woman he cared for her, so he kept up his nonchalant manner.

“You look like shit,” he states, looking down at you. You look up at him, like you’d just noticed he was there.